The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 095
municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line
out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and
all. Don’t you see what I mean?
— O that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and
saloon diningroom.
— A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.
— Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn’t it be more
decent than galloping two abreast?
— Well, there’s something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.
— And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn’t have scenes like that
when the hearse capsized round Dunphy’s and upset the coffin on to the road.
— That was terrible, Mr Power’s shocked face said, and the corpse fell
about the road. Terrible!
— First round Dunphy’s, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.
— Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.
Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy
Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large
for him. Red face : grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what’s up now. Quite
right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose quickly. Much
better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose.
Seal up all.
— Dunphy’s, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.
Dunphy’s corner. Mourning coaches drawn up drowning their grief. A
panse by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we’ll pull up here on
the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir of life.
But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut
him in the knocking about? He would and he wouldn’t, I suppose.
Depends on where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an
artery. It would be better to bury them in red : a dark red.
In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted
by, coming from the cemetery : looks relieved.
Crossguns bridge : the royal canal.
Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his dropping
barge between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a slacktethered
horse. Aboard of the Bugabu.
Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated
on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds,