The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 097
Cramped in this carriage. She mightn’t like me to come that way without
letting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once with their
pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.
The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars, rare
white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees,
white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on
the air.
The felly harshed against the curbstone : stopped. Martin Cunningham
put out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with
his knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed.
Change that soap now. Mr Bloom’s hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly
and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket. He stepped
out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held.
Paltry funeral : coach and three carriages. It’s all the same. Pallbearers,
gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death. Beyond the hind
carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Simnel cakes those
are, stuck together : cakes for the dead. Dogbiscuits. Who ate them? Mourners
coming out.
He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed,
Hynes walking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took
out the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.
Where is that child’s funeral disappeared to?
A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging
through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block.
The waggoner marching at their head saluted.
Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at it
with his plume skeowways. Dull eye : collar tight on his neck, pressing on a
bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here every day.
Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount Jerome for the
protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling
them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many
in the world.
Mourners came out through the gates : woman and a girl. Leanjawed
harpy, hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl’s face stained with dirt
and tears, holding the woman’s arm looking up at her for a sign to cry. Fish’s
face, bloodless and livid.
The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So much