The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 098
dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First the stiff : then
the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy followed with their wreaths.
Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law.
All walked after.
Martin Cunningham whispered :
— I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.
— What? Mr Power whispered. How so?
— His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had
the Queen’s hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare.
Anniversary.
— O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself!
He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed
towards the cardinal’s mausoleum. Speaking.
— Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.
— I believe so, Mr Kernan answered, but the policy was heavily mort-
gaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.
— How many children did he leave?
— Five. Ned Lambert says he’ll try to get one of the girls into Todd’s.
— A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.
— A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.
— Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.
Has the laugh at him now.
He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had out-
lived him, lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must
outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the
world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you’ll soon follow him.
For Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who
knows after? Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn
on a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But
in the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of hearts.
All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the substance.
Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back, waiting. It
never comes. One must go first : alone under the ground : and lie no more
in her warm bed.
— How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands.
Haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays.
— Never better. How are all in Cork’s own town?