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Updated: May 10, 2025
I like it, said Stephen. It's a pretty old air, said Mr Dedalus, twirling the points of his moustache. Ah, but you should have heard Mick Lacy sing it! Poor Mick Lacy! He had little turns for it, grace notes that he used to put in that I haven't got. That was the boy who could sing a COME-ALL-YOU, if you like.
I am walking beside my father whose name is Simon Dedalus. We are in Cork, in Ireland. Cork is a city. Our room is in the Victoria Hotel. Victoria and Stephen and Simon. Simon and Stephen and Victoria. Names. The memory of his childhood suddenly grew dim. He tried to call forth some of its vivid moments but could not. He recalled only names. Dante, Parnell, Clane, Clongowes.
He understood also why the servants had often whispered together in the hall and why his father had often stood on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, talking loudly to uncle Charles who urged him to sit down and eat his dinner. There's a crack of the whip left in me yet, Stephen, old chap, said Mr Dedalus, poking at the dull fire with fierce energy. We're not dead yet, sonny.
Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard's figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered sneeringly: That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day? Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.
Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. After all, he said, it's the most natural thing in the world. Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his beard gently. Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He's behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes.
Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered. By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald? Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up. Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front?
Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is behind. He put down his name for a quid. I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world. How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what? Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh. They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel.
John! cried Mr Dedalus, seizing his guest by the coat sleeve. Dante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand as though he were tearing aside a cobweb. No God for Ireland! he cried. We have had too much God In Ireland. Away with God! Blasphemer!
And uncle Charles had said so too. Mr Dedalus covered the dish and began to eat hungrily. Then he said: Poor old Christy, he's nearly lopsided now with roguery. Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you haven't given Mrs Riordan any sauce. Mr Dedalus seized the sauceboat. Haven't I? he cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind. Dante covered her plate with her hands and said: No, thanks.
Passed. On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. After life's journey. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses. Mr Power pointed. That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house. So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him off.
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