Part 81 (1/2)

Ben Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit for that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical porkers.

Molly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across the bed, screaming, kicking. With all his belongings on show. O saints above, I'm drenched! O, the women in the front row! O, I never laughed so many!

Well, of course that's what gives him the base barreltone. For instance eunuchs. Wonder who's playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley. Musical.

Knows whatever note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.

Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist (a lady's) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the old dingdong again.

--Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.

George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.

Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the Burton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding and I. Clean tables, flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing to do.

Best value in Dub.

Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together, mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers sc.r.a.ping fiddles, eye on the bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long snore.

Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus, between the acts, other bra.s.s chap uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, emptying spittle. Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide them.

Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.

Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. p.o.o.p of a lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden s.h.i.+p. Erin. The harp that once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their harps. I. He. Old. Young.

--Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.

Strongly.

--Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits.

--_M'appari,_ Simon, Father Cowley said.

Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoa.r.s.ely the apple of his throat hoa.r.s.ed softly. Softly he sang to a dusty seascape there: _A Last Farewell._ A headland, a s.h.i.+p, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland, wind around her.

Cowley sang:

_--M'appari tutt'amor: Il mio sguardo l'incontr..._

She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to wind, love, speeding sail, return.

--Go on, Simon.

--Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben... Well...

Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting, touched the obedient keys.

--No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.

The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.

Up stage strode Father Cowley.

--Here, Simon, I'll accompany you, he said. Get up.

By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, by Elvery's elephant jingly jogged.