Bloom's Old Sweet Song: Essays on Joyce and Music (Florida James Joyce) [First ed.] 0813013275, 9780813013275

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Bloom's Old Sweet Song : Essays On Joyce and Music Florida James Joyce Series Bowen, Zack R. University Press of Florida 0813013275 9780813013275 9780813019147 English Joyce, James,--1882-1941--Knowledge--Music, Music and literature--History--20th century, Music--I reland--History-20th century, I reland--I n literature. 1995 PR6019.O9Z52615 1995eb 823/ .912 Joyce, James,--1882-1941--Knowledge--Music, Music and literature--History--20th century, Music--I reland--History-20th century, I reland--I n literature.

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Bloom's Old Sweet Song The Florida James Joyce Series

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THE FLORIDA JAMES JOYCE SERIES Edited by Bernard Benstock The Autobiographical Novel of Co-Consciousness: Goncharov, Woolf, and Joyce, by Galya Diment (1994). Shaw and Joyce: "The Last Word in Stolentelling," by Martha Fodaski Black (1995). Bloom's Old Sweet Song: Essays on Joyce and Music, by Zack Bowen (1995).

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Bloom's Old Sweet Song Essays on Joyce and Music Zack Bowen UNIVERSITY PRESS OF FLORIDA Gainesville / Tallahassee / Tampa / Boca Raton Pensacola / Orlando / Miami / Jacksonville

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Copyright 1995 by the Board of Regents of the State of Florida Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

All rights reserved 00 99 98 97 96 95 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bowen, Zack R. Bloom's old sweet song: essays on Joyce and music/Zack Bowen. p. c. (Florida James Joyce series) Includes index. ISBN 0-8130-1327-5 (alk. paper) 1. Joyce, James, 18821941KnowledgeMusic. 2. Music and literature History20th century. 3. MusicIrelandHistory20th century. 4. IrelandIn literature. I. Title. II. Series. PR6019.09Z52615 1995 823'.912dc20 94-27517 Original Publication of Essays "Libretto for Bloomusalem in Song: The Music of Joyce's Ulysses." In New Light on Joyce From the Dublin Symposium, edited by Fritz Senn (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1972), 14966. "The Bronzegold Sirensong: A Critical Analysis of the Sirens Episode in Joyce's Ulysses." As "The Bronzegold Sirensong: A Critical Analysis of the Music in the Sirens Chapter of Joyce's Ulysses" in Literary Monographs, vol. 1, edited by Eric Rothstein and Thomas Dunseath (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1967), 24598. "The New Bloomusalem: Transformations in Epiphany Land." Modern British Literature 3, no. 1 (Spring 1978): 4855. "Stephen's Villanelle: Antecedents, Manifestations, and Aftermath." Modern British Literature Monograph Series 2 (1980): 6367. "Joyce and the Modern Coalescence. "In Light Rays: James Joyce and Modernism, edited by Heyward Ehrlich (New York: New Horizon Press, 1985), 3955. "And the Music Goes Round and Round: A Couple of New Approaches to Joyce's Use of Music in Ulysses." In Coping with Joyce: Essays from the Copenhagen Symposium, edited by Morris Beja and Shari Benstock (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1989), 13744. "Music and Ritual in Ulysses." In Irish Literature and Culture. Irish Literature Studies 35, edited by Michael Kenneally (Gerrards Cross: Colin Smythe, 1992), 6371. "Music as Comedy in Ulysses." In Picking Up Airs: Hearing the Music in Joyce's Text, edited by Ruth Bauerle (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1992), 43152. The University Press of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State University System of Florida, comprised of Florida A & M University, Florida Atlantic University, Florida International University, Florida State University, University of Central Florida, University of Florida, University of North Florida, University of South Florida, and University of West Florida. University Press of Florida 15 Northwest 15th Street

Gainesville, FL 32611

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For MARY UPTON BOWEN and LINDSEY SALE TUCKER BOWEN

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Contents Foreword by Bernard Benstock

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

Introduction

1

1 Libretto for Bloomusalem in Song: The Music of Joyce's Ulysses

10

2 The Bronzegold Sirensong: A Musical Analysis of the Sirens Episode in Joyce's Ulysses

25

3 The New Bloomusalem: Transformations in Epiphany Land

77

4 Stephen's Villanelle: Antecedents, Manifestations, and Aftermath

85

5 Joyce and the Modern Coalescence

91

6 And the Music Goes Round and Round: A Couple of New Approaches to Joyce's Uses of Music in Ulysses

107

7 Music and Ritual in Ulysses

115

8 Music as Comedy in Ulysses

124

Coda

135

Notes

139

Index

147

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Foreword Zack Bowen and James Joyce and music have fine-tuned a relationship over the years that rivals that of Marion Bloom and J. C. Doyle and Don Giovanni. Years ago, Bowen recorded whole chapters of Ulysses at a time when most readers were tone-deaf to the idea that Ulysses was meant to be sung. Uncovering the tunes that reverberated through Joyce's cerebellum while he was composing the Wake as well as the Portrait, Dubliners as well as Exiles, had become a pleasurable obsession for Bowen, usually with guitar cradled in his arms or a piano playing accompaniment, and he translated them into critical conceptsas well as exploited them for entertainment value as outrageously as Joyce had done. Musical Allusions in the Works of James Joyce, published in 1974, has become a classic, a standard reference work that makes for delightful readingbut was only one milestone along the way for Zack Bowen. His articles on Joyce and music have continued to sustain and supplement what he collected in that volume, and it is those articles (fine-tuned once more, with grace notes added) that are collected here on stage for the first time. Readers of Bloom's Old Sweet Song are cordially invited to sing along. BERNARD BENSTOCK

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Acknowledgments I have already acknowledged elsewhere the enormous debt of gratitude I owe to the many colleagues and research assistants who have worked on my various projects over the years, and fond memories of their collaborations are associated with every page. For the present volume I owe special thanks to Mary Donnelly for her diligent transcription of previous texts, and for her Joycean acumen in detecting long-buried errors. I have one principal concern after reading over the complete manuscript for this book: that nowhere is the fine work currently being done by my colleagues in the study of Joyce and music acknowledged. The enormous advances contributed every year by such colleagues as Ruth Bauerle, Timothy Martin, Michael Gillespie, Kathleen McGrory, Ulrich Schneider, Henriette Power, Myra Russel, Margaret Rogers, Sebastian Knowles, and many more have given our little piece of the Joyce puzzle an ever changing and increasingly interesting shape. References to Dubliners are from the 1967 edition published by Viking. References to Finnegans Wake are from the 1957 edition published by Viking. References to A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man are from the 1968 edition published by Viking. References to Ulysses in chapters 7 and 8 are from Ulysses: The Corrected Text, edited by Hans Walter Gabler with Wolfhard Steppe and Claus Melchior (New York: Random House, 1986). Citations refer to episode and line number. References to Ulysses in all other essays are from the 1961 edition published by Random House.

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Introduction Some people seem destined from childhood to become athletes, or warriors, or religious leaders, but, since I clearly have few of the requisite talents and even fewer inclinations for these pursuits, I think I must have been destined to explicate musical allusions in the works of James Joyce. I don't see how I could have avoided it. During World War II, when I was a schoolboy, my mother, a professional soprano, incessantly practiced her perennial concert favorites at home while I was doing my homework, and in the rehearsal process subliminally burned their lyrics and tunes into my cerebral cortex, leaving scars of memory that would never heal. This hyperbole is meant to suggest that I never wanted all those piano, voice, organ, composition, and dancing lessons my mother made me take throughout my school years. Until I was fifteen, I did not even know I liked music, so accustomed was I to rebel against it. When parental hopes for a child prodigy flickered ever more faintly into an acceptance of my adult musical mediocrity and the pressure to take lessons eased, I emerged into a musical world I was no longer compelled to resist, and one that, in spite of myself, I actually knew something about. When I began to read Joyce's works, the familiar chords and phrases emerging from the fiction had resonance in my experience because they were a part of the recital music my mother endlessly practiced at home. I found myself continually supplying the tunes for the lyrics embedded in Joyce's texts, particularly of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. My mother died in 1960, between my M.A. and Ph.D studies, and left me a legacy of sheet music

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that marked the beginning of what would evolve over the years as a substantial library of Joyce's music. As providence would have it, in graduate school I first seriously studied Joyce with Mabel Worthington, who at the time (1958) was working on the page proofs for her groundbreaking collaboration with Matthew Hodgart, Song in the Works of James Joyce. 1 In it Hodgart and Worthington had identified song titles alluded to in Joyce's works and listed references to the page and line number for every occurrence of what they believed to be a musical allusion in all of Joyce's texts. Theirs was a signal accomplishment that opened the way for the rest of us to find the music itself and see how and if the cited titles really worked in the text. It was inevitable that among the thousands of allusions listed in their work, there were many that had no relationship, or only a coincidental one, to the texts, especially Finnegans Wake. Then, of course, there were hundreds more that Hodgart and Worthington missed. Even now, after a small army of scholars has spent another thirty-five years working in Joyce's musical vineyard, many allusions still remain undiscovered. While I was at Temple studying with Mabel Worthington I was making singing commercials at night for a Philadelphia advertising firm. It afforded me access to professional actors and a recording studio, and so I asked Mabel if in lieu of a term paper I might make a recording of the Lestrygonians chapter, with actors reading the parts of Joyce's characters and narrator and with the music allusions actually played or sung where they were a part of the text. The project eventually led to five record albums, each a chapter of Ulysses, released by Folkways Records.2 Of importance to the present discussion is that the enterprise had the effect of impressing on me the absolute necessity of music per se to an understanding of Joyce's textual strategies, the characters' minds, and the thematic patterns of his books. It forced me to consider both the music as well as the lyrics of the works, and the process of making decisions for assigning each word of the recorded chapters to an individual speaker and/or singer necessitated a detailed analysis and interpretation of every word of the texts we used. That exercise, augmented by training and personal preference that rooted my work in close readings of the text, shaped the method and substance of the essays in this book. During my first year of postgraduate education I began what has turned out to be a lifelong study of Joyce and music by augmenting my mother's collection with songs from the Hodgart and Worthington list. My research on the recordings was subsumed into my dissertation on music and the

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Bloom chapters of Ulysses, all as a part of the larger project that eventually became Musical Allusions in the Works of James Joyce: Early Poetry through ''Ulysses". 3 Work begun in the music collection of the Philadelphia Public Library continued in Buffalo's Grosvenor Library, the New York Public Library, the Library of Congress, the National Library of Ireland, the Bodley Head, the British Museum, and the Sorbonne, but still did not afford all of the lyrics and music I suspected were referred to in the texts. However, by that time dozens of Joycean scholars had joined in the search and kept sending me material, clues, suspicions, and possibilities. In turn I have tried to return their favors by donating my Joyce music collection to the University of Miami Special Collections Library, for unrestricted use by Joyce scholars. Of course, contrary to what the present selection of essays would seem to imply, I have not restricted my scholarship simply to music and Joyce, but I do think that a significant part of what I did have to offer, was, in one way or another, connected with or influenced by either Joyce or music or some combination of the two. I naively tried during my adolescent, early-adult, and midlife crises to compensate for assorted feelings of inferiority by attempting to know more than anyone elseto be the authorityon one small thing, one aspect of one book, but, of course, failed in that worthless gesture. But when I hear, at Joyce symposia, ideas that I published twenty years ago presented as startling new revelations, it only confirms the legitimacy of those ideas in the first place. I am happy to know that people are still having such ideas, and that I am still working on others. I could kid myself into thinking that much of what follows in this collection has simply passed into common currency because it was an accurate reflection of Joyce's technique and underlying meaning. But ideas, like people and language, do evolve, metamorphose, assume new significance with each successive interpreter, and often even with the same person over time. Reading this collection, I am struck with how often I have gone back to a segment of the text previously glossed and have added an entire overlay of meaning I had not even considered in the first place. For instance, the ballad of "Little Harry Hughes" glossed in my Allusions book later became the subject of an entirely different thesis concerning Stephen's Portrait villanelle; and the music sung during the Ormond songfest by Simon and the boys yielded a second interpretation, this time involving the interaction of trained musicians and singers as a buried subtext. The wonderful fiction of Joyce, of course, offers new interpretive rewards each

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time we go back to it, its precision of description becoming the heart of ambiguous meanings we are free to redefine with every rereading. I am grateful to the University Press of Florida, then, for the opportunity to say once again what I have already said, hoping that during the interval of a quarter century my observations might even have gained some validity or at least renewal by the developments of Joyce scholarship. And, in addition, this retrospective collection gives me the selfish pleasure of establishing the fact that often I got there first. All selections for this volume have been drawn from publications independent of Musical Allusions in the Works of James Joyce, although many derive from the same methodology and cover the same passages of Ulysses as does my book. In attempting in the Allusions volume to gloss every passage containing an identifiable musical reference, I proceeded seriatim through the text, quoting the passage and offering as much of the song alluded to as was necessary to define how the music operated in or influenced the meaning of the Ulysses text. Sometimes in order to ensure comprehensiveness I had to say what seemed to be obvious. Thus, nuggets of complicatedone might be tempted often to call them ingeniousinterpretation were buried among my sometimes very ordinary glosses, and, like Dante, the reader would have to wade through all the mundane to get to the sublime. One deleterious effect was that if the reader did not already suspect there was a musical allusion in a given passage, without reading my entire book that reader would likely remain unaware that the passage contained such an allusion. It was a little like a dictionary, in which one can only verify any word's existence either by reading the whole book or by already knowing, at least approximately, how to spell the word. Whatever prompted me to the folly that anyone would read, let alone absorb, every word in a book that was in large part intended as a reference guide was soon dissipated by all the "new" critical discoveries and interpretations that displayed their authors' ignorance of the fact that they were really song references previously glossed in Musical Allusions. I tried to alleviate the difficulties my book presented by providing introductions covering in general terms the structural and thematic use of music in each of Joyce's books through Ulysses. 4 But there was still a lot more I wanted to say. The book allowed little space for more detailed explications of individual references, and very little for speculating on the implications of many of the allusions. Some of these omissions were rectified in several of the subsequently published essays included in this collection.

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The first two essays in this book are out of chronological order of publication, but their sequence here more accurately reflects my purposes and what was then the direction my work was taking. "Libretto for Bloomusalem in Song" was originally a sort of summary report on twelve years of musical research on my Joyce and music project to the International James Joyce Symposium held in Dublin in June 1969. I had already published "The Bronzegold Sirensong," a monograph later adapted to become the major chapter of Musical Allusions; but, frustrated by the fourteen-year effort it took to complete the research for the longer work, I had taken a year or two off to write a book on Joyce's friend Padraic Colum and be promoted at SUNY-Binghamton. The Symposium gave me the opportunity to inform anyone who cared in the Joyce community that I hadn't given up the music project, and to present my ideas about Joyce's overall use of music in the narration, structure, characterization, and themes of Ulysses. As such, "Libretto" makes, in brief terms, a good introduction to the essays in the present volume, while at the same time providing a summary of my intentions in the longer project. Perhaps my most important essay is "The Bronzegold Sirensong," presented here in its original form rather than in the later and far more restrictive book format of Musical Allusions. During the course of writing the essay Mabel Worthington discovered Charles Jeffreys' translation of "M'appari," the version Joyce used in the Sirens episode, and allowed me to print it for the first time. Her discovery alone was worth the price of the monograph. It was Mabel who made the initial contact that set Joseph Hickerson and Wayne D. Shirley, the Joyce-enthusiast librarians at the Library of Congress Music Division, on a six-month search that finally uncovered, in an abandoned unmarked box, the music and text of "Seaside Girls." While that discovery was made after the publication of "The Bronzegold Sirensong," it was published for the first time in Musical Allusions, and is included here in a note to the Sirens essay. I owed a great deal to a number of people with regard to the Sirens publication and the allusion book it represents. Just when I thought I was finally at an end of what seemed like endless expressions of gratitude, Berni Benstock in 1988 (fourteen years after the fact) called my attention to my Bloomlike confusion of Meyerbeer, a Jew, with Mercadante as the composer of The Seven Last Words of Christ. 5 I have silently, and with thanks to Berni, corrected my mistake in the current edition of ''The Bronzegold Sirensong." I had a three- or four-year bout with epiphanyitis, an affliction that seems to grip all Joyceans at some stage of their careers. The result

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was a hemorrhage of four articles on the subject, including "The New Bloomusalem," the only one based on musical allusion, and so the only selection from my convalescence. The essay, coauthored with Paul Butera, deals with "The Holy City," a song I consider to be of such prime importance to Ulysses that I made up my own words to it, and I regularly make all the Joyceans who attend my symposia sing-alongs join in the chorus of this musical celebration of Bloom's "Nova Hibernia of the future." By some process of association stemming from the above essay, I became so engrossed in the relevance of Stephen's villanelle to the later Stephen of Ulysses that I could not leave the matter alone, and, taking my clue from a villanelle paragraph in "The New Bloomusalem," reworked the subject of Stephen's poem in conjunction with the ballad of "Little Harry Hughes," since I had never been satisfied that my previous interpretation of the Hughes passage in Ithaca was either definitive or correct. After stewing about the matter for a couple of years, I had my own epiphany about the relationship of villanelle and song as metaphors of their author/performer's composition process. "Joyce and the Modern Coalescence," perhaps my most ambitious effort to explain the totality of Joyce's vision, is really three separate essays rolled into one theme: that Joyce's continual combining of high and low, ridiculous and sublime, old and new, and, finally, the substance of his entire oeuvre into one glorious transformation embracing the whole of human life constitutes an art that represents the diverse ambiguity we call modernism. The implication is that modernism itself is an aspect of the past, all of which was once modern, always attempting to identify itself as an organic whole. What I did not realize at the time I wrote the three sections of the essay was that I was moving toward a combination of incongruities yoked together into one all-inclusive comedic vision. In retrospect the three subessays, each detailing one of Joyce's methods of transformation, separately are now more convincing and interesting, at least to me, than the overarching thesis that ties them together. The first, treating a series of widely diverse musical characters such as the Shan Van Vocht and the prostitutes of sixteenth-century canting songs, primarily deals with the juxtaposition of "My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl" and Wagner's Ring Cycle in a musical parody of the relationship between Irish nationalism and British colonialism. The second example details Joyce's combination of Bloom and Murphy in Eumaeus with such counterparts as Ulysses, the two Sinbads, Turko the Terrible, Antonio, Shem/

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Shawn/Stephen, and, of course, HCE. The last section adds structural homogeneity to the theme and character development of the previous two sections. Dealing with Joyce's recorso technique in his four major books, I read the similarities of the increasingly cumulative endings as representing not only a recapitulation of each work itself, but in Finnegans Wake, of all of Joyce's previous books drawn into one self-reflexive transformative conclusion. Again the substance of my argument lies in close readings of the conclusions to the several texts. In "And the Music Goes Round and Round: A Couple of New Approaches to Joyce's Uses of Music in Ulysses" I cobbled together two more short essay examples to make what was perhaps too obvious a point for the Copenhagen International Joyce Symposium in 1986: that Joyce uses music in ways that no author before or since has. The first example revisited Ben and Simon's Sirens songfest in the Ormond bar, reiterating many of the things I had said before, but now from the perspective of Father Cowley, and treating all three performers as professional musicians, with their own rigidly defined occupational customs that are hardly recognizable to nonperformer readers. In his use of so many subcultural trivia of 1904 Dublin existence, Joyce never made concessions to readers regarding any subtle nuances of custom. I tried to demonstrate in my example how Joyce, a semiprofessional musician, incorporated the traditions of the musical trade into the Sirens scene. The second example involved Joyce's knowledge and use of harmonics, Greek modes, and musicology to demonstrate harmonic transformations and ultimately tie them in to Joyce's conflation of Bloom and Stephen as Messiah figures. Among Western writers, I can think of only one, Aldous Huxley in Point Counter Point, who has attempted to make a similar demand on readers' detailed musical knowledge. More and more concerned with comedy in literature, and particularly in Joyce's work, I was in the process of writing Ulysses as a Comic Novel 6 when I received two invitations; one was to give a talk and then introduce the Joycean song concert at the Canadian Association for Irish Studies conference in Montreal in 1988, and the other was to contribute an essay to Ruth Bauerle's collection, Picking Up Airs: Hearing the Music in Joyce's Text.7 By that time obsessed with the comedic spirit, I wrote "Music and Ritual in Ulysses," a demonstration of how Joyce used music to demonstrate the Irish propensity to replace their religious rituals with drinking rituals. After a generally blasphemous introduction about the emotion-evoking property of music to enhance the patriarchal aims of organized religion,

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I went on to compare its use in the two ecclesiastical services Bloom attends and in the two comparable bar scenes in Barney Kiernan's and the Ormond. It was to have been an uproariously funny and ingenious paper. I am sure that Michael Kenneally, the coordinator of the Canadian conference, must have told me that the paper and the musical program were to open the conference, but in my exuberance I probably forgot. The result was that on a cold and snowy evening in Montreal, upward of six hundred people, most of whom had never read Joyce, were gathered for the most formal set of conference opening activities I have ever undergone. While I looked out at the audience, consisting primarily of Roman Catholic clergy (including what seemed like every mother superior and president of every Catholic college in the province) and a sea of nationalistic Irish expatriates, I searched in vain for a familiar, friendly, inherently blasphemous Joycean face. Kenneally, dressed in a somber black doublebreasted suit, introduced the Irish ambassador, who piously informed the gathering of his pride in such gatherings that met to dispel with scholarship the scurrilous popular stage image of the degraded Irishman, and replace it with the truth. There was no help for it. It was too late to sneak out the back door. I read the paper to a thunderous silence, even stopping to remind the audience that it was supposed to be funny as well as clever. The magnificent singers I subsequently introduced managed to mitigate the damages, but, to put it mildly, my reception seemed as cold as the Montreal snow to a now thin-blooded Miamian. Not content with degrading myself, I had gotten Kenneally into God knows what excommunications. I pictured autos-da-fé all through my solitary walk in the blinding snow back to the hotel (I lost my way there, too). The point of this tedious recital is that Kenneally had promised to publish the paper in a volume of conference proceedings, but it never occurred to me that he would have felt obliged by some impulse of suicidal honor to have made good on his offer. The next year, working on the larger theme of "Music as Comedy in Ulysses" for Ruth Bauerle, I came across the abandoned essay on my computer disk. In the warmth of the Florida Keys sun, it didn't seem so bad, maybe even a little humorous for Joyceans, and it fit the topic as part of what had come to be my normal multiple-example pattern. Since I had blotted out anything regarding publications from the Montreal conference, in an outburst of renewed confidence I integrated the essay into my longer work for the Bauerle book. Picking Up Airs was already in page proofs when I received a complimentary copy of Irish Literature

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and Culture, 8 the volume of conference papers containing my essay and compounding my tale of woeful ineptitude. While the whole enterprise compromises my professional integrity by ostensibly "double dipping," I still like what I have written and have taken this space to belabor readers with my guilt and the circumstances of the essay's double and now triple publication before my colleagues stumble across the information on their own. I hope that Michael Kenneally and Ruth Bauerle, as the gracious people they are, will accept this public apology. I am happy to include a shortened and amended version of "Music as Comedy in Ulysses" in this volume, because the essay combines my interest in comedy with that of music, which has permeated my work for so long. In its recapitulations of my earlier publications, and arriving at yet another final conclusion, the essay acts like a comic version of a Joycean recorso motif and an appropriate note on which to conclude this book. The three parts that remain in the present essay treat the entire novel as a musical comedy; Sirens as a variation on the musical comedy form; and Circe as a particular model of musical comedythe post-Christmas music hall pantomime. If Joyce was the comic writer I think he was, and he loaded his pages with musical allusion, it stands to reason that the combination must have more than a minimal amount of correspondence to the hybrid art we recognize as musical comedy. My final essay explores in depth how closely Joyce followed the musical comedy form. In shaping this book I see that I also have tried to end my scholarly concert in the lighter vein of musical comedy. The traditionally serious and heavy selections came at the beginning of my career and my book, the lighter refrains of comic relief nearer the end. I can only hope that the final metaphor of life's truth embodied in the artistic schlock of musical comedy is not completely outrageous. I suppose I should leave it at that, but as the descendant of a short line of singers, I never could resist an encore whether or not the audience approved of the original performance. So, to conclude the book I have seized on the advice of manuscript reviewers and appended a coda of comments on the evolution of my ideas regarding the place of musical allusion in Joyce scholarship and popular culture, and to end where I began, with Bloom's old sweet song.

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1 Libretto for Bloomusalem in Song: The Music of Joyce's Ulysses Even the casual reader of Ulysses must soon become aware of Joyce's use of music in his novel. Since Hodgart and Worthington's pioneering work, 1 we have begun to appreciate how many musical references Joyce used. Still to be completely explored, however, are his methods of applying them to his novel, and their significance in terms of style, structure, and theme. I propose to outline briefly some of the musical references, motifs, and techniques used in Ulysses and then to discuss a few examples. In a great number of passages Joyce uses a musical reference as the vehicle of association in the stream of consciousness of the protagonist, sometimes through the actual words to the songs, sometimes through the images and implications the songs produce, and sometimes for no apparent reason. Joyce employs music thematically throughout the book to represent situations and dilemmas, particularly the Molly-Blazes liaison. After the Telemachus chapters only the Wandering Rocks episode lacks musical allusions to Molly's adultery. Once certain works such as "Là ci darem," "Love's Old Sweet Song," and "M'appari" have been established as being representative of Molly and Blazes's affair, recurrences of the songs serve to remind us that the subject is never far from Bloom's thought or the central action of the book. Joyce's use of the Wagnerian leitmotif technique is part of this thematic development. As Molly's adultery is developed through recurring musical

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titles or analogies, so is Bloom's affair with Martha Clifford. Occasionally Joyce employs the same musical motifs for both situations, as with Bloom's shifting his role in the Don Giovanni theme from the Don (the lover) to Masetto (the betrayed) to the Commendatore (the avenger). 2 Bloom can sing "Là ci darem" as the lover of Martha Clifford and also mentally hear Molly's responses to Blazes through the song. Leopold can be Lionel crying out to his lost Molly-Martha in "M'appari" and at the same time be importuning his reluctant Martha Clifford. Joyce makes heaviest use of the leitmotif theme in the Sirens chapter with such references as Bloom's theme, "When the Bloom is on the Rye," occurring at his entrances and exits. At least 158 musical references crisscross in a welter of song, themes, and leitmotifs during the Sirens episode alone. In the later recapitulatory Circe episode many of the melodies of the earlier chapters haunt Bloom's hallucinations, bringing with them their concurrent images of the hopes and fears that have registered themselves on his subconscious throughout the book. Joyce makes wide general employment of music to underscore points in the narrative and to add weight to the statements of the characters as they use musical allusions in their thoughts or discussion. Like the allusions of literary imagery, the broad concepts, histories, and connotations of the songs alluded to, when seen in detail, lend their weight in explaining, delineating, and emphasizing the points made by the characters in the text, so that, for instance, when Bloom refers to an "Alice Ben Bolt topic" (624) the reference immediately draws on the musical picture of a sailor's return after a number of years to find his wife dead and things greatly altered. This sort of example is constantly used throughout the novel to reiterate and stress the topics under discussion. Music often aids in drawing the scenes and characters with whom Bloom deals, as in the use of the profusion of clichés from Irish patriotic songs to characterize the citizen, and the abundance of sea songs used in connection with the old sailor in the cabman's shelter. Music is used most obviously in setting the scene in the Hades chapter, where a number of songs of death and burial attend Dignam's body through the streets and into the grave. Finally, music becomes an intricate part of the plot as it provides the means of helping to establish the consubstantiality of Bloom and Stephen. But Joyce's musical techniques can best be understood by listening to them in action. In order to illustrate Joyce's use of music in augmenting stream-of-conscious thought processes, I have chosen a passage from Lestry-

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gonians. 3 When Bloom crosses College Street in front of Thomas Moore's statue, he contemplates the propriety of the statue's location: They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. There is not in this wide world a vallee. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's wasn't she? (162.2934) The meaning of Bloom's remarks can be arrived at only through his song reference. It is proper that Moore's statue adorns the top of a urinal because Moore wrote "The Meeting of the Waters." The song strikes Bloom as appropriate men's room music. After a brief tangent on the need for women's toilets, Bloom comes back to the song, singing the first line to himself:

Here Joyce pushes the joke a little further by making us think of the lyrics of the song as well as the title. Only when the entire song is heard as the description of a water closet can the full incongruity of the double meaning be appreciated: There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene, Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no it was something more exquisite still. Oh! no it was something more exquisite still. The other example I have chosen to indicate how Joyce lets the music become the vehicle for much of the meaning of Bloom's stream of consciousness involves Bloom's interpretation of Molly's musical coquettishness.

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As he prices field glasses in a shop window, his thoughts turn to inversion of lens images, parallax, sunspots, the activity of the spheres, and, eventually, the moon and a walk that he, Molly, and a man, probably Blazes Boylan, took: The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was humming: The young May moon she's beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes. Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must. (167.1925) The words to Molly's song, "The Young May Moon," are slightly misquoted, but the melody she sings is not altered. Bloom substitutes "she's" for "is" but accurately describes la-amp as having a hyphen. The one-syllable word is sung on two notes, and Joyce indicates with a hyphen the interval between the two notes:

Boylan is presumably the "he" on the other side of Molly attempting intimacies even in the cuckolded spouse's presence. In this situation the words, with which all three parties are undoubtedly familiar, take on a double meaning. The young May moon is beaming, love. The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love. How sweet to rove thro' Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake! the heav'ns look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways to lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear. The implications of the gleaming "glowworm's lamp," the sweetness of roaming through "Morna's grove, / When the drowsy world is dreaming," and the admonishment that it's "never too late for delight" could not have escaped any of the three. Molly, by humming the song, is making

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an affirmative response to Boylan's questioning fingers. Bloom, who also knows the song and realizes its significance, guesses what is going on, but in his fatalistic way feels that he could have done nothing to prevent it. ("If it was it was. Must.") Joyce makes structural use of musical references all through Ulysses, linking together segments, episodes, and characters as well as themes. One of the prime examples of that use is a song called "The Pauper's Drive," which in Bloom's mind acts as a common denominator unifying the community of the dead, as the funeral procession passes on its way to Glasnevin. Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking pace. They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the doorframes. (87.2937) Joyce describes the scene in terms that sound roughly analogous to the chorus of a popular dirge, "The Pauper's Drive." Let us look at a stanza and chorus of this song, which provides the background music for much of the chapter. There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot, To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot. The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings:

During the chapter, the song, with its desolate chorus chant, will reappear in Bloom's mind as the embodiment of the harsh truth of Dignam's death,

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which is antithetical to the euphemisms and conventional platitudes of the mourners. As the carriage hearse of a small child comes galloping by and climbs the hill of Rutland Square, again the hearse driver's cry from the song ''The Pauper's Drive" comes to Bloom's mind: "Rattle his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns" (96.1213). Those lines from the chorus are meant to sound like a crier's lament as the carriage winds its way through the streets, much like the cries of the dead-cart carriers during the London plagues. This time the song is not meant for Dignam. but the dead child. For Bloom, who sees no hope of a second life and little ultimate reward in the first, the song has the effect of reducing the dead to the common denominator of hopelessness. The conversation turns to the evils of suicide, a sensitive topic for Bloom since his father poisoned himself. He reads the sympathy in Martin Cunningham's eyes, as Cunningham is the only one in the carriage who seems to know his story. As Cunningham looks away, Bloom thinks, "He knows [about my own father's death]. Rattle his bones" (97.1). This time the lament of "The Pauper's Drive" is for Bloom's father. The line acts as an invocation to the whole association of thoughts surrounding the father's death. The passage ends on a desolate note: "No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns" (97.9). The first two phrases are from Virag's last letter to his son. The last phrase, also a part of the last phrase of the chorus of "The Pauper's Drive," is Bloom's musical benediction for his dead father. The next passage pulls together the entire community of the dead: "The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones" (97.1011). The combination of the narrator's line describing the progress of the carriage and the phrase from "The Pauper's Drive" in Bloom's stream of consciousness serves to complete the circle of the dead. As Joyce reenforces each aspect of Bloom's day with variations on a central theme in each chapter, so Bloom relates various aspects of what he sees. The dead, who form a major part of the cast of characters in the Hades chapter, are given in Bloom's mind a kind of unity through background orchestration. As Dignam's carriages begin their journey to the cemetery, we hear from the narrator the first echoes of "The Pauper's Drive." The song occurs again, this time in Bloom's stream of consciousness, when the child's body is carried past. Again the song recurs to Bloom in connection with his father, and then comes back full cycle to Dignam's hearse in the chorus reference, "Over the stones."

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The death of the innocent child in the beginning of life, the suicide of Virag with its concomitant shame, and the death of Dignam are all equalized in Bloom's mind by the great leveler, symbolized by the recurring, plaintive, unromantic, matter-of-fact strains of the dirge: "Rattle his bones over the stones / He's only a pauper whom nobody owns." It is, of course, in the Sirens chapter that Joyce puts music to its widest structural and stylistic use. Stuart Gilbert has done scholarship some disservice by describing the "Technic" in his schema for the Sirens chapter as being "Fuga per canonem," or, in other words, a fugue with exact repetitions of theme. 4 I need not rehearse here the arguments I advance elsewhere5 that the chapter nowhere supports such an interpretation. Neither of course does a canonical fugue have a leitmotif overture. I will reserve until the next chapter my analysis of Joyce's extensive use of the Wagnerian leitmotif as a structural device in Sirens in particular and in Ulysses as a whole. For the present discussion, it is enough to say that Joyce collects metonymical phrases and musical themes associated with characters and situations from the Sirens episode, and links them together with bits of third-person narration to comprise a page-and-a-half introductory overture to the chapter. In our Sirens album I have attempted to reproduce the sort of medley overture Joyce suggested in the written word.6 Following is a brief excerpt from the overture with appropriate music indicated as it appears in the text. The text of Sirens, broken down into appropriate script form, appears in the right-hand column and the musical references in the left. Narrator:

"When the Bloom Is on the Rye"

Blue Bloom is on the Gold pinnacled hair A jumping rose on satiny breasts of satin, rose of Castille.

"Rose of Castille "Trilling, trilling! "The Shade of the Palm"

Miss Douce:

Idolores.

Tuning fork

Lenehan: Peep! Who's in the . . . Narrator: peepofgold? Tink cried to bronze in pity. And a call, pure, long, and throbbing. Longindyingcall. Decoy. Soft word. But look!

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[Piano notes coincide with lyrics where italicized]

"Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye"

The morn is breaking. Jingle jingle jaunted jingling. Coin rang. Clock clacked. Avowal. Lenehan: Sonnez. Piano-Narrator:

"Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye"

I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. Lenehan: La cloche! Piano-Narrator: Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm.

"Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye,"

Sweetheart, goodbye! Jingle. Bloo. (256.620)

Joyce uses musical references and devices in the Sirens episode in three ways. First the character of the thirdperson narration changes drastically in the chapter: Joyce emphasizes such sound devices as phrase repetition, alliteration, and onomatopoeia, which are more poetic and hence more musical than they are prosaic. Besides the stress on poetic devices there are in Sirens numerous instances of duplication of musical intonation, such as staccato and sustained effects. Though all of these devices are used throughout the book, the narration of the Sirens chapter is constructed principally of these techniques, as opposed to their occasional use in other chapters. The second way Joyce introduces music into the chapter is through Bloom's stream-of-conscious consideration of the following aspects of music: origins (278), definition (278), effects (280, 281), the physiology of perception (282), sounds and instruments (282, 284), and production (27885, 289). The chapter, in a sense, constitutes a relatively complete catalog of Bloom's opinions on practically all aspects of music. Third, and by no means least important, is the method Joyce uses of orchestrating the chapter: the more than one hundred fifty musical references themselves. Many of these are sung during the course of the chapter and provide the themes about which the episode revolves. Others are merely mentioned in the course of the narrative or in Bloom's stream of consciousness, as they have been in preceding chapters. The sum of these references serves to provide not only the greatest number of references in any chapter, but also the background of almost continuous music from

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which the episode draws its meaning and existence. In this sense, then, the chapter is a musical with its overture and its songs sung literally or symbolically by the protagonists, Bloom and Molly; the chorus in the back room; and the minor characters, Misses Douce and Kennedy, and Blazes Boylan. Finally, I would like to allude briefly to Joyce's use of music in a thematic context in Ulysses. Most of the musical references touch at least one of the many themes that appear in the novel. I have alluded earlier to the prime thematic function of music in the father-son motif. Bloom, who has taken charge of Stephen in the Circe episode, has been unable, during the long and often embarrassing scene in the cabman's shelter, to elicit anything other than the most perfunctory and cynical remarks from the younger man, whose natural inclination is to avoid contact with someone of Bloom's mundane intellect and tastes. When the conversation turns to music, however (661), Stephen, his reticence dissipated, enthusiastically launches out in praises of Shakespeare's songs; the lutenist, Dowland, etc., in response to Bloom's own catalog of favorite music, including most of the music (Martha, Don Giovanni, The Seven Last Words of Christ) that has been central to Bloom's thought and actions throughout the day. The ice has been broken and music has become the means by which the father-son relationship, so longed for by Bloom, has been initiated. By the end of the chapter they are completely engrossed in their conversation, and it is conceivable that Bloom's hopes might eventually be realized, as they go off together to the tune of "The Low-Backed Car." Music continues in the Ithaca chapter to play a dominant role in the relations of Bloom and Stephen as they attempt to acquaint each other with their views and backgrounds. After having been made consubstantial through the image of Shakespeare in Bella Cohen's and having been retransubstantiated with the ritual cocoa, Stephen and Bloom seek again some common ground on a more mundane level, returning to music. What fragments of verse from the ancient Hebrew and ancient Irish languages were cited with modulations of voice and translation of texts by guest to host and by host to guest? By Stephen: suil, suil, suil arun, suil go siocair agus, suil go cuin (walk, walk, walk your way, walk in safety, walk with care). By Bloom: Kifeloch, harimon rakatejch m'baad l'zamatejch (thy temple amid thy hair is as a slice of pomegranate). (687.36688.7)

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The fragment that Stephen sings is from the Irish ballad, "Shule Aroon," which dates at least from the eighteenth century. Bloom's song is a part of the description of the bride's beauty in the Song of Solomon (4.3). The reference is part of a series of Semitic references in the general description of Bloom's background and the comparison of the backgrounds of Bloom and Stephen. Next the two write down and compare Gaelic and Hebrew characters in what appears to be an effort to discover bonds of similarity between the Irish and Hebrew languages. Then they move to a comparison of the history of the Jews and the Irish, the indignities suffered by the two peoples, and their chances of eventual independence. Bloom is stirred by the conversation to chant a well-known Jewish song of hope: What anthem did Bloom chant partially in anticipation of that multiple, ethnically irreductible consummation? Kolod balejwaw pnimah Nefesch, jehudi, homijah. Why was the chant arrested at the conclusion of this first distich? In consequence of defective mnemotechnic. (689.39) Bloom's lines are the first two of the song that is now the Israeli national anthem, "Hatikvah" ("The Hope"). Following is a free translation of the song: While yet within the heart, inwardly The soul of the Jew yearns, And toward the vistas of the East, eastwards An eye to Zion looks 'Tis not yet lost, our hope, The hope of two thousand years, To be a free people in our land In the land of Zion and Jerusalem. In combining the aspirations of the Irish with those of the Jews there is to Bloom, hopefully, the prospect of combining his future and Stephen's. As Bloom has constantly throughout the novel thought of the East as being an escape from his problems, here he again, this time through music, looks to the East for salvation. He sees himself united vicariously with Stephen through their tentatively established similarities in background. The song becomes the expression of Bloom's hope of being the

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father figure for whom the younger man has been searching. Stephen will be Bloom's means to immortality, the salvation to his frustrating, futile existence: What was Stephen's auditive sensation? He heard in a profound ancient male unfamiliar melody the accumulation of the past. What was Bloom's visual sensation? He saw in a quick young male familiar form the predestination of a future. (689.2126) Now that Bloom's Semitic background and identity have been established both in prose and song and now that Bloom's hopes for the future have been specifically recounted, Joyce has prepared us for one of the most important musical references of the novel, Stephen's rendition of the ballad "Little Harry Hughes": Recite the first (major) part of this chanted legend? Little Harry Hughes and his schoolfellows all Went out for to play ball. And the very first ball little Harry Hughes played He drove it o'er the jew's garden wall. And the very second ball little Harry Hughes played He broke the jew's windows all.

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How did the son of Rudolph receive this first part? With unmixed feeling. Smiling, a jew, he heard with pleasure and saw the unbroken kitchen window. Recite the second part (minor) of the legend. Then out there came the jew's daughter And she all dressed in green. "Come back, come back, you pretty little boy, And play your ball again." "I can't come back and I won't come back Without my schoolfellows all,

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For if my master did hear He'd make it a sorry ball." She took him by the lilywhite hand And led him along the hall Until she led him to a room Where none could hear him call. She took a penknife out of her pocket And cut off his little head, And now he'll play his ball no more For he lies among the dead.

How did the father of Millicent receive his second part? With mixed feelings. Unsmiling, he heard and saw with wonder a jew's daughter, all dressed in green.

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Condense Stephen's commentary. One of all, the least of all, is the victim predestined. Once by inadvertence, twice by design he challenges his destiny. It comes when he is abandoned and challenges him reluctant and, as an apparition of hope and youth holds him unresisting. It leads him to a strange habitation, to a secret infidel apartment, and there, implacable, immolates him, consenting. (690.16692.7) The ballad is more than just an anti-Semitic ballad; the parallels are too close to the present situation to be passed over so lightly. What Stephen intends the song to imply in terms of its significance to the present situation is not completely clear in his commentary. The victim of Stephen's song is both himself, as he exposes himself to Bloom through inadvertence at Bella Cohen's, and through design at the cabman's shelter by consenting to return home with Bloom, and Leopold, who is misled by Stephen, his "apparition of hope and youth." But the more obvious parallels are to Stephen's present situation as victim in a "strange ... secret infidel" habitation. In the complete version of the ballad, collected by Cecil T. Sharp, we see how Little Harry, like Stephen, is lured into the Jew's house with the promise of goodies: Stanza 3: The first that come out was a Jew's daughter, Was dressed all in green: Come in, come in, my little sir Hugh, You shall have your ball again. Stanza 4: O no, O no, I dare not acome Without my playmates too; For if my mother should be at the door She would cause my poor heart to rue. Stanza 5: The first she offer'd him was a fig, The next a finer thing, The third a cherry as red as blood, And that enticed him in. Stanza 6: She set him up in a gilty chair, She gave him sugar sweet She laid him out on a dresser board And stabb'd him like a sheep.

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Stephen, unlike Harry, will not be seduced with seeming kindness and cocoa. What parallels may have been left to the imagination by the song, Stephen tries to spell out in his commentary. Bloom understands eagerly that he is somehow part of the action of the song when he glances at his own kitchen window, though he wishes, as the last sentence in the passage indicates, to be dissociated from the song. He is, however, doubly implicated in the song, as the next few lines of the text prove: Why was the host (victim predestined) sad? He wished that a tale of a deed should be told of a deed not by him should by him not be told. Why was the host (reluctant, unresisting) still? In accordance with the law of the conservation of energy. Why was the host (secret infidel) silent? He weighed the possible evidences for and against ritual murder. (692.815) We see that Bloom, the host, becomes the "victim predestined." He is further described as "reluctant, unresisting," and as being a "secret infidel." Bloom's role as the murdering Jew in Stephen's ballad changes in the "victim predestined" description. Bloom is predestined to be victimized by Stephen, who accepts Bloom's good offices and is about to leave, denying Bloom the fatherhood he longs for. We realize further that Bloom, though "reluctant'' to see Stephen leave, will be "unresisting" and not press him to stay. But, victim or not, Bloom is still Stephen's "secret infidel" host as the cycle is completed. Stephen's ballad, by alluding to the victimization of both himself and Bloom, confirms his interchangeability with Bloom, and emphasizes the real consubstantial bonds existing between the two men. Joyce's prose is meant to be heard as well as read. Not the least of its purely auditory qualities is the extensive use of music with its connotations of meaning as well as sound. Rather than providing Ulysses with any radical departures in meaning or significance, music furnishes a new perspective through which the already existing meanings may be reexamined. Already identified by Joyceans are at least 731 musical allusions that orchestrate the novel and that are as diverse as the spectrum of life the book attempts to investigate. And the uses to which Joyce puts these allusions and techniques are as widely divergent as any sets of characters, symbols, or narrative techniques in this most ingenious of novels.

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2 The Bronzegold Sirensong: A Musical Analysis of the Sirens Episode in Joyce's Ulysses There is no dearth of criticism regarding the music in the Sirens chapter of Joyce's Ulysses. Most of the commentary deals with the musical structure of the chapter and its relationship to one or two musical forms. The natural tendency in the matter of correlating music and musical structure to literature and literary forms is to become, in the exuberance of one's position, too subjective. Lavish, unfounded statements such as "this world that Joyce is creating emerges with a rhythmic sweep that reminds us of nothing as much as a gigantic symphony," 1 have a tendency to creep into many discussions of one art form in terms of another. This is not to say that similarities and correlations may not be drawn, especially in a situation such as the Sirens chapter where the author's apparent intent was to bring about a sort of blend of literature and music. It is in Joyce's method of effecting this blend that the differences in critics' opinions about the Sirens chapter seem to lie. Many musical analogies have been made to the form and narrative devices of the chapter, the predominant ones being the fugue2 and the leitmotif. The fugal idea was given some impetus by Stuart Gilbert, when he described the "Technic" in his schema for the Sirens chapter as being "Fuga per canonem."3 According to Gilbert the chapter is not only a fugue but a fugue with invariable, congruent repetitions of theme! A canon is "a polyphonic composition in which all the parts have the same melody throughout, although starting at different points. The canon is the strictest species of imitation."4 In

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fact, though there are many musical and verbal repetitions in the chapter, nothing is ever repeated in exactly the same manner. Gilbert describes the fugal subject as "obviously the Sirens' song: the Answer, Mr. Bloom's entry and monologue; Boylan ... the countersubject"; and the episodes, or divertimenti, the songs by Mr. Dedalus and Ben Dollard. 5 Does Gilbert mean to imply that they are all singing the same song, or that they strictly imitate one another? The first two pages of the episode, which clearly constitute an overture, tend to discredit the fugal idea. If the chapter is fugal it would not be likely to have an overture preceding it. Of all the commentators on the music in Ulysses, fewnotably Harry Levin and Horst Petri6seem to take issue with Gilbert on the fuga per canonem question. A. Walton Litz, who agrees with Gilbert on the question of the fugal arrangement of the Sirens chapter, also reiterates Gilbert's references to the Wagnerian leitmotifs7 (that is, the representation of the acting personalities, of typical situations, and of recurrent ideas by musical motifs). No one has ever explained the function of the leitmotif in Ulysses, though the parallel is not difficult to see. This characteristic in the Sirens episode is found in the repeated metonymical phrases such as "Bronze by Gold" for Miss Douce's and Miss Kennedy's heads and "Jingle jingle jaunted jingling" for Boylan's carriage and hence for Boylan. Another sort of leitmotif in the Sirens, which no one seems yet to have discovered, is the use of musical themes such as The Rose of Castille for Molly, "When the Bloom Is on the Rye" for Bloom, and "The Last Rose of Summer,'' "M'appari," and "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye," for various aspects of the relationship between Molly and Bloom. These will subsequently be discussed in detail, but for the purpose of the present discussion it will suffice to say that bits and snatches of the songs are used repeatedly to suggest circumstances or characters as they will occur throughout the episode. It is the piecing together of the main leitmotifs that composes the overture to the chapter. These themes are linked with brief bits of third-person narrative description gleaned from the body of the episode. The contention of Stanley Sultan, that the overture is parallel to the overture from the opera Martha, is, I feel, incorrect.8 There are several types of overture. As I have indicated, the Sirens chapter begins with a medley. The overture is composed of sixty-seven theme-and-description motifs from the entire chapter, clearly different in form as well as content from the overture to Flotow's Martha, which contains only two significant motifs from the rest of the opera. Though abundant parallels between

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Ulysses and Martha are presentand will be discussed later in this analysisthey are merely part of all the musical references in the overture and the chapter. "The Last Rose of Summer" and "M'appari," the two songs from Martha mentioned in Ulysses, are referred to four times in the Sirens' overture, which contains twenty-one references to eleven songs; and they are mentioned thirty-two times in the entire chapter, which contains 158 references to forty-seven songs. 9 The opera, while its importance must not be underrated, does not provide the model for the structure of the overture or the entire chapter musically, numerically, or thematically. Furthermore, there is no plot similarity between Martha and the Sirens episode. Lionel in Martha has Lady Harriet begging for forgivenessa situation into which Bloom never manages to maneuver Molly in either the chapter or the novel. The main body of the chapter encompasses five principal songs. Three"Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye," "All Is Lost Now," and "When First I Saw That Form Endearing"deal with the loss or leave-taking of a lover. The song ''Love and War" indicates a synthesis and transition from the love songs that dominate the earlier parts of the chapter to the patriotic ballads of the latter part. Mabel Worthington has suggested to me that the entire chapter might be built around the principles of love and war; however, music is the principal element in the structure of the episode, and much music, especially Irish music, has one or the other of the two topics for its dominant themes. Present in most of the chapter, however, is a sense of the pathos of both lonely, betrayed Bloom, and, through the song "The Croppy Boy," the betrayed country. The chapter does not appear to be a light or comic opera, as its overture might suggest, for it seems to have no happy resolution, or, for that matter, no resolution at all, but rather combines in its conclusion the elements of physiology, love, patriotism, and religion in their magnificently pathetic and humorous naturalistic proportions. If the chapter is not composed along fugal lines, neither is it an opera. The fundamental operatic plot elements of the Sirens episode existed long before the chapter started, and their resolution does not take place in this chapter.10 Just as the novel can never be tied exclusively to the rigorous formula of the Odyssey, the signs of the zodiac, or the mass, neither can the Sirens chapter be limited to one musical form exclusively. The number and type of songs included in the chapter substantiate this contention. The music ranges from the simplicity of "Home Sweet Home" to the complexity of Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsodies," from the pious strains of

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"Quis est homo?" to the bawdy lyrics of "O Mary Lost the Pin of Her Drawers," and from the militancy of "The Boys of Wexford'' to the tranquility of "The Last Rose of Summer." If anything, the Sirens chapter is a medley or chronicle of the musical themes of Ulysses, just as the overture was a medley of themes for the chapter. Joyce uses musical references and devices in the Sirens episode in three ways. First, the character of the thirdperson narration changes drastically in the chapter: the manner in which the activities are described acquires an emphasis on sound devices that are more poetic and hence more musical than they are prosaic. Following is a partial list of poetic-musical devices with examples of each: Assonance. "Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged candlestick melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags" (290.911). Phrase repetition. "Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of his hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He waits while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait" (280.3641). Alliteration. "Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup" (277.28), and "On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand lightly, plumply leave it to my hands " (286.1819). Onomatopoeia. "To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joygush, tupthrop" (274.3940). In addition to the prosodic devices used above there are in the Sirens many attempts at duplicating types of musical intonation, such as a staccato or a sustained effect: Staccato. "Miss Douce, Miss Lydia, did not believe. Miss Kennedy, Mina, did not believe: George Lidwell, no: Miss Dou did not: the first, the first: gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, Miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the tank" (278.14). Sustained. "Soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness" (276.45). Though all of these devices are used throughout the book, the narration of the Sirens chapter is constructed principally of these techniques, as opposed to their occasional use in other chapters. The second way Joyce introduces music into the chapter is through Bloom's thoughts regarding the following aspects of music: origins (278), definition (278), effects (280, 282), the physiology of perception (281),

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sounds and instruments (282, 283, 284), and production (27886, 289). The chapter, in a sense, is a tour de force of Bloom's opinions on nearly all aspects of music. Third, and perhaps most important, is Joyce's orchestration of the chapter with 158 references to 47 different works of music. Many of these are performed by the Ormond crowd during the episode and provide the themes about which the chapter revolves. Others are merely alluded to by the narrator or in Bloom's stream of consciousness, as they have been in preceding chapters. The sum of these references represents the greatest concentration of musical references in any chapter, providing a background of continuous music from which the episode draws its meaning and existence. In this sense, then, the chapter is a musicalwith its overture and its songs performed literally or symbolically by the principal couple, Bloom and Molly, against the male chorus in the back room; the minor characters, Misses Douce and Kennedy; and Blazes Boylan. It is to the music of all these characters that we must look for the ultimate significance of the action in the episode, and it is to this analysis that the rest of the present discussion will be devoted. Before Bloom enters the Ormond Bar, Miss Douce begins a song, "The Shade of the Palm," which is destined to become one of the main themes of the chapter. Gaily Miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling: O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas! (261.3839) This song from Florodora recurs throughout the chapter and is, in a sense, both Bloom's and Boylan's song. The words of the song, part of which Miss Douce misquotes, are extremely significant when taken in their entirety: Stanza 1: There is a garden fair Set in an Eastern sea, There is a maid keeping her tryst with me In the shade of the palm, With a lover's delight, Where 'tis ever the golden day, Or a silvery night; How can I leave her alone in this dream of sweet Arcadia How can I part from her for lands away? In this valley of Eden, Fairest isle of the sea, Oh, my beloved, bid me to stay

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In this fair land of Eden, Bid me beloved to stay. Stanza 2: There is an island fair, Girt by a Western sea; Dearest, 'tis there One day thou'lt go with me. 'Neath the glorious moon Hand in hand we will roam, Hear the nightingale song of June, In the dear Land of Home! There, dearest heart, will the past but seem an idle vision Nought but a dream that fadeth fast away, And the songs we were singing, in Elysian vales Seem but a carol of yesterday. Happy songs we were singing, Songs of a bygone day. Chorus: Oh my Dolores Queen of the Eastern sea! Fair one of Eden, look to the West for me! My star will be shining, love, when you're in the moonlight calm, So be waiting for me by the Eastern sea in the shade of the shelt'ring palm. Molly is, of course, Dolores of the Eastern sea. She has, through Bloom's many references to her Eastern features and complexion, and her Moorish background, become synonymous with the East. The first stanza belongs to Boylan with its assurances of a tryst, as he wanders afar while his Dolores waits in the shade of the jingling bedstead. Stanza 2, especially in the latter part, is more applicable to Bloom with its echoes of former days of love and happier times. The "idle vision" of former love that sustains Bloom so much through his present trial "seem[s] but a carol of yesterday," and the "happy songs ... / Songs of a bygone day." This note of pathos on which the song closes is a dominant one in the chapter. The musical reference here is, in some measure, purposefully ambiguous and is intended to convey a mood rather than a plot synopsis with exact correlations to the characters and situation. The song, which occurs repeatedly throughout the chapter, represents its first musical variation on the issue of Molly's promiscuity, a major theme of the novel. Bloom has not yet entered the Ormond Bar, and as he crosses the Essex

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Bridge, he is identified by the narrator with the song "When the Bloom Is on the Rye": Mr Bloom reached Essex bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write. Buy paper. Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue Bloom is on the rye. (261.41262.2) Ironically this song speaks also of a coming meeting, though the one in the song seems entirely honorable since it contains also a proposal of marriage: My pretty Jane, my pretty Jane! Ah! never, never look so shy, But meet me, meet me in the ev'ning, When the bloom is on the rye. The Spring is waning fast, my love, The corn is in the ear, The summer nights are coming, love, The moon shines bright and clear; Then pretty Jane, my dearest Jane, Ah! never look so shy, But meet me, meet me in the ev'ning, When the bloom is on the rye. But name the day, the wedding day, And I will buy the ring, The lads and maids in favors white, And village bells shall ring. The Spring is waning fast, my love . . . While the song contains a reference to a proposed rendezvous and is appropriate to Bloom's thoughts of writing to Martha Clifford, its primary function is to act as a theme or leitmotif to introduce the presence of Bloom throughout the chapter. Lenehan and Simon Dedalus make their appearance in the Ormond and flirt with the barmaids, and Bloom stops to buy stationery for Martha Clifford's letter in Daly's. He sees Boylan heading for the Ormond bar and decides to follow him. As Bloom completes his purchase the first note from the piano tuner's fork drifts outthe orchestra tuning to the perfect A for the coming concert: From the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork the tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now

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poised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call. (264.1115) As Boylan approaches the bar the opening strains of "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye" are heard. His stay in the Ormond will end with the conclusion of this song, which is being played, presumably by Simon Dedalus, during the entirety of Boylan's brief visit to the bar. Joyce indicates the significance of the song by quoting the lyrics to both stanzas, although the lyrics themselves are not being sung since the music is merely being played on the piano: The bright stars fade . . . A voiceless song sang from within, singing: . . . the morn is breaking. A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's leavetaking, life's, love's morn. The dewdrops pearl . . . (264.1826) Four more lines from the song are quoted on the next two pages as Boylan passes pleasantries with Miss Douce: And I from thee . . . (265.3) . . . To Flora's lips did hie. (266.17) I could not leave thee . . . (266.23) . . . Sweetheart, goodbye! (267.8) The complete words to the song are as follows: The bright stars fade, the morn is breaking, The dewdrops pearl each bud and leaf, And I from thee my leave am taking, With bliss too brief, with bliss, with bliss too brief. How sinks my heart with fond alarms, The tear is hiding in mine eye, For time doth tear me from thine arms, Goodbye, sweetheart, goodbye, Goodbye, sweetheart, goodbye, For time doth tear me from thine arms, Goodbye, sweetheart, goodbye.

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The sun is up, the lark is soaring, Loud swells the song of chanticleer, Yet I am here, yet I, yet I am here. For since night's gems from heav'n do fade, And morn to floral lips doth hie, I could not leave thee though I said Goodbye, sweetheart, goodbye, Goodbye, sweetheart, goodbye, I could not leave thee though I said Goodbye, sweetheart, goodbye. When the phrase "To Flora's lips did hie" appears in the text, we cannot assume that the disparity between it and the correct phrase in stanza two, "to floral lips doth hie," is due to Bloom's incorrect memory or his tendency to misquote. The lyrics are printed in italics, and do not come to us through Bloom's thoughts, for he is not even in earshot of the piano for most of the song. Further, the lyrics are not being sung here; Joyce is representing the notes with the lyrics that accompany them, and the incorrect quotation is therefore the narrator's. This gives rise to some speculation about how many other times this has happened, only to be attributed to Bloom's poor memory. While the song is being played, Bloom, now in front of the Ormond, meets Richie Goulding, and they decide to have something to eat in the dining room adjoining the bar, where Boylan and Lenehan are flirting with Miss Douce as Simon Dedalus plays the piano. Though Bloom is present in the dining room for most of the song and has undoubtedly heard the rest from the street in front of the hotel, "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye" starts with Boylan's entrance and concludes with his exit. There is, however, more significance to the song than a mere leitmotif for Boylan, such as "When the Bloom Is on the Rye" is for Bloom. "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye" presents the typically Joycean comic irony of the friendly natives in the Ormond bidding good-bye to assignationbound Boylan as the latter goes off for an afternoon of cuckoldry. Boylan seems to have been waiting impatiently for the end of the song, to start on his amorous adventure, for at its conclusion he immediately starts to leave: ... Sweetheart, goodbye! I'm off, said Boylan with impatience. He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change. (267.810) While "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye" is the predominant theme for the Boylan segment, several minor melodies play a contrapuntal back-

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ground. As Lenehan banters with Miss Douce, Boylan enters and is greeted with Lenehan's salutation, "See the conquering hero comes" (264.39). The reference is to the stately chorus in Handel's Judas Maccabaeus. The music furnishes a properly majestic tone for conqueror Boylan to make his entrance: See, the conqu'ring hero comes, Sound the trumpets, beat the drums: Sports prepare, the laurels bring. Songs of triumph to him sing, See, the conqu'ring hero comes, Sound the trumpets, beat the drums. See the godlike youth advance, Breathe the flute and lead the dance; Myrtle wreaths and roses twine To deck the hero's brow divine. See, the conqu'ring hero comes, Sound the trumpets, beat the drums. Even if Boylan is the conquering hero we are told that Bloom is not the vanquished: Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered hero. (264.4041) There is in this the first hint that though Bloom may be cuckolded in the afternoon, he still is not conquered in a far larger sense. Bloom accepts the world, accepts life, and doesn't try to change it. While Boylan's theme music here is triumphant and pompous, Bloom's ("When the Bloom Is on the Rye"), in contrast, is sentimental and quiet. Joyce musically interweaves another theme of the Boylan-Molly union into the background while the men discuss the gold cup race and sip their drinks. As the conversation proceeds, Miss Douce continues her now muted rendition of "The Shade of the Palm": Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at Miss Douce's lips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled. Idolores. The eastern seas. (265.3739) As Miss Douce rings up Boylan's coin on the register her humming must have reached stanza two of the song:

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Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the till and hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For me. (266.14) Miss Douce's musical admonishment of Boylan to "Look to the west ... for me" corresponds roughly to four lines in stanza 2 of "The Shade of the Palm": There is an island fair, Girt by a western sea, Dearest, 'tis there One day thou'lt go with me. Hodgart and Worthington cite not "The Shade of the Palm" as the musical source for the passage but an Irish patriotic song, "The Men of the West." They probably had in mind the similarity of the passage "Look to the west," and a line from stanza one of the war song, "And looked for revenge to the west." Clearly, if Joyce had this reference in mind, Miss Douce, who is in the process of using all of her seductive charms on Boylan, does not. Secondly, this interpretation of the passage does not take into consideration the words, ''For me," as the "Shade of the Palm" reference does. The last countertheme in the "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye" passage is Bloom's leitmotif as he and Goulding find a table in the dining room: The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered tables. (266.910) The association of "rye" and "Bloom" is of course an ingenious, though easily recognizable, variation of "When the Bloom Is on the Rye," and is used, in the tradition of Wagner, to herald the entrance of the protagonist. After Blazes leaves, Joyce gives us the conversation in the bar, which Bloom, sitting in the dining room next door, cannot hear. Ben Dollard is requested to sing the song "Love and War." After Simon Dedalus finds his "lost chord pipe" the conversation turns to performances and Dollard's recollection of borrowing a dress suit from Bloom for a performance. Molly's Irish background is discussed, and she is referred to by Simon as "My Irish Molly O," the title of a popular Irish song. Miss Douce, standing thoughtfully near the maraschino behind the bar, is described as "Idolores, a queen, Dolores," reenforcing also the association of Molly with "The

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Shade of the Palm" by juxtaposing the reference and the discussion of Molly's background. Finally the music, which Bloom is able to hear, starts again as Ben Dollard sings "Love and War": Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding chords: When love absorbs my ardent soul . . . Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roofpanes. War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior. So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love or money. (270.310) The song is a duet for tenor and bass. The tenor is the "lover" and the bass the "warrior": Lover (Tenor): When Love absorbs my ardent soul, I think not of the morrow; Beneath his sway years swiftly roll, True lovers banish sorrow, By softest kisses, warm'd to blisses, Lovers banish sorrow, By softest kisses, warm'd to blisses, Lovers banish sorrow. Soldier (Bass): While war absorbs my ardent soul, I think not of the morrow; Beneath his sway years swiftly roll, True Soldiers banish sorrow, By cannon's rattle, rous'd to battle, Soldiers banish sorrow, By cannon's rattle, rous'd to battle, Soldiers banish sorrow. Together: Since Mars lov'd Venus, Venus Mars, Let's blend love's wounds with battle's scars, And call in Bacchus all divine, To cure both pains with rosy wine, To cure both pains with rosy, rosy wine. And thus, beneath his social sway, We'll sing and laugh the hours away.

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Dollard's singing "When Love absorbs my ardent soul," the tenor's part, prompts Cowley's admonishment to sing about war, the bass's part, and is probably the reason that causes Ben to stop singing. According to the narrator, Ben's voice was booming on what should be a soft passage that crescendos slightly up to the word "soul." The last few notes, however, being in the upper tenor register, are pretty high, and Dollard provides the usual bass answer to high notes, increased volume:

Ben stops, and Father Cowley sits down at the piano to play the song more "lovingly," while the lines drift out to the dining room: . . . . . my ardent soul I care not foror the morrow. (270.2930) The second line is a variation of "I think not of the morrow." Here it is not at all certain whether the lines are being sung, or whether Joyce is just describing the musical accompaniment, as he did in "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye," by means of the lyrics. Bloom, who knows Dollard's voice well, does not know who is performing: ''Love and war someone is" (270.3132). If Bloom hears the piano only, then the variation must again be laid to Joyce. While the author's recollection of the lyrics may not be too good, his musical phraseology is better. He indicates the three eighth notes and the interval of a sixth between the last two, all on the word for, by adding, instead of a dash this time, another syllable on the word (see music above). I have indicated earlier that love and war are possibly the dual themes of the chapter. The preoccupations of the characters in the Sirens chapter are certainly with love and war, and these are reflected in the songs that

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provide the musical accompaniment. Like the lover and warrior in the duet, the boys in the Ormond bar decide musically to "blend love's wounds with battle's scars, / And call in Bacchus all divine / To cure both pains with rosy wine /... [and] sing and laugh the hours away." With Dollard's brief solo begins the barroom concert, which in song will relate the major conflicts and themes of the chapter. Bloom, having heard Ben sing the first line of "Love and War," begins a reminiscence of his performance in the borrowed dress suit which had just been a topic of conversation in the bar: 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. (270.3241) That Bloom is able to differentiate Cowley's touch from another is rather remarkable, as is his later notice that the piano has been tuned: "Piano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably" (273.1415). To differentiate various players by their touch alone, or to tell that a piano has been tuned, unless it was badly out of tune, demonstrates on Bloom's part an experienced musical ear. As the piano resumes again, the music brings to Bloom's mind memories of a particular performance and the female harpist who played in the orchestra: Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits into it, like one together, mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping 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 brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy. Do right to hide them. Jiggedy jingle jaunty. Only the harp. Lovely gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their harps. I. He. Old. Young. (271.1021)

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Bloom's reverie is punctuated by the sound of Boylan's cart as he proceeds toward Molly's. Thoughts of Molly's snore and the lovely harpist put Bloom in a mood of nostalgic dejection. He associates the harp with the song "The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls" as he thinks, "The harp that once or twice." The song is a combination of sentimentality over the glories of former days and patriotic indignation: The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled, So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. "The pride of former days" and "glory's thrill," which the song refers to and which occurred for Bloom in Ben Howth's rhododendrons, are indeed gone for him. The song reference serves only to deepen Bloom's resignation about his, Boylan's, or any man's ability to control the eternal surge of woman's will. ("We are their harps. I. He. Old. Young.") Meanwhile the boys are urging Simon Dedalus to sing "M'appari" from Flotow's Martha. Cowley starts to sing the song in Italian. Simon, at first heedless of the request, sings "A Last Farewell," the words of which are described by the narrator in terms of the sea, ships, sails, and winds of the painted backdrop behind the stage: Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he sang to dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell. A headland, a ship, 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. (271.2636) "A Last Farewell" ("Epilogue" by Grieg) may well be a final Sirens' song for the departed Boylan. Though the song is indeed one of parting, it

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involves parting from this world to the next. A relatively brief segment of the lyrics will demonstrate the tenor of the song: Farewell, base world, thy sins oppress me, With footsteps fleet I haste away, Where foes or friends no more distress me; My spirit's higher call obey. If this song is to be sung for or by Boylan, the intention is purely ironic. Simon, still reticent, replies to the requests for his rendition of "M'appari" with Simonesque, cliché-riddled modesty. "Ah, sure my dancing days are done, Ben ... Well" (271.38). The words are from the third stanza of the antiwar song "Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye": Where are the legs with which you run? Hurroo! Hurroo! Where are the legs with which you run? Hurroo! Hurroo! Where are the legs with which you run When you went to carry a gun? Indeed your dancing days are done! Faith, Johnny I hardly knew ye. (italics mine) Simon starts to play, and falters in his accompaniment, so that Cowley admonishes him to play the song in the original key of one flat (F major). Simon has started the song in a lower key as the next line indicates: "The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused" (272.12). The version of the song Simon will eventually sing ("Come Back, Martha! Ah Return Love," words by Charles Jeffreys, arranged by Charles W. Glover) 11 is in two sharps (D major), a minor third below the original key. Finally Cowley sits down to play the accompaniment himself. Meanwhile, in the dining room, Richie Goulding is telling Bloom about Joe Maas's rendition of "+>Tutto è Sciolto" from Bellini's La Sonnambula. Bloom, unable to become ecstatic over Joe Maas's singing, reflects on Richie's physical condition: Backache he. Bright's bright eye. Next item on the programme. Paying the piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it off awhile. Sings too. Down among the dead men. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to the. Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic of him. Power. Particular about his drink. (272.1419)

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According to Bloom, Richie's singing "Down among the Dead Men" is appropriate both to his state of poor health and the cause of the condition. "Down among the Dead Men" is an old English drinking song that reminds us that after death there is no more drinking: Here's a health to the King, and a lasting peace, To faction an end, to wealth increase. Come, let's drink it while we have breath, For there's no drinking after death. And he that will this health deny, Down among the dead men, Down among the dead men, Down, down, down, down, Down among the dead men let him lie. The drinking aspect of the song is the associative link leading to Bloom's speculation on Richie's drinking habits. As Richie continues to wax ecstatic over Maas's rendition of "Tutto è Sciolto," Bloom takes the whole story with a grain of salt, but asks politely: Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom. All is lost now. Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee murmured all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two notes in one there. Blackkbird (sic) I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost in all. Echo. How sweet the answer. How is that done? All lost now. Mournful he whistled. Fall, surrender, lost. (272.3140) "All is lost now" (tutto è sciolto) is a phrase of which Joyce was very fond, having written a poem by that name. Elvino's aria, "Tutto è Sciolto," in act 2 of La Sonnambula, is one of deepest despair: All is lost now, By all hope and joy am I forsaken. Nevermore can love awaken Past enchantment, no, nevermore. Richie is, of course, whistling the air to Bloom. The third-person narration in the passage is bound almost inextricably to Bloom's stream of consciousness and the first line of the song. Richie's whistling is compared to a

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bird's call. The first "low incipient note," murmuring the word all from the song is the dotted half note of the first measure of the solo:

After the description of the tone of Richie's whistle and Bloom's speculations on his teeth, the "Is lost" (l. 24) is Richie's continuation of the musical phrase. Bloom's thoughts are directed next to Richie's dual note tone production and its similarity to that of a blackbird that once whistled a contrapuntal duet with Bloom. As Leopold whistled, he fancied the bird took his musical motifs and made variations on them. The blackbird's echo of Bloom's melody brings to mind the word Echo, which is the subtitle of a lovely Thomas Moore song, "How Sweet the Answer Echo Makes," the words of which follow: How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, rous'd by lute or horn, she wakes, She starting wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light! Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star, The moonlight's star, Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar, The songs repeat. 'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere, And only then The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear, For one to hear, Is by that one, that only Dear, Breath'd back again! "How sweet the answer" is a song of love that must be reciprocated and sincere to have meaning. The love of Leopold and Molly, having lost its

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youth, sincerity, and reciprocity is lost; all is lost. The Moore song combines, then, with "Tutto è Sciolto" to reiterate and reflect Bloom's unhappy position and frame of mind. Bloom turns his attention to the operatic context of "Tutto è Sciolto," trying to place it in the action of La Sonnambula. In the opera, Amina, betrothed to Elvino, sleepwalks into another man's room at an inn, dreaming that she is coming to Elvino. Rodolfo, the other man, considerately leaves the room with the girl asleep on his bed, but Lisa, who is also in love with Elvino, brings him in to point out his fiancée sleeping on Rodolfo's bed. Elvino denounces the sleepwalking Amina, and his subsequent misery prompts the aria "All Is Lost Now." Leopold-Elvino, remembering the story, translates the situation to his own: Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase. Order. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him. Innocence in the moon. Still hold her back. Brave, don't know their danger. Call name. Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That's why. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost. (272.41273.4) Bloom's recollection of the opera is fairly close to the original up to the mention of the Boylan motif ("Jingle jaunty"). From there Amina's motives become confused with Molly's and the resulting generalizations are about womankind in general. Bloom, who feels that the drives of women are as easily stopped as the motion of the sea, sees Boylan's assignation as the inescapable outcome of the id. For Bloom-Elvino, "Yes: all is lost." As the parallel between Bloom and Elvino is further underscored in the next few lines by the reference to Bloom as "lost Leopold," the irony of his following statement to Richie becomes increasingly apparent: A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well. Never in all his life had Richie Goulding. He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wise child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me? Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking Richie once. (273.510) Bloom's description of Richie's face as being the "Face of the all is lost" and his speculation that Richie too, penniless and in poor health, knows that all is lost provide ample evidence that Bloom thinks of his own situation as being analogous to Elvino's.

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Bloom's thoughts are turned by the piano, playing the introduction to "M'appari." Simon, using another musical cliché, finally consents to sing the tenor aria. I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down. (273.2324) "The Heart Bowed Down," a very popular ballad from Balfe's Bohemian Girl, is a song of despair and the weight of woe. The despondent heart of the song can seek refuge only, as Bloom does, in memory, which is "the only friend / That grief can call its own." The song reference provides a final introduction to "M'appari" and an additional link between Flotow's song and Bloom's dilemma. The prelude ends, and Simon begins to sing. Much has been said about the parallels between the opera Martha and Bloom's situation, 12 and indeed there is some similarity. It must be remembered, however, that the resemblance between Lionel's situation in Martha and Bloom's in Ulysses is marked only in their songs of despair. Briefly, the context surrounding "M'appari" in Martha is that Lady Harriet, a maid of honor to Queen Anne, for a lark assumes the name Martha and goes to a fair where she hires herself out as a servant to Lionel and Plunkett, two well-to-do farmers. Lionel falls in love with Martha but is left alone and pining when she makes her escape from the farm. His mood of dejection prompts the aria. Like the circumstances of Elvino in La Sonnambula, who sings a Bloom-like song of despair, the context of Lionel's situation is very different from Bloom's. Elvino made a mistake regarding the innocence of his fiancée, but there is no mistake on Bloom's part in this regard. Lionel has been duped, but certainly not cuckolded, as Leopold has. Furthermore, both Elvino's and Lionel's predicaments end with happy reconciliations, but there is no happy ending in store for Bloom. It is, therefore, in the passionate cries of outraged and despondent love of the three protagonists that the correspondence of their situations chiefly lies. The opera Martha was written originally in German, and the aria was entitled "Ach! so fromm, ach so traut." Cowley's version (271) was in Italian, and Simon Dedalus will sing the aria in English. The complete text of Charles Jeffreys' English version, which Simon sings, is as follows: When first I saw that form endearing; Sorrow from me seem'd to depart:

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Each graceful look, each word so cheering Charm'd my eye and won my heart. Full of hope, and all delighted, None could feel more blest than I; All on Earth I then could wish for Was near her to live and die: But alas! 'twas idle dreaming, And the dream too soon hath flown; Not one ray of hope is gleaming; I am lost, yes I am lost for she is gone. When first I saw that form endearing Sorrow from me seem'd to depart: Each graceful look, each word so cheering Charm'd my eye and won my heart. Martha, Martha, I am sighing I am weeping still; for thee; Come thou lost one, Come thou dear one, Thou alone can'st comfort me: Ah Martha return! Come to me! Bloom recognizes that the words Simon sings are not the ones that normally go with Flotow's melody when he says, "singing wrong words" (274.2425). The significance of the song in relating Lionel in the opera to Leopold should not be understated. Bloom as Lionel, upon being forsaken by Martha, enters to sing "M'appari," so that the song becomes Bloom's at this, the hour of Molly and Blazes's assignation and Leopold's disconsolation. His companion in misery, Richie (all is lost) Goulding, identifies his brother-in-law's voice: When first I saw that form endearing. Richie turned. Si Dedalus' voice, he said. Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. (273.3035) Here Joyce begins to use an unusual procedure in linking music with the text and Bloom's dilemma. The textual material immediately following each line Simon sings of "M'appari" relates thematically, symbolically, or descriptively to that line. The technique parallels the headlines in the Aeolus chapter, but the material here is far more meaningful in terms of the

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overall action of the novel. The first line serves to awaken the sensibilities of the listeners as they let that "form endearing" "endearing flow" over them. Bloom signals Pat, the waiter, to open the door between the dining room and the bar, so that they might catch all of the song as Simon proceeds: Sorrow from me seemed to depart. Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves in murmur, like no voice of strings of reeds or whatdoyoucallthem dulcimers, touching their still ears with words, still hearts of their each his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw, lost Richie, Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word. (273.39274.5) The music, beautiful in its commiseration, lifts momentarily the pall of sorrow that hangs over the two diners. The sorrow that seemed to depart from anguished Lionel in Martha appears also to depart from equally troubled Leopold and Richie. The song turns Bloom's thoughts to the first of six songs that provide a background counterpoint to Simon's solo: Love that is singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the elastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet sonnez la gold. (274.68) That Bloom associates "M'appari" with himself becomes increasingly apparent from the context of the words of "Love's Old Sweet Song," a song of the nostalgia and permanence of love's memories. Stanza 1: Once in the dear dead days beyond recall, When on the world the mist began to fall, Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng Low in our hearts love sang an old sweet song; And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam, Softly it wove itself into our dream. Stanza 2: Even today we hear Love's song of yore, Deep in our hearts it dwells forever more; Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way, Still we can hear it at the close of day; So till the end, when life's dim shadows fall, Love will be found the sweetest song of all.

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Chorus: Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low, And the flick'ring shadows softly come and go, Tho' the heart be weary, sad the day and long, Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song, comes Love's old, sweet song. We have learned in the Calypso and Lotus Eaters episodes that the old sweet song, once sung in the hearts of Molly and Leopold, has become the new song of Molly and Blazes, for this is one of the songs Molly will sing on their tour in Belfast. In the Lotus Eaters episode Bloom has made the identification between the song and his wife's adultery with Boylan, so that using the song title to describe ''M'appari" merely extends the connotations of "Love's Old Sweet Song" to Lionel's lament. Bloom has broadened the overall implications of "Love's Old Sweet Song" by joining its connotations of his and Molly's happy past with its connotations of the adulterous present. In "Love's old sweet sonnez la gold," Bloom has blended a parody of Lenehan's statement, "Sonnez la cloche," made as Miss Douce snaps her garter, with both the song and the rubber band around the writing paper and envelope for Martha Clifford's letter. By associating the garter snapping and the rubber band Bloom is attempting to bury the thoughts of Molly and Blazes behind thoughts of his own roguish affair with Martha. The music can still be a song of love for Martha and him. By this devious rationalization Bloom psychologically prepares himself for the next line of "M'appari": Full of hope and all delighted . . . Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his feet when will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He can't sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him. What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Last look at mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you? I do well. There? What? Or? Phila of cachous, kissing comfits, in her satchel. Yes? Hands felt for the opulent. (274.1119) No matter how he tries to think of something else Bloom's thoughts invariably return to Molly and Blazes. The line "Full of hope and all delighted" leads to a reflection on the attraction of tenors for women, who seem to lose their heads over them. This is immediately related by Bloom to "My head it simply [swirls]" from "Those Lovely Seaside Girls," a song that has been alluded to a number of times in earlier chapters (62,

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66, 67, 109, 180), and which is inextricably linked in Bloom's mind with Boylan, Molly, and frail female temptress figures. 13 The next words, "Jingle all delighted," combine the metonymical sound of Boylan's cart with the line of "M'appari," which Simon has just sung, directly associating Boylan and his delight with the song. This leads to Bloom's speculation that Boylan can't sing for tall hats, and that Molly, in liking him, shows that her head is swirling. The line again is from the ''Seaside Girls" song, which, of course, Bloom again links to Boylan. Molly's being perfumed for Boylan momentarily leads Bloom back to Martha's letter; but his thoughts return immediately to Blazes, Molly, the afternoon meeting, and the inevitable seduction. In the end it is Boylan's hands that are full, and he who is "all delighted." As the next line of "M'appari" brings Lionel back to earth, so do Bloom's thoughts return to the more commonplace speculations of Simon's glorious tone, reduced circumstances, and intemperance: But alas, 'twas idle dreaming . . . Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly man! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he doesn't break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing too. Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. (274.2228) However, Bloom is aroused and unable to repress thoughts of Molly and Blazes's lovemaking. As the music progresses, the sensual aspects of it overwhelm Bloom, and it becomes no longer music, but the act of love that Molly and Blazes are carrying out: Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling. Full it throbbed. That's the chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect. Words? Music? No: it's what's behind. Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded. Bloom. Flood of warm jimjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, in desire, dark to lick flow, invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joygush, tupthrop. Now! Language of love. (274.3040) When Bloom asks himself if it is the music that is driving him to his disquieting thoughts, his answer, "No: it's what's behind," indicates his appreciation of the symbolism and irony underlying the song, and furnishes additional evidence that he sees some of his own dilemma in the music.

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The sensual effect of the music does inflame his imagination, however, as the next lines in the passage prove. The excited undercurrent of Bloom's thoughts in the passage grows to orgastic proportions as the musical background builds in intensity. As Simon continues with the song, Martha Clifford comes to stage center of Bloom's thought: ... ray of hope ... Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse unsqueaked a ray of hope. Martha it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres. Play on her heartstrings pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still the name: Martha. How strange! Today. (274.41275.6) As Miss Douce offers a quiet ray of hope to solicitor George Lidwell, Bloom makes the subconscious association between the words "ray of hope" from the solo, and Martha Clifford, his "ray of hope." He then makes the conscious association between Martha and the opera title, and identifies Simon's solo as Lionel's aria. From this point on the song becomes Lionel's song, and Bloom is frequently called "Lionel-Leopold." As the song goes on the narrator describes the return of the opening section of ''M'appari" with its attending similarity in lyrics: The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting, to wait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part, how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart. (275.711) As Simon-Lionel sadly remembers the graceful glances of Martha in the song, Bloom remembers his first meeting with Molly, when first he saw her "form endearing": Each graceful look ... First night when first I saw her at Matt Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow, black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her. Fate. Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down she sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees. Charmed my eye ... Singing. Waiting she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling.

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First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in shadow Dolores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring. (275.1628) Here the parallels between the words of "M'appari" ("Each graceful look ... charmed my eye") and Bloom's thoughts of his first look at Molly and her Spanishy eyes are readily apparent. Some of the other musical allusions in the passage are not quite so obvious, however. "Waiting," Molly's song of that first night, is, appropriately, the song of a maid looking from her window "upon the dull street'' and longing for her lover to come and take her "to his wild mountain home": I look from my window upon the dull street, The wind and the rain on the marketplace beat; I sigh from my heart for my love tarries long, With his sheep, and his goats, and his cattle so strong. My love in the mountains I'm waiting for thee, O that from this bondage my poor heart were free! My love to the market his cattle will bring, And then 'neath my window a song he will sing; A song which will tell me the time has now come, To go with my love to his wild mountain home. I care not for guardian, nor sister, nor friend, But by my love's side I my footsteps will wend. The song reminds the reader of Bloom's reverie about his first intimacies with Molly in Ben Howth's rhododendrons (176.121). Her role becomes that of siren as she extends through "Waiting" a musical promise of good things to come. The paragraph containing the reference to "Waiting" is a very interesting jumble of themes, songs, and memories in Bloom's mind. As he turned Molly's pages that night, he could smell her perfume, the lilac-scented bathwater that Martha asked about. ("Full voice of perfume of what perfume does your lilactrees.") As Bloom remembers Molly's bosom, Lionel's words ("When first I saw") blend in with his own thoughts. ("Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling. First I saw.") Bloom wonders why she thanked him for turning the pages and decides it must be fate. ("She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate.") Bloom's associative pattern moves from fate, kismet, to the East and thence to Spain and Molly's Spanishy eyes. He combines Dolores, the girl of the East, waiting in the song "The Shade of the Palm" (now a pear tree), with the waiting girl

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with dark eyes in the song "In Old Madrid." ("Spanishy eyes. Under a peartree alone patio in this hour in old Madrid one side in shadow Dolores shedolores.") The song "In Old Madrid" is about a dark-eyed waiting lover, as the following excerpts will show: Stanza 1: Long years ago, in old Madrid, Where softly sighs of love the light guitar, Two sparkling eyes a lattice hid. Two eyes as darkly bright as love's own star! There on the casement ledge, when day was o'er, A tiny hand was lightly laid; A face look'd out, as from the river shore, There stole a tender serenade! ... Stanza 2: Far, far away from old Madrid, Her lover fell, long years ago, for Spain; A convent veil those sweet eyes hid; And all the vows that love had sigh'd were vain! But still, between the dusk and night, 'tis said, Her white hand opes the lattice wide, The faint sweet echo of that serenade Floats weirdly o'er the misty tide! Molly's eyes, the eyes of the waiting girl of "In Old Madrid" and the waiting "Dolores" of "The Shade of the Palm," were that first night on himBloomalluring, luring him. ("At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.") For the moment, in Bloom's thoughts it is he, not Blazes, who will have the four o'clock rendezvous (''alone patio this hour ... one side in shadow. Dolores shedolores"). As the forsaken Bloom's thoughts build to a crescendo, so do the forsaken Lionel's. The identification between Lionel and Leopold becomes complete as they both call out for their loves: Martha! Ah, Martha! Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony. In cry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must Martha feel. For only her he waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere. (275.2934) In the cries of the anguished Lionel, there are parallels to Bloom's relations with both Molly and Martha Clifford. Joyce makes full use of the ambiguity

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inherent in these cross-references to the women to reflect the two issues on Bloom's mind throughout the chapter. Molly, at this hour, is the lost one to whom Lionel-Leopold addresses his plaintive notes, but Lionel's song is sung to Martha, and it is Martha to whom Leopold appeals for deliverance from the ignominy of cuckoldry. In the inclusion of both themes in one song Joyce emphasizes the interdependent relationship between them. Lionel's final anguished entreaties, "Co-me, thou lost one! / Co-me thou dear one!" (275.3536) serve a double purpose: to increase Leopold's sense of isolation from his wife, and concurrently to kindle his need for Martha's affection. This becomes obvious in the next lines of Bloom's stream of consciousness: "Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return" (275.3738). The two co-ome's in the above passage from the song are meant to coincide with the third intervals in the music.

Simon brings the solo to a dramatic culmination: Come! It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding sustained, to come, don't spin it out too long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness... To me! (275.39276.6) The note that Joyce pictures so enthusiastically is the high B climax of the song:

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The length and content of the description between "Come!" and "To me!" indicate the duration of the pause as well as the quality of Simon's high B . As if to reenforce the idea that the song is Bloom's, Joyce calls the singer "Siopold" (275.7), a combination of Simon, Lionel, and Leopold, 14 and, while the admiring listeners compliment "Lionel-Simon," we are told, "But Bloom sang dumb" (276.35); that is, Bloom's love song has provoked no applause, for it was sung unvoiced and unheard. Richie Goulding, waxing ecstatic over Simon's voice, remembers the tenor's renditions of " 'Twas Rank and Fame" from The Rose of Castille: Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembered one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: In Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never heard in all his life a note like that he never did then false one we had better part so clear so God he never heard since love lives not a clinking voice ask Lambert he can tell you too. (276.37277.2) Bloom's earlier skepticism of Richie's statements seems at least partially justified here. When the song is examined closely, it appears that Richie is exaggerating. He remembers the words of the song fairly accurately, varying only line 4 of stanza 1: Stanza 1: 'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charm'd thy heart.... But love was wealth, the world to me, Then, false one, let us part; The prize I fondly deem'd my own, Another's now may be; For ah! with love, life's gladness flown, Leaves grief to wed, to wed with me; With love, life's gladness flown, Leaves grief alone to me. Stanza 2: Tho' lowly bred, and humbly born, No loftier heart than mine; Unlov'd by thee my pride would scorn To share the crown that's thine; I sought no empire save the heart, Which mine can never be;

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Then false one, we had better part, Since love lives not, lives not in thee; Since love lives not in thee; Yes! false one, better part, Since love lives not in thee. Richie's ecstasies about Simon's rendition of the song seem too enthusiastic because the song itself is not a particularly difficult one to sing, and the lines Richie quotes are relatively simple. The ninth line in stanza 2"Since love lives not in thee"contains the highest note in the song, a G natural, which is a minor third lower than the highest note in "M'appari." The line, "Then false one," which Richie seems to connect with the note about which he raves, has no outstanding notes in it at all. Through the use of the song, Joyce confirms Bloom's opinion that Richie's statements must be taken with the proverbial grain of salt. "'Twas Rank and Fame'' is also a song about a false lover and serves to reenforce further the betrayal and false love motif in the chapter. Richie Goulding's next remarks, about Simon Dedalus, cause Bloom to think about the relationship between the two: Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more. (277.911) Simon's disdain for his brother-in-law evokes an appropriate musical title from Bloom: "We Never Speak As We Pass By." The song is a minstrel ballad sung by a cuckolded husband about his fallen "Nell": Stanza 1: The spell is past, the dream is o'er, And tho' we meet, we love no more, One heart is crush'd to droop and die, And for relief must heav'nward fly, The once bright smile has faded, gone, And given way, to looks forlorn! Despite her grandeur's wicked flame, She stoops to blush beneath her shame. Chorus: We never speak as we pass by, Altho' a tear bedims her eye; I know she thinks of her past life, When we were loving man and wife.

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Stanza 2: In guileless youth, I sought her side, And she became my virtuous bride, Our lot was peace, so fair so bright, One summer day, no gloomy night, No life on earth more pure than ours In that dear home midst field and flow'rs Until the tempter came to Nell, It dazzled her, alas! she fell. Chorus: We never speak as we pass by, etc. Stanza 3: In gilded hall, midst wealth she dwells, How her heart aches, her sad face tells, She fain would smile, seem bright and gay, But conscience steals her peace away, And when the flatt'rer cast aside, My fallen and dishonor'd bride, I'll close her eyes in death, forgive, And in my heart her name shall live. Chorus: We never speak as we pass by, etc. The irony of this song, which fits Bloom's situation more closely than any other of the songs in which he symbolically has participated, is that he uses it to describe the Richie-Simon relationship rather than his own relationship with Molly. Bloom's next speculation, "Rift in the lute I think," is part of the first line of stanza 2 of Vivien's song to Merlin in Tennyson's Idylls of the King, as she tries to quell the fears of the suspicious Merlin: "In love, if love be love, if love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. "It is in the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all. "The little rift within the lover's lute, Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

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"It is not worth the keeping; let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all." (italics mine) Ostensibly Bloom uses the "rift in the lute," like the preceding reference to "We never speak," to refer to the family division of Simon and Richie, but, again like the preceding reference, the connotations of the entire song are vastly more analogous to Bloom's own dilemma than to the one to which Bloom refers. The deceitful Vivien sings this song to her lover-master so that she may learn his secrets, after which she will leave him unconscious, useless, lost, and alone, as Molly-Martha-Zerlina has duped her Leopold-Lionel-Masetto. Obviously the function of these last two songs is to provide additional musical parallels to the main dilemma of the chapter and the book. The question of whether they represent an unconscious effort of Bloom to see his own situation of unrequited affection in the relationship of Richie and Simon must remain only a tantalizing possibility. Bloom's thoughts of Simon's voice broaden to include human voice production in general. Then, as Father Cowley begins a nameless voluntary on the piano, Leopold's thoughts return to Lionel's song, its application to the world in general, and inevitably, its relation to Molly: Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on. Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat. Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave. Corpus paradisum. Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup. Gone. They sing. Forgotten. I too. And one day she with. Leave her: get tired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big Spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Her wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevy hair un comb: 'd. (277.2331) Goulding, still talking about music, says, "Grandest number in the whole opera" (278.14), leading Bloom to muse on numbers and the mathematical basis of musical vibrations (278.1624). Cowley's improvisations at the piano prompt speculation on methods and style of piano playing, beginners' techniques and "Blumenlied," a traditional second or third year piano solo that Bloom bought for Milly (278.2532). As Bloom begins his letter to Martha Clifford, with the continued improvisations of Father Cowley in the background, the words of Martha's letter to Bloom recur again to him, and their "naughty" quality recalls the naughty song, "O Mary Lost the Pin of Her Drawers," which Bloom

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has previously associated with Martha and the degrading, comic effect of their affair. 15 Why do you call me naught? You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the pin of her. Bye for today. Yes, yes, will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other world she wrote. My patience are exhausted. To keep it up. You must believe. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True. Folly am I writing? (279.2226) Martha's subject-verb agreement error ("patience are") couples in Bloom's mind with the pronoun-antecedent agreement error (it for drawers) in the line "To keep it up" from "O Mary Lost the Pin of Her Drawers," on which he had previously remarked. The ridiculous tenor of Martha's whole letter combines with the cheap bawdiness of the song to bring Bloom momentarily to consider the possible absurdity of his own position ("Folly am I writing? "). Cowley's improvisations in the next room continue to creep into Bloom's consciousness as he writes to Martha. The minor mode in which Cowley plays helps to produce a further despondency in Bloom: La la la ree. Trails off there sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad tail at end. P.P.S. La la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee. (280.811) Bloom links the sadness usually associated with the minor key in Western music with his own lost, lonely position. His last statement in the passage, every bit as despairing as Lionel's, is in part the result of the minor musical mode of Cowley's improvisations as well as Bloom's own circumstances. Bloom finishes his letter and, looking through the door to the bar, sees Miss Douce holding up to her ear a seashell she picked up during her vacation. The sea and Miss Douce's sunburned skin turn Bloom's thoughts again to the song "Those Lovely Seaside Girls": Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside. Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on coldcream first make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn't forget. Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell with seaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks their mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet, a yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No admittance except on business. (281.2128)

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The line "Your head it simply [swirls]" starts a series of literal associations of swirling curls, shells, seaweed, and seaweed hair. The sea references provide a background for some brief speculation on womanhood in general before Bloom's thoughts return to Molly and her promiscuity ("Her eyes ..."). Thus, the linking of the song with Boylan quite possibly enters through the subconscious of Bloom as an additional association leading to Molly's sensuality. Cowley next begins the minuet from Don Giovanni amid the narrator's description of the men and ladies of the court dancing: Bob Cowley's twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The landlord has the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he played a light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling, and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one: two, one, three, four. (282.35) Frederick Sternfeld has an excellent rendition of Joyce's application of "One: one, one, one: two, one, three, four," to the minuet from Don Giovanni: 16

Sternfeld's analysis of the passage has borne the brunt of some uncharitable remarks from Marian Kaplun, who contends: One could not even say aloud the 'one, three, four' in the rhythm of the minuet as he reproduces it at the tempo at which it is usually performed: It would be a verbal, much less a vocal, impossibility. What is more, neither the numbers nor the punctuation correspond meaningfully to the time values or natural stresses of the notes as any voice would sing them.17 Kaplun has probably confused the minuet with the twist, a much faster dance. I have no difficulty in performing the "vocal impossibility" of verbally putting the words to the music. Quarter notes and eighth notes in a minuet are far from the sixty-fourth notes of progressive jazz. The minuet is never performed quickly, and there is no reason to suppose that it was in Don Giovanni. Further, what Sternfeld fails to mention and what Kaplun does not realize is that the numbers and punctuation of the

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disputed passage describe the step and motions of the dancers rather than harmonic variations, time values, or stresses in the dance. The narrator is, after all, describing not the music itself so much as the image of dancing couples, which the music calls forth. Bloom recognizes the dance and conjures up his own image of a great ball, which to him demonstrates the disparity in material wealth between classes: Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating dockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: You look at us. (282.1114) The dancers displaying their pomp and wealth as they dance the minuet seem to Bloom to be calling attention to themselves. Sternfeld again has correlated the music of the minuet to Bloom's mental image:

The effect of the light, tripping major strains of the minuet is to turn Bloom from the melancholy that accompanied Cowley's minor key improvisations: That's joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other joy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows you are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began to lilt. Then know. (282.1518) As Bloom consciously modulates from the sadness of the minor mode to the happiness of the major mode he reflects on former times with Molly, remembering that the music she sang was also a reflection of her mood. Molly's singing causes Bloom to recall the conversation with M'Coy about their wives' concerts: M'Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk. When she talks like the clapper of a bellows. They can't manage men's intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I'm warm, dark, open. Molly in quis est homo: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear. Want a woman who can deliver the goods. (282.1924)

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The several aspects of Mrs. M'Coy's voice suggest to Bloom an inability of women to go from one vocal register to another. The lower register of the voice with its sensual connotations ("warm, dark, open") Bloom associates with the lower register notes in "Quis est homo?" In the Lotus Eaters episode when Bloom had been thinking of a series of religious works, "Quis est homo?" from Rossini's Stabat Mater had produced an association with Mercadante's Seven Last Words (82.1517). In the passage currently under consideration, Bloom, his memory inaccurately shaded by the previous association, connects "Quis est homo?" with Mercadante again. As Boylan arrives at Eccles Street, Bloom, still thinking about Molly, reflects on the music she makes at night with the chamber pot: ÃJog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue clocks came light to earth. O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that. It is a kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is. Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics, the resonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal to the law of failing water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt's Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddle iddle addle addle oodle oodle. Hiss. Now. May now. Before. (282.2534) The dandy tan shoes of dandy Boylan suggest the lines of the nursery rhyme "Handy Spandy": Handy Spandy Jack o' dandy Loves plum cake and sugar candy. Boylan's light lines are meant to contrast with Bloom's references to the dark, mysterious music of Liszt. Boylan's music provides a light, tripping, airy prelude to an afternoon of pleasure, while Bloom's mood and music are somber and dark, reflecting an underlying despondency. In the bar, Father Cowley suggests that the song "Qui sdegno" be sung, but his suggestion is vetoed in favor of "The Croppy Boy," which Tom Kernan calls "Our native Doric" (282.4041). This incident, which might be easily passed over, assumes considerable significance when one examines in detail the songs in question. "Qui sdegno" (''In diesen heil'gen Hallen") is from Mozart's Magic Flute, and is a song of peace, and the banishment of strife: Within this hallowed dwelling Revenge and sorrow cease,

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Here, troubled doubts dispelling, The weary heart hath peace. "The Croppy Boy," conversely, is about particularly Irish things: betrayal, religion, sentimentality, and war. This is the song the boys want to hear and the things about which their lives revolve. "Qui sdegno," a song of peace, is voted down in favor of the inherently militant, emotional ''Croppy Boy." Both Sternfeld and Worthington have done excellent explications of the relationship of "The Croppy Boy" to the text, though neither account is complete. 18 The song is heard in the background for the next four pages of Ulysses, though only once is the reader given the quoted words as they are sung through the mouth of Ben Dollard. The rest of the song is paraphrased by the narrator as it is heard and absorbed by Bloom, though the description of the song is not Bloom's but the narrator's. As with the "M'appari" passage, we get the words of the song and then, in most passages, appropriate accompanying thoughts of Bloom following. Bloom hears the initial chords of the introduction just as he is about to leave. The music causes him to pause: But wait. But hear. Chordsdark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of the dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic. (283.1415) Following are the narrator's paraphrases of "The Croppy Boy" in the left-hand column and the actual words of the stanzas on the right. These quotations will be interspersed with Bloom's thoughts where relevant: Good men and true! in this house who dwell, To a stranger bouchal I pray you tell Is the priest at home? or may he be seen? I would speak a word with Father Green. (Stanza 1) The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach, and painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men and true. The priest he sought, with him would he speak a word. (283.1619) As Bloom hears the first strains of the song, his thoughts go first to Dollard's voice production and then to the singer's reduced circumstances: Ben Dollard's voice barreltone. Doing his level best to say it. Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big ships' chandler's business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships' lanterns.

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Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh home. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him. (283.2126) The Priest's at home, boy,and may be seen; 'Tis easy speaking with Father Green; But you must wait, till I go and see If the holy father alone may be. (Stanza 2) The priest's at home. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. Step in. The holy father. Curlycues of chords. (283.2728) Perhaps it is sentiment for the ensuing betrayal of the croppy boy that prompts Bloom's thoughts, meantime, to turn to the society that betrays people like Ben and reduces them to poverty. Bloom is moved to make up a hasty, satiric little lullaby about the situation: Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die. (283.2930) The youth has entered an empty hall What a lonely sound has his light foot-fall! And the gloomy chamber's still and bare. With a vested Priest in a lonely chair. (Stanza 3) The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered a lonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footstep there, told them the gloomy chamber, chill the vested priest sitting to shrive. (283.3134) Bloom's thoughts are still, however, with Dollard, Ben's present pastime, and his deep voice: Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he'll win in Answer poet's picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sitting hatching in a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee what domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Good voice he has still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings. (283.3540)

The youth has knelt to tell his sins; "Nomine Dei," the youth At "mea culpa" he beats his breast, And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest. (Stanza 4) The voice of penance and of his grief came slow, embellished tremulous. Ben's contrite beard begins: confessed: in nomine Domini, in God's name. He knelt. He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: mea culpa. (284.25)

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Here again we have a mistake on Joyce's part in the divergence between the words of a song and the words in the text of Ulysses. The disparity of "nomine Domini" (which doesn't fit the tune) in the text with "Nomine Dei" in the song cannot be attributed to an error in Bloom's thinking. Since the narrator is given the words, the error is clearly Joyce's. Bloom's attention is now directed to the song, as the Latin reminds him of the morning mass in All Hallows and the trip to the cemetery: Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the communion corpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or coffey, corpusnomine. Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape. (284.69) At this point, Joyce rearranges stanzas 5 and 6 of the song: placing 6 next in the text: I cursed three times since last Easter day And At mass-time once I went to play: I passed the churchyard one day in haste, And forgot to pray for my mother's rest. (Stanza 6) The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since easter he had cursed three times. You bitch's bast. And once at masstime he had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother's rest he had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy. (284.1317) In the passage above, the paraphrase of the song by the narrator is interrupted by the phrase "You bitch's bast." The phrase has been used twice previously, both times in connection with the blind piano tuner (250.19, 263.20). The tap of the tuner's cane as he returns to the Ormond bar for his tuning fork is heard just before the passage above, so that Joyce blends the blind man's oath with "The Croppy Boy" at the appropriate moment to add a humorous example to the lyrics. Though this study deals principally with Leopold Bloom, it is interesting to note that in this passage we find one of the main points on which Frederick Sternfeld bases his thesis that "The Croppy Boy" is Stephen Dedalus in search of a real father. The croppy boy's failure to pray for his mother's rest is equated to Stephen's refusal "to make his peace with his mother and with organized religion, even at his dying mother's behest." 19 Bloom's thoughts following stanza 6 of "The Croppy Boy" do not seem to be linked thematically to the song. Staring at Miss Douce, he is reminded of the low-cut dress Molly wore the evening the Blooms attended

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a concert in honor of the Shah of Persia. As Bloom comes to the end of this speculation, the narrator goes back to stanza 5 of "The Croppy Boy": At the siege At the siege of Ross did my father fall, And at Gorey my loving brothers all. I alone am left of my name and race, I will go to Wexford and take their place." (Stanza 5) All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his brothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of his name and race. (285.13) Here Joyce produces an interesting variant in the patriotic pattern as he interjects "we are the boys of Wexford," the first line of the chorus of the previously discussed popular Irish fight song, "The Boys of Wexford." As with the line ''You bitch's bast," there is no certainty whether the Wexford reference comes from Bloom's thoughts, or is merely an elaboration on the song text by the narrator. One explanation for the origin of the name "Croppy Boy" was that it was a nickname given to the Wexford rebels because of their close-cropped hair. 20 This makes the croppy boy, by definition, one of the "Boys of Wexford." In any event, the introduction of "The Boys of Wexford" in the passage serves to add reenforcement to the warlike atmosphere created by "The Croppy Boy." The lines of stanza 5 are especially meaningful to Bloom, whose thoughts of Molly have plunged him back into the gloom of isolation: I too, last my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps. No son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still? (285.46) His solitude, the death of Rudy, his only son, and his own failure as a man and a husband come crushing down on Bloom, only to give way to desperate hopes. I bear no hate against living thing. (Stanza 7, line 1) He bore no hate. (285.7) Bloom, tired of the emotional sentimentality of the song, and tired of his own trials and maudlin thoughts, links the above line of the song to himself. "Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old" (285.8).

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Now the narrator's paraphrase of the song becomes mixed with Bloom's stream of consciousness as he anticipates the next line: But I love my country above my King. (Stanza 7, line 2) Ireland comes now. My country above the king. (285.12) At this, Bloom glances about at Miss Douce and thinks of still another Irish war song: "She listens. Who fears to speak of nineteen four?" (285.1213). Through the song, Ben Dollard is, in effect, speaking of "'98" to listening Miss Douce. "The Croppy Boy" is a ballad of the Rebellion of 1798, as is "The Memory of the Dead,'' the first line of which"Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?"Bloom alters to make it humorously contemporaneous with his own time. Further, the song, like "The Boys of Wexford," serves to provide an additional warlike counterpoint to Dollard's rendition of "The Croppy Boy." Having confessed, the croppy boy petitions the priest to leave: Now, Father bless me, and let me go To die, if God has ordained it so. (Stanza 7, lines 3, 4) Bless me, father, Dollard the croppy cried. Bless me and let me go. (285.56) The words in italics are theoretically a direct quotation, since they have before them a dash, the mark Joyce uses to indicate quotations. Here again the words are not only inexact, but do not fit the tune. Since Dollard could not have sung the words in the text to "The Croppy Boy" tune, the alteration must be laid to Joyce himself. As Bloom takes his cue from the song and prepares to go, his eyes and thoughts return to Miss Douce and girls in general: Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week. Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those girls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl's romance. Letters read out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy's own Mumpsypum. Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you. (285.1823) Thoughts of Miss Douce bring "Those Lovely Seaside Girls" again to Bloom's mind. ("Those girls, those lovely.") This time the song is

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accompanied by a second seaside song, "By the Sad Sea Waves," which is a lament about vanished hope and pleasure: By the sad sea waves I listen while they moan A lament o'er graves of hope and pleasure gone; I was young, I was fair, I had once not a care, From the rising of the morn to the setting of the sun; Yet I pine like a slave, by the sad sea wave. Come again, bright days of hope and pleasure gone, Come again, bright days, Come again, come again. Bloom's loneliness, brought back into his unconscious by the Boylan theme of the seaside girls, calls forth in his consciousness the image of the second song with its wonderful days that are now memories. The hope that those days will come again combines with the lovely seaside girls, who have now become chorus girls, to produce thoughts of love letters and finally Martha Clifford's letter. Thus Martha is identified with one who will perhaps bring about once again those "bright days of hope and pleasure" mentioned in "By the Sad Sea Waves." As Bloom muses, "The Croppy Boy" continues: The Priest said nought, but a rustling noise Made the youth look above in wild surprise; The robes were off, and in scarlet there Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare. (Stanza 8) Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. (285.2427) Bloom, watching the attentive Miss Douce, speculates on her expectation of the climax of the song. Then Miss Douce's anticipation becomes sexual anticipation to Bloom as he digresses on sex and then the similarity between women and musical instruments. As usual, his thoughts finally return to Blazes and Molly: They know it all by heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap. Tap. Tap. Thrilled, she listened, bending in sympathy to hear. Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. Write something on it:

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page. If not what becomes of them? Decline, despair. Keeps them young. Even admire themselves. See. Play to her. Lip blow. Body of white woman, a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes all women. Goddess I didn't see. They want it: not too much polite. That's why he gets them. Gold in your pocket, brass in your face. With look to look: songs without words. Molly that hurdygurdy boy. (285.2637) The song again interrupts Bloom's reverie: With fiery glare and with fury hoarse, Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse: "'Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive, For one short hour is your time to live." (Stanza 9) With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed. Swelling in apoplectic bitch's bastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour is your time to live, your last. Tap. Tap. (286.14) The "Tap. Tap." of an earlier passage (285.28), the tapping of the blind piano tuner's cane, is utilized in the narrator's lines describing stanza 9, as the blind man's curse ("bitch's bastard") becomes the curse of the yeoman in the song. Bloom's thoughts and eyes, however, are still on Miss Douce who, all commiseration, is listening to the last verses of the song. His pity, as we have seen in the Hades episode, extends more to the living than the dead, and his thinking turns from the soon-to-die croppy boy to Mrs. Purefoy, who is still in protracted labor: Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs. For all things dying, want do, dying to, die. For that all things born. Poor Mrs Purefoy. Hope she's over. Because their wombs. (286.57) As Miss Douce gazes on, another snippet of the song is heard: Upon yon river three tenders float. (Stanza 10, line 1) On yonder river. (286.10) But, as Miss Douce's bosom heaves, Bloom discovers that it is not Boylan or the croppy boy, but George Lidwell, for whom she has been looking so picturesque and acting so coquettishly: But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castille. The morn. Ha. Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? (286.1415)

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Bloom's discovery of Miss Douce's fickleness brings musical associations of love flown away, as lines from the Plaintive "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye" ("The bright stars fade.... The morn") and The Rose of Castille ("O rose! Castille") are recalled, both of which are associated with lost love and Molly. As Miss Douce stands transfixed at the tap, "All lost in pity for croppy" (286.19), the yeoman captain's full treacherous vehemence is unleashed: "The Priest's in one, if he isn't shot We hold his house for our Lord the King, And, Amen, say I, may all traitors swing!" (Stanza 10, lines 2, 3, 4) I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing. (286.27) Bloom, realizing the end of the song is approaching, hastens to leave"Get out before the end" (282.2). As he rises, we again hear echoes of his leitmotif, "When the Bloom Is on the Rye": "O'er rye-high blue. Bloom stood up" (282.67). He passes by Pat the waiter as Dollard begins the last verse: At Geneva Barrack that young man died, And at Passage they have his body laid. (Stanza 11, lines 1, 2) At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body laid. (286.3940) "The Croppy Boy" becomes the yearning call of a lover to his Dolores to wait for him, as the song merges with "The Shade of the Palm" for Dolores-Douce: Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter called to dolorous prayer. (286.4041) It is not the croppy boy but Bloom who is leaving in the "Shade of the Palm" analogy; and the girl for whom Bloom yearns and sorrows is not Miss Douce but Molly: By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties, by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely Bloom. (287.14)

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Reaching the hallway, Bloom hears the last lines of the concluding stanza of the ballad: 21 Good people who live in peace and joy, Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy boy. (Stanza 11, lines 3, 4) Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy boy. (287.68) Part of the tears shed for the croppy boy in the last stanza should be shed also for Bloom, who now, in his martyrdom, has become identified with the croppy boy: Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway heard growls and roars of bravo. (287.910) When the congratulations have been accorded Dollard and the glasses lifted, Miss Kennedy expresses her admiration and talks of her favorite song: Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely, murmured Mina. And The last rose of summer was a lovely song. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina. 'Tis the last rose of summer dollard left Bloom felt wind wound round inside. (288.49) "The Last Rose of Summer," which will be heard twice more in the next two pages, is the song Lady Harriet (Martha) sings to her love-smitten Lionel in Flotow's Martha. Its theme runs throughout the opera as Martha's leitmotif and the central melody of their love. The song serves the function at this late point in the chapter of reemphasizing the plight of Bloom, his loneliness, and sorrow, by reiterating the Martha parallels from earlier sections of the chapter. Bloom is linked once more to the opera Martha, as he is referred to as "Lionelleopold" in a subsequent paragraph that attempts to bring together several aspects of the story in a brief recapitulation: Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady, with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses went Poldy on. (288.1719) Bloom himself becomes preoccupied with the narrative powers of music as he walks along the street:

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All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you never know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year. Queer up there in the cockloft alone with stops and locks and keys. Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or the other fellow blowing the bellows. (288.2833) Bloom's speculations on "Old Glynn" lead to his slight variation of the first line of "The Lost Chord" ("Seated all day" for "Seated one day''). The picture of Glynn's solitary figure in the organ loft is identified by Bloom with the organist who sits idly playing in the song: Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys. I knew not what I was playing Or what I was dreaming then; But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen, Like the sound of a great Amen. The organist's fingers wandering idly over the noisy keys are the basis of a pun of Bloom. ("Maunder on for hours.") The word maunder is a combination of wander, from the song, and meander. John Henry Maunder was, of course, a contemporary organist and choir director during Bloom's time who was very well known for his oratorios. The Oxford Companion to Music sums up the quality of his works with characteristic succinctness: "Of his compositions the apparently inextinguishable cantatas, Penitence, Pardon, and Peace, and From Olivet to Calvary long enjoyed popularity and still aid the devotions of undemanding congregations in less sophisticated areas." 22 In linking Maunder with Glynn's idling over the keyboard, Bloom's musical taste and knowledge prove themselves here to be a bit more sophisticated than some of his earlier remarks might have indicated. The "Last Rose of Summer," which is "left blooming alone," crops up again, as the last sardine left under the sandwich bell combines with the forlorn Bloom in a double-meaning song reference: Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine. Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely, last sardine of summer. Bloom alone. (289.1113) The effect of the reference, besides its comic intent, is to allude musically through a theme from Martha to Bloom's plight and position.

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As he passes the blind piano tuner in front of Daly's window, Bloom begins a recapitulation of the major songs in the chapter, embellishing them with references to several others. The last page and a half of the chapter (289.31291.13), containing sixteen references to eleven songs, constitutes a sort of musical finale to the episode. Bloom, who will conduct the finale, contemplates first the range of various instruments: Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even comb and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in her shift in Lombard Street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made its own, don't you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? Cloche. Sonnez la! Shepherd his pipe. Policeman a whistle. Locks and keys! Sweep! (289.3136) Next in Bloom's thought pattern comes the town crier calling the hour of Molly and Boylan's assignation: Four o'clock's all's well! Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy. Wait, I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John. Waken the dead. (289.3639) The lover's meeting is accompanied by the song "All Is Lost Now," the "Tutto è Sciolto" theme from Bellini, with all of the accompanying connotations derived during the chapter. The plaintive aria gives way to more spirited music, as the next part of the finale, orchestrated by drums, takes on the overtones of a march ("Drum? Pompedy"). The martial motif is enhanced by a reference to "John Peel," an old, rousing English hunting song. The association of the crier's "all's well!'' with Peel's "View Halloo" produces the allusion to the song ("Long John, Waken the Dead"). When we consider the words to "John Peel," we see that, like Bloom's lost love, the croppy boy, and Dignam, Peel is gone, never to return again: Stanza 1: D'ye ken John Peel, with his coat so gay D'ye ken John Peel at the break o' the day D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away, With his hounds and his horn in the morning? For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed, And the cry of his hounds which he ofttimes led, Peel's "View hal-loo" would awaken the dead, Or the fox from his lair in the morning.

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Stanza 4: D'ye ken John Peel, with his coat so gay? He lived at Troutbeck once on a day; Now he has gone far, far away, We shall ne'er hear his voice in the morning. For the sound of his horn, etc. With a little drurnroll ("Pom") we march on past Dignam and the croppy boy ("Poor little nominedomine. Pom"), right to the end of the paragraph: Pom. Dignam. Poor little nominedomine. Pom. It is music, I mean of course it's all pom pom pom very much what they call da capo. Still you can hear. As we march we march along, march along. Pom. (289.3942) Da capo, the term directing a musician to go back to the beginning and start again, is probably used by Bloom to refer to the life cycle and its connection with Dignam, the croppy boy, and, by extension, people in general. Bloom seems to picture existence as a continual march. When you come to the end you go back and start again. His statement above represents a variation in musical terms on the metempsychosis theme, which he has been thinking about throughout the book. The tempo changes as Bloom breaks wind in the next line, but even this is associated with the croppy boy ("Breathe a prayer drop a tear," from stanza 11): I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same he must have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap. Muffled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown mackin. (290.15) The credibility of the song worrying him, Bloom searches for an excuse for the croppy boy's stupidity in not recognizing the yeoman captain. Bloom's decision that the captain must have been muffled up reminds him of the man muffled in the brown mackintosh. Finally, the approach of the whore brings with it the narrator's analogy to "M'appari": A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form endearing. Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. (290.79)

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Lionel's line about when he first saw "that form endearing" now becomes Leopold's as he remembers the first time he saw the whore, and the appointment they made but never kept: Wet night in the lane. Horn. Who had the? Heehaw. Shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst! Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke. That appointment we made. Knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home sweet home. (289.1015) Bloom uses references to two songs in describing why an assignation he had planned was never completed. "Knowing we'd never, well hardly ever" is from the Captain's song in HMS Pinafore: Captain: I am never known to quail At the fury of a gale, And I'm never, never sick at sea. Crew: What, never? Captain: No, never! Crew: What, never? Captain: Hardly ever. Bloom, indirectly through the song, compares his meeting with the prostitute with whom he had made the appointment, to being seasick. But their union was never consummated because the girl knew Molly, and the meeting would have been "Too dear too near to home sweet home." Here again the words to the song "Home Sweet Home" have a humorous kind of irony to them when seen against the context of the passage under consideration: Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. Bloom's "pleasures" in the "palace" of the frowsy prostitute strike the reader as being as incongruous as the humbleness of Bloom's "home sweet home." As Bloom walks along the street, the last calls of the Sirens in the form of three of the main songs in the episode pursue the fleeing Ulysses-Leopold: Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinking glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last rose of summer, rose of Castille. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth: Lidwell,

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Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and Big Ben Dollard. Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall. (290.712) Miss Lydia Siren Douce is described as the "last rose of summer" and the "rose of Castille," while the entrance of the blind piano tuner, who is looking for his tuning fork, is referred to in terms of stanza three of "The Croppy Boy." The men in the bar raise their glasses in one final salute: True men like you men. Ay, ay, Ben. Will lift your glass with us. They lifted. Tschink. Tschunk. (290.3640) The last "tschinking" and "tschunking" of the glasses in the bar accompanies words quoted directly from stanza 1 of "The Memory of the Dead." The song urges that the glories of Ireland's history be celebrated with alcohol: Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave, or half a slave, Who slights his country thus; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us. The reference to "The Memory of the Dead" provides a fitting combination of nostalgic militancy and strong drink as a last characterization of the assembled music lovers in the Ormond bar. 23 Bloom ends the chapter on an equally devastating mockery of Irish history. As he looks at Robert Emmet's picture and stirring last words in Lionel Marks's window, he is reminded of Mercandante's oratorio version of the seven last words of Christ: Bloom viewed a gallant hero pictured in Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is. (290.3335) Here we have one of the most obvious associative patterns in the novel, as Bloom goes from Emmet's last words, to Christ's seven last words, to Mercandante's (mistakenly called Meyerbeer's) oratorio. The nobility of

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the last words of Emmet-Christ, however, emerge slightly tarnished, since Bloom, while reading them, breaks wind under cover of the sound of a passing trolley. The attribution of "The Seven Last Words of Christ" to a Jewish composer similarly reduces the spiritual uplift of the attending music. This last musical reference is part of the overall tendency of Joyce in the chapter to build up a seemingly serious situation or state of mind, and then ruthlessly but comically destroy the illusion. Emmet's last words, preceded by the solitary figure of Ireland's martyred croppy boy and associated with Christ's martyrdom, are, in the text, juxtaposed with the present-day Irish heroes, Simon Dedalus and company, who are tipping a few in memory of the dead, as Bloom provides the final degrading air of accompaniment to Emmet's noble sentiments with a blast of burgundygenerated gas. Throughout the chapter Joyce uses musical as well as narrative analogies to create an image of pathos approaching sentimentality, only to destroy it again in a single stroke. Boylan's musical send-off with "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye" as the timorous Leopold sees the lover off to his rendezvous; the despondent strains of "All Is Lost Now" and "M'appari" falling on the ears of their Elvino-Lionel counterpart, Leopold, who is sawing away on liver and bacon; and the irony of "The Croppy Boy" being sung to a bunch of unheroic Ormond barfliesall are a part of the debunking process characteristic of Joyce's naturalism. Yet, after seemingly the worst has been done to remove the sentiment from Bloom's position, a real pathos has been created, and the music has helped to do it. While no one song has a specific or vital role to play in the unfolding of the plot, and no musical lover has a completely analogous situation, there is a bit of Bloom in Masetto, Elvino, Lionel, and the rest, and their passion is his. The very profusion of musical imagery centering upon the love and war themes in the chapter gives those themes an epic proportion. In the welter of situations ranging from slight similarity to near congruence, we are touched by the enormity of the situation and what it means to this apparently ineffectual man who is so deeply and hopelessly involved. And the profusion of the musical imagery and situations in the Sirens chapter carries with it, in addition to a poignancy regarding Bloom's particular situation, a universality that comprehends not only the many and varied lovers who sing their songs in the Sirens chapter, but every lover who has suffered the pain of hopeless love.

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Acknowledgments I am indebted to the Research Foundation of the State University of New York for subsidizing the research on this project. I would like also to acknowledge my indebtedness to Thomas Connolly for his counsel, and to Mabel Worthington, J. Benjamin Townsend, Henry Lee Smith, Jr., Bernard Huppé, and William Neville for their aid in the preparation of this study.

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3 The New Bloomusalem: Transformations in Epiphany Land (Coauthored with Paul Butera) Like most modern novels, James Joyce's Ulysses treats the characters' discovery of a process by which they can make sense of and deal with the world in which they live, a method of transforming Plato's world of appearances into the forms or truths that underlie the surface events of their lives. In the works of James Joyce, at least through Ulysses, this process of transformation and truth making is manifested in different ways: the epiphanies by which the characters in Dubliners come to terms with what they suppose to be the truths of their own existences, the artistic process by which Stephen Dedalus in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man transforms (transmutes, transubstantiates) the events of his own existence into manifestations of art and the uncreated conscience of his race, and finally in Ulysses the formulation of a new perspective that combines the practicality of Leopold Bloom with the artistic vision of Stephen Dedalus. What truths these latter characters come to, how they have reacted to the Bloomsday events, whether, in fact, anything has happened either externally or in their perception is, of course, the major point of debate among both casual and professional readers of Ulysses. As has been demonstrated elsewhere, 1 epiphanies or insights of characters in Joyce from Dubliners through Finnegans Wake are just as apt to be false

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as true, and their validity rests only in the mind of the character experiencing the epiphany and then only at the moment it is perceived. Whether or not the transformation has actually taken place in Ulysses, the possibilities of its existence are recognized in parody form by the key metaphor of reconciliation and hope, the song "The Holy City," played on the gramophone in Bella Cohen's to herald the coming of the New Jerusalem and the great transformation to the new millennium. The reconciliation process that ushers in the new era involves transforming and blending the analogous though utterly dissimilar perspectives, sensibilities, and goals of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom. Stephen had been admonished by Father Moran in Stephen Hero that it would be well for him to learn "The Holy City" by Adams, rather than the more "severe music" to which he was addicted: There is a song now, beautiful, full of lovely melody and yetreligious. It has the religious sentiment, a touching melody, powersoul, in fact. (66) This is of course essentially the same advice that Stephen's mother gives him when she says she prays that he may learn "what the heart is and what it feels" (Portrait, 252). Rather than attempt to discover this self-knowledge directly, either because he is afraid of its implications to his vulnerability or because it is of less importance to him than the creation of eternal artistic verities, Stephen chooses to abstract and refine his experience into a work of art through a process he describes in the villanelle as analogous to the transubstantiation of the wine and wafer into the body and blood of Christ. In his artistic-Eucharistic feast, Stephen's life is the bread and wine, his art the transubstantiated body and blood, and he the priest effecting the artistic transformation. Stephen's ultimate epiphany or revelation of truth, then, is that of the process or means by which artistic truths are manufactured and revealed. Thus the long description of the aesthetic theory upon which the process is founded is given such prominence in the last chapter, and its manifestation in practice contrasts so vividly with the ethereal, theoretical refinements delineated by Stephen to Lynch. The villanelle, which directly follows Stephen's aesthetic theory conversation with Lynch in Portrait, draws its sounds, words, and images from the entire book, but takes its initial impetus from a wet dream Stephen has about E. C. and some additional memories of her flirtations with himself and Father Moran. We do not mean to degrade the sentiments of the poem by pointing out that it begins in the "foul rag-and-bone

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shop" of Stephen's heart, but rather to indicate that the stanzas have come a long way from their origins and, like Yeats's "The Circus Animals' Desertion," are as much about the process of transformation of experience or sensibility into a work of art as about the object of the person's love. The villanelle represents the completed artistic epiphany of Stephen's vision of the girl on the beach and his own role as artist. However, the accuracy of Stephen's perception is of course up to the reader to decide. By the time Stephen reaches June 16, 1904, his aesthetic theory has been replaced with another, in which his idea of forging his own experiences into works of art manifests itself in his theory of how Shakespeare had transformed his own life and problems into the art of his drama, particularly Hamlet. That Stephen has created this new fiction, of course, indicates the way in which he is still projecting his own problems into the abstracts of aesthetic theory and art forms. There is a subtle difference between the theories in Portrait and Ulysses, however. In the latter, Stephen admits that he does not believe his own theory (214), and we are led to anticipate that the transformation in his mental attitude is not complete and that his final epiphany is yet to come. The concerns of Leopold Bloom in Ulysses are of a more mundane kind. Rather than try to transform his life into art, Bloom dreams of transforming Dublin and Ireland into the New Hibernia, and transforming his domestic situation by asserting his dominance in the household and Molly's heart. While both aims are made problematic by Bloom's equanimity and the second by his masochism, Bloom nevertheless does have such grand political and social schemes as the communal kitchen idea, the paying of stipends to newborn infants, with interest compounded annually (161), and the host of other things outlined in Circe (48990). In order to bring about this transformation, Bloom, like Stephen, is willing to offer himself as the necessary ritual sacrifice. His peace-loving, Christ-like character, discovered in Cyclops, is made manifest in Circe, where Bloom offers himself up (498) to the scourges of Bella Cohen and the hallucinatory group as he has to the earlier but more substantial crowd of mourners at Dignam's funeral and the drinkers at Barney Kiernan's. Bloom's political and social transformations are, however, predominantly focused on the city of Dublin, the city of men, and they deal, as does Augustine's earthly city, with the practical or liberal arts as opposed to the spiritual or useful arts of Augustine's City of God. Stephen's analogous vision of transforming his race spiritually through his art is complemented by Bloom's practical attempts to do something about the

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social plight of his people. It is the combination of the two visions, the two transformations, the temporal and practical with the timeless and spiritual, that will provide the millennium of the New Bloomusalem. Stephen draws the distinction between such temporal and imaginative or spiritual pursuits in the beginning of Nestor when in response to an answer about Pyrrhus's defense of Tarentum he muses: Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. (24) Thornton calls our attention to Blake's preference for Inspiration, which Blake calls "a Representation of what Eternally Exists, Really & Unchangeably," over Memory, which he says is merely "the Vanities of Time and Space." 2 In a sense Blake's homage to Imagination is Stephen's own, and his comment on Blake's excess is presumably that it "leads to the palace of wisdom." But Stephen's view of the eternal city as linked with artistic inspiration also forms part of his Blake allusion, for in Blake's words, Imagination is Surrounded by the Daughters of Inspiration who in the aggregate are call'd Jerusalem.3 Thus the city of Jerusalem, the eternal city, is arrived at simultaneously by Bloom and Stephen. It is the practical city of man of Leopold Bloom: BLOOM My beloved subjects, a new era is about to dawn. I, Bloom, tell you verily it is even now at hand. Yes, on the word of a Bloom, ye shall ere long enter into the golden city which is to be, the new Bloomusalem in the Nova Hibernia of the future. (Thirtytwo workmen wearing rosettes, from all the counties of Ireland, under the guidance of Derwan the builder, construct the new Bloomusalem. It is a colossal edifice, with crystal roof, built in the shape of a huge pork kidney containing forty thousand rooms.) (484) The practical architectural details are Bloom's, but the millennium is also the city of imagination, of eternal art, and "what eternally exists" for Stephen Dedalus.4 The final reconciliation of the two visions of Jerusalem occurs in the song "The Holy City" itself, which will be quoted here in its entirety:

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Last night I lay a-sleeping, There came a dream so fair: I stood in old Jerusalem, Beside the temple there; I heard the children singing, And ever as they sang, Me-thought the voice of Angels, From Heav'n in answer rang; Me-thought the voice of Angels From Heav'n in answer rang ''Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Lift up your gates and sing, Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to your King." And then methought my dream was chang'd, The streets no longer rang, Hushed were the glad Hosannas The little children sang; The sun grew dark with mystery, The morn was cold and chill, As the shadow of a cross arose Upon a lonely hill, As the shadow of a cross arose Upon a lonely hill. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Hark! how the Angels sing: "Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to your King!" And once again the scene was changed, New earth there seem'd to be, I saw the Holy City Beside the tideless sea; The light of God was on its streets, The gates were open wide, And all who would might enter, And no one was denied. No need of moon or stars by night, Or sun to shine by day, It was the new Jerusalem That would not pass away,

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It was the new Jerusalem That would not pass away. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Sing for the night is o'er! Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna for evermore! Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna for evermore! 5 "The Holy City" is a dream vision, a work of art, an epiphany, a product of the imagination. The first stanza asserts the dream and identifies the narrator as dreamer. Like the early Portrait, the first stanza deals with the activities and perceptions of children who are able to call up in answer the very voices of the heavenly host. In stanza 2 the perception of the persona changes and as the children's songs die out, they are replaced by the metaphor of sacrifice, the cleansing transition from the childhood of stanza 1 to the beatific vision of stanza 3. The previous reference to both Bloom and Stephen as sacrificial figures foreshadows one of their functions in the song. By being Christ figures offering themselves up in atonement for unnamed sins, they prepare us and the dreamerpersona for the final image of the new Jerusalem. In the last stanza, the children's song is left out entirely and is replaced by the persona's new vision of the communality of all people, a city where "All who would might enter, / And no one was denied." This vision is, of course, the hope and plan for the New Bloomusalem of Leopold Bloom, not just a metaphoric golden city that is to be, but the Nova Hibernia of the future, a new Dublin and a new Ireland. That the hope is not merely a hallucinatory one on Bloom's part is underscored by his advancing the same idea in Lestrygonians, and more particularly in Cyclops. Thus in the song are blended the political, social nirvana of Bloom and the Imagination/artistic creation/Jerusalem of Blake and, subsequently, Stephen Dedalus. The dreamer creates the artistic vision, then the sacrifice, and finally the reconciliation. The process of the transformation of the city is also the process of transforming the imagination and experience into the work of art, that is, the song and the epiphany it embodies. The propitious moment arrives for the union of these two disparate characters, the centers of whose beings and aspirations are so curiously linked. Stephen has but to heed Father Moran's admonitions from Stephen Hero regarding the song, as it begins to play on a gramophone outside to herald Bloom's entrance into Bella Cohen's parlor (504). Stephen has

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been talking about the reconciliation of opposites, placing it again in musical terms of the two notes of a scale, with the greatest possible interval, the dominant and fundamental. Stephen goes on to allude to the fact that this anticipatory interval leads to a return to the octave, which consists of two different notes but with mathematically similar vibrations. It therefore represents a unification process and at the same time produces a difference analogous to Stephen's ecclesiastical term, consubstatiality, where two people or situations can be the same and at the same time different. Stephen begins by referring obliquely to the major themes that link him and Bloom throughout the day, the father-son search, Shakespeare, and odyssey making: (Abruptly.) What went forth to the ends of the world to traverse not itself. God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself, becomes that self. Wait a moment. Wait a second. Damn that fellow's noise in the street. Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Ecco! (505) On the very point of making the discovery about consubstantiality and his relation to Bloom and the heart, and with the gramophone blaring away the advent of the New Jerusalem and Bloom entering the door, Stephen is still unable to read the significance of the portents. He rejects the sign in the music almost in the same words he used in Nestor when he defined God as a "shout in the street" (34). For Stephen this noise in the streets heralds not the savior, Leopold Bloom, but the "Safe arrival of Antichrist," as Stephen turns and sees Bloom (506). As the gramophone plays on, Joyce alters the words to the first stanza slightly: Jerusalem ! Open your gates and sing Hosanna. . . . (507) The need for Stephen to realize the prospective epiphany at hand is underscored by the use of the term open for the correct lift up. But as the image suffers further degradation under Elijah's gospel message where Stephen, Bloom, Lynch, and the three whores all become Christ in the evangelical burlesque, so "The Holy City" becomes "Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh" (508). As the dreamer-persona of the song transforms his city into a three-part epiphany, so Stephen transforms the song and the image of Bloom into a degraded epiphany specter. The references to Dowie in Elijah's

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speech come from the experiences of Bloom, and it might well be that Bloom also envisions the parody of his own Messianic entrance. But Bloom is, after all, in realistic terms the only one in Ulysses who would help Stephen and offer friendship, assistance, and hospitality, in short offer to show Stephen "what the heart is and what it feels." When Stephen later breaks the chandelier with his ashplant, shouting the name of the sword with which Siegfried broke Wotan's spear and the old order of the universe, the stage directions recall again the words from Blake associated with the new millenium. 6 STEPHEN Nothung! (He lifts his ashplant high with both hands and smashes the chandelier. Time's livid final flame leaps and, in the following darkness, ruin of all space, shattered glass, and toppling masonry.) (583) Stephen's epiphany here is one of looking back at his agenbite of inwit and his oedipal guilt rather than to the hope of the future. The question remains, has Stephen learned enough from the song that his artistic transformations might rival the dream of the persona of "The Holy City"? The answer depends upon the readers who, like the characters of the novel, must discover their own epiphanies as they see them. Whether Leopold Bloom is the eventual hope for humanity, or a mere bumbling cuckold, or whether Stephen could or would go forth to write a Ulysses on the basis of the little he seems to have learned on June 16 is left to the reader to supply. The possibilities for the great humanistic leap are there, however, even if they are represented by "The Holy City." There has to be some shred of validity in the burlesque for it to be successful. The point is that Ulysses is everything to every person, confirming for each her or his own epiphany of life's meaning, just as Bloom and Stephen confirm their own already predisposed prejudices and expectations of what events will bring through the insights or epiphanies they read into their lives. By sharpening and clarifying the reconstructed world in which we live, Ulysses acts for us in the acquisition of self-knowledge just as it does for the characters of the novel, to bring us insights that are as widely divergent as the poles of critical theory about what, if anything, happens in Ulysses.

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4 Stephen's Villanelle: Antecedents, Manifestations, and Aftermath Like the novel of which it is a part, the villanelle is a portrait of the artist, and like the book, the poem is a work of art about its own making. It would take too long here to detail the list of models in fiction and verse in which selfconscious works of art deal with their own creation. Robert Alter and others have now made it a respectable literary occupation. 1 The idea that A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is about its own creation is inherent in the title. The narrative consciousness, approaching the mind of Stephen Dedalus, sifts through the experiences and thoughts of the maturing young artist to retain only those things of significance in developing the composite picture of the artist. That the portrait Stephen paints for himself is largely a defense mechanism, a means of rationalizing and coping with the world around him, of overcoming inferiority and dealing with the demands made on him, is a principal source of universality in the novel. That we all must find an analogous means of coping does not render Stephen's or Joyce's portrait any less unique. Stephen's final view of himself in the last pages as an artistic Daedalus-Icarus figure is prepared for throughout the entire book, from the Christ-Parnell-Satan self-images of the earlier chapters through the portrait within a portrait of the villanelle, the microcosm and artistic epiphany of the entire novel. Like the final portrait, the villanelle is an amalgam of previous images, a rationalization for Stephen's inferiority, and a vision of its own composition.

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Scholes, Rossman, Benstock, and others have already glossed many of the earlier events and images, particularly of E. C. and the girl on the beach, which appear in the poem. 2 Benstock in particular has pointed out the relationship of the immediate process of composition to the subject matter of the poem.3 Stephen emerges from what seems suspiciously like a wet dream to a world of seeming ecstasy with thoughts of the omniscient power of the word. The morning sun's rays form the basis of the primary rhyme sound. The censer of the priest, taken from Moynihan's allusion to ellipsoidal balls during the physics lecture, provides the basis of fire, smoke, and blaze that will later appear as the poetic sacrifice. Memories of E. C. and Stephen's jealousy of the priest to whom she has been talking call forth his earlier rationalizing image of himself as artist-priest, formed after his invitation to holy orders from the director at Belvedere. When he compares himself to Gherardino da Borgo San Donnino, he postulates a similarity to the early church reformer as Stephen seeks to reform the eucharist by substituting art, his poem, for the transubstantiated host. Stephen has long thought of himself as a sacrificial Christ figure beginning with the associations of the infirmary and the Dolan scene. The Parnell/ political-savior parallel had its origins also in the infirmary and the subsequent Christmas dinner scene, reenforced by Stephen's political triumphs over Dolan and his supposed betrayal by Conmee. Thus, stung with his memories and speculations on E. C.'s familiarity with Father Moran, Stephen places himself in the analogous but superior role as priest of art: To him [Moran] she would unveil her soul's shy nakedness, to one who was but schooled in the discharging of a formal rite rather than to him (Dedalus), a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life. (221) As he retreats into his monklike cowl, Stephen mentally allows the temptress to succumb to him through his artistic incantation: Her nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm, odorous and lavish-limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded him like water with a liquid life: and like a cloud of vapour or like waters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, symbols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain. (223) In the first stanza Stephen builds upon his own Satanic image when he calls the temptress the "lure of the fallen seraphim." He has already

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fallen and like E. C. she attempts to lure him back to the fold and Ireland. His blazing heart sends up the smoke of her praise as he becomes not only priest but sacrifice, and his poem the means of extolling her hold upon him. The "broken cries and mournful lays" of his villanelle are a celebration not only of the temptress who immediately caused them, but of his art as the means of transubstantiating his own experience into the eucharist, producing not only the body and blood of Stephen-Christ, but the poem about the process. Thus the poem celebrates not only love, temptation, and sacrifice, but, as Scholes originally told us, the making of the poem itself. 4 The artist-priest's raising of the chalice of his poetry flowing to the brim recalls the drops of water in the brimming bowl of Stephen's youth from which the poem is made. But even as his artistic priesthood becomes, at one and the same time, his vocation and his subject matter, it also affords Stephen the necessary rationalization to come to grips with his inferior situation in relation to the ever present female figure representing an idealized but mundane exterior world, which intrudes in the echoes of the beach scene in the lines, "And still you hold our longing gaze / With languorous look and lavish limb!" The poem becomes the culmination of Stephen's vision and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in a way which provides an explanation for the whole novel, a portrait of the artist-narrator transubstantiating and distilling from the totality of his youthful experience the novel as we have it. Nor does the Stephen Dedalus of Ulysses abandon the villanelle and its temptress figure any more than other Portrait experiences alluded to so frequently in the later novel. Stephen's Portrait-generated epiphanies, by Bloom's day recognized by their maker as rationalizations, undergo the same denegation in Ulysses. The later novel begins with Mulligan's debunking parody of Stephen's priestly posture. The brimming bowl of Stephen's youth, transformed in the villanelle into the artist-priest's sacrificial chalice, is now parodied, as Mulligan intones the beginning of the mass under his elevated shaving bowl. The profanation of the sacrifice is furthered in the ensuing scene by the association of the bowl with May's bowl of bile and the snotgreen sea. Stephen's bird imagery, so painstakingly constructed from his name and his vision of the girl on the beach as well as its context in the creation of the villanelle are similarly mocked to near destruction in Mulligan's "Ballad of Joking Jesus" in which the Christ persona of the poem tells us, "my father's a bird" (19). The implications of the line are not lost on Stephen, who later in Proteus ironically associates

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the line with the wild geese, political liberation, and Kevin Egan. The Parnellian artist who would forge the uncreated consciousness of his race has matured a bit and modified his views. Likewise, Stephen's aesthetic theory, the theoretical framework for the villanelle, the new critical-intentional fallacy stance of the artist paring his fingernails behind the scenes of a formerly superior "dramatic" work of art completely removed from its creator, has changed to a lyric or epic stance in which the artist, Shakespeare, vents his personal spleen in Hamlet by putting his own story on the page. In Ulysses, however, Stephen freely admits that the theory is a subterfuge in which he reposes no belief. It is not until Ithaca, however, that Stephen feels himself once again vulnerable to the temptations that beset him in the Portrait in the form of E. C. and her admonishments to remain at home as a good, patriotic, didactic artist who will further the cause of nationalism. By Ithaca Bloom has already taken Stephen's arm, ingratiated himself with kindnesses, and established a connection between his Jewishness and Stephen's Irishness. The older man is about to invite Stephen to remain like a son in the Bloom household, destroying the freedom and independence, the distancing so necessary to the dramatic art of the winged and free Daedalus Stephen envisioned in the Portrait. Stephen's metaphor of a sterile and degraded Ireland in the milkwoman, later subsumed into his "Parable of the Plums," shows that his method of composition at least has not varied. He still amalgamates his experiences into new images, new works of art that are still rationalizations and defense mechanisms for his inadequacies of the moment. Thus in Ithaca in response to Bloom's rendition of the "Hatikvah" or hope, symbolizing his hope of the future with a new son to replace Rudy, Stephen counters with the "Ballad of Little Harry Hughes," an archetypal story of the murdered "delicate Jew/child," which had its most prominent variant in the tale of Chaucer's delicately mannered Prioress. Her tale transforms the sacrificial scapegoat, the suffering servant of Judaic lore, into an antiSemitic morality story of the slaughter of Christian innocents by the unbelievers. The "Ballad of Little Harry Hughes" affords Stephen a similar opportunity to transform his earlier poem into the present Semitic circumstances of the scene and his proposed relationship with Bloom. The ballad is about a little boy who twice drives a ball over the Jew's garden wall. He refuses to do it a third time, but the Jew's daughter takes him into the house and beheads him. The last lines tell us that "he'll play his ball no more / For he lies among the dead" (691). Stephen's commentary on the

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song is among the most important passages in Ulysses. He clearly has the villanelle in mind when he sings this song. The temptress, the sacrifice, the volition, and the resulting art form that deals with the creation of art are all there. But this time there is a difference: Stephen has told not only his own story, but Bloom's as well, and Stephen knows it. Bloom and Stephen have already assumed a common identity in the novel: they have looked into the mirror and seen only one image, Shakespeare's. As they explored their commonality of identity through language and song they have already become Stoom and Blephen. Now the new song-poem takes on a meaning for them both. "One of all, the least of all, is the victim predestined" (692). The description fits not only the ineffectual ad man, but the poet sans work, country, and family. Bloom is as victimized by his circumstances as Stephen is by his art. Stephen has already been victim in the villanelle of his youth, and victim again more recently in the shattering of those illusions by Mulligan and the Dublin he has returned to. "Once by inadvertence, twice by design he challenges his destiny" (692). Bloom's first son, born of Molly's urge after witnessing two copulating dogs, is certainly inadvertent, and his second attempt at gaining a son has been consciously going on in his head since Hades and more overtly since the end of Circe. Stephen's first challenge to destiny came with the temptress of the villanelle, whose "languorous look and lavish limb" are the final nets over which Stephen has such difficulty flying. The second time he challenges his destiny is at 7 Eccles Street with its kindly Haroun al Raschid tempting him with the picture of Molly. "It comes when he is abandoned and challenges him reluctant and, as an apparition of hope and youth holds him unresisting" (692). Bloom's hope for Stephen is obvious, but Stephen goes back again to the temptress of the villanelle and its antecedents, E. C. and the prostitute at the end of chapter 2 of Portrait, whose images are also a part of Stephen's poem. As the metaphors of the villanelle and a Portrait take hold, Stephen concludes: "It leads him to a strange habitation, to a secret infidel apartment, and there, implacable, immolates him, consenting" (692). We are brought back to the present situation. Bloom, called in the next line "victim predestined," in his hope of a future with Stephen as son, will become immolated (sacrificed), consenting. Stephen, in giving his consent to join the domesticity of the Blooms in Ireland, would become schooled in music and devote his life to a domesticated and tamed artistry just as fettered

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by family, church, and country as the pre-Paris Stephen would have been had he not escaped on the wings of art. Once again as in the imitation of his blazing heart in the villanelle, the idea of sacrifice will produce an artphoenixlikerising from the ashes. At the same time his artistic transformation has a practical agenda. Like the villanelle, Stephen's art will once again save him by becoming his rationalization to cope with the forces that would imprison him, increase his sense of inferiority, and finally drag him down. When the villanelle and the song are compared, the difference is of greater significance than the similarity of the visions. That is, the first is about a self-centered young man, capable of producing only his own portrait as a young man, while the second is about two people, seemingly of widely divergent intellect, temperament, and background, yet whose essence is interchangeable, transubstantial. It is the discovery of an artist who is finally able to write about the human race, the producer of Ulysses. Thus, like the villanelle, the "Ballad of Little Harry Hughes" is about the process of the creation of itself. Whether Stephen stays or not is immaterial; what is important is that Stephen has come to a new realization of his relation with other things and that that revelation is paralleled, exemplified in, and a part of the process of the creation of art.

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5 Joyce and the Modern Coalescence The idea of the unity of all things has been central to our civilization at least as far back as antiquity. The continual process of transformation taking place in events, people, and their environment is merely the affirmation of unity over time. Artists have always represented this universal commonality directly or indirectly, as each generation recapitulated its predecessors, making new variations on the theme, and becoming in the process the latest in a succession of ''modern" ages. Twentieth-century literature, while addressing itself to questions about humanity's relationship to their cosmos, has increasingly come to see all facets of that relationship as partly explainable by archetypal analysis as structured by the processes of amalgamation and synthesis. James Joyce's chief contribution to the age was his recognition of such transformational processes and his ability to synthesize characters, events, literature, even language itself. Joyce transforms the common, the mundane, into the sublime by means of the philosopher's stone of his art. The more the reader begins to piece together the interconnections in Joyce's work and to understand the complexity of its structures, the more he is led to the idea that everything is interrelated. Joyce's art is transformation, the endless combining of theme, event, and character. His transformation reaffirms the basic proposition that everything is ultimately the same. It is his representation of the common identity of people and their environment, and of the transformation process which is the basis of that unity, that paradoxically makes Joyce "modern" at the same time that it welds him to the past.

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Finnegans Wake has been the most blatant statement of Joyce's intent, but it is not so obviousthough nonetheless truethat the theme of commonality is central to Joyce's earlier work as well. For purposes of this essay, then, I am going to explore three examples of Joyce's ingenious combining of seemingly disparate sources into one unified pattern, providing a common identity for the whole. The first example, involving widely divergent musical allusions in Ulysses, is typical of how Joyce uses transformation in structure. The second example, also from Ulysses, involves character and unlikely literary source allusions mixed in the pot of contemporary events and scenes. Finally, I would like to demonstrate how Joyce uses his own work as a source of his basic concept of unity, the idea that everything is ultimately the same. While each of his fictive works uses the same techniques, I have chosen my last example primarily from A Portrait of the Artist because Joyce's technique of recapitulation is less obvious here. In my conclusion I will try to show how all of his work is drawn together at the end of the Wake into one great amalgamation which testifies not only to the common identity of the Joyce canon, but by extension to the common identity of all human experience which is his subject matter. In a way Joyce was ideally equipped to deal with the unity and common identity of things, since his own tastes and experiences were so catholic. In the Dublin circles in which he grew up, the cheap, the bawdy, and the popular coexisted side by side with the classical, the cultured, and the refined. Similarly, the cerebral, the essential, the mystical, and the religious coexisted with the excremental, the debased, the vulgar, and the gross. All were important aspects of urban Irish life. For example, Joyce was a singer in a time and place where tenors were not merely operatic or popular, but included in their repertoires the whole spectrum of music from common street ballads to grand opera, and it is not surprising that their harmony should be blended into his works. My example interweaves strains of a popular music hall song with Wagner's Ring Cycle. The music hall song, "My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl," occurs in two sections of Ulysses. It is introduced in the Wandering Rocks section and later performed in its entirety in Circe. In the original section the song is intimately linked with Blazes Boylan: By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of My girl's a Yorkshire girl.

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Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of music which was being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the cortege: But though she's a factory lass And wears no fancy clothes. Baraabum. Yet I've a sort of a Yorkshire relish for My little Yorkshire rose. (253.41254.18) The unseen brazen Highland laddies who are playing the song behind the wall of Trinity College are the Second Seaforth Highlanders, who performed during the afternoon at the Half-Mile Bicycle Handicap, which was run on June 16, 1904, in College Park, and the "Baraabum" is a roll of the Highlanders' drums. The association between Boylan and the song is not difficult to grasp, since it carries overtones of the Blazes-Molly assignation. In the song two young men discuss their sweethearts, both named Rose, and both Yorkshire girls, who look alike and work in a factory. Deciding that they are one and the same, the men go to her house to find out which lover she prefers. They are met by her husband, who eventually runs them off, clearly another Homeric parallel to the usurpation of the suitor, Boylan, and perhaps an indication that Bloom will emerge triumphant from the battle over Molly's favors. Boylan will after all be on his way in a few minutes to Molly's house for an assignation, and the song acts as one of his courting leitmotifs. Of more immediate interest here is that the Yorkshire girl, who seems different to three separate men, turns out to be only a single individual. When we hear the song again in Circe, however, the situation is a great deal more complicated. Initially the symbolism is straightforward enough with Privates Carr and Compton together with Cissy Caffrey singing the words as they pass the window of Bella Cohen's. Carr, Compton, and Caffrey might easily fit the roles of the two British youths in search of their not unwilling Yorkshire girl. Zoe, who has informed us (550.56) that she is also "Yorkshire born," responds to their melody drifting in through the window, and puts tuppence in the pianola, which

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begins to play the song, while Zoe invites everyone to dance. As the dancing, under the direction of Professor Maginni, begins, the pianola echoes the baraabums of the earlier Highland drummers overheard by Blazes Boylan. The concluding lines of the stage directions of this rendition of the song carry with them direct references of earlier situations, words, and characters from Wandering Rocks and Stephen's Parable of the Plums in Aeolus. STEPHEN Dance of death.(Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, horse, nag, steer, piglings, Conmee on Christmas lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamphornpipe through and through, Baraabum! On nags, hogs, bellhorses, Gadarene swine, Corny in coffin. Steel shark stone onehandled Nelson, two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram falling bawling. Gum, he's a champion. Fuseblue peer from barrel rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes. Then in last wiswitchback lumbering up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine relish for tublumber bumpshire rose. Baraabum!) (579.518) The outcome of this dance of death is Stephen's ghoulish vision of his mother, the once beautiful May Goulding, and in keeping with the rivalry motif of the song, the object of Stephen's oedipal rivalry with his father. She reminds Stephen, "You sang that song to me. Love's bitter mystery" (581.23). The latter line, from Fergus's song in The Countess Cathleen, has already occurred to Stephen in Telemachus (9.3738) as a sort of love motif between Stephen and his mother. Now, in the light of rivalry of the young men with the Yorkshire girl's husband and each other, the appearance of May Goulding may be another manifestation of deep level oedipal desire on Stephen's part. To rid himself of her image and her linkage with the Blessed Virgin Mary, Stephen lifts his ashplant, breaking the chandelier as he refers to Siegfried's sword in Wagner's opera from the Ring Cycle. The sword is the one Siegfried used to break Wotan's ash spear and bring an end to the old order of gods. We have been prepared for this image some pages earlier by a reference Stephen made to the blood oath in Gotterdämmerung, the opera immediately after Siegfried in the Ring Cycle. The oath, chanted by Stephen in answer to Zoe's innocuous question "Is he hungry," is translated roughly ''Intense desire / questioning wife / destroys us all" (560.2430). Clearly such a preamble to his attempt to rid himself of his mother's image by taking up Siegfried's sword is an

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effort to dispel the mental state brought on by "My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl." Thus the Yorkshire Girl song, originally linked with Boylan's rivalry for Molly's hand, now is associated with Siegfried's attempt to bring to an end the old world that is doomed to extinction, an old world not unlike May's Christianity and the matriarchal Ireland. The Ring Cycle has, of course, been viewed by generations of Germans as a political allegory, a myth about the creation of the new Germany. Stephen in invoking the mythic image transforms German nationalistic hopes into Ireland's with himself the Siegfried-like liberating force. A few moments later, Stephen, out on the street again, begins an altercation with Privates Carr and Compton over a supposed insult to Cissy Caffrey. All of them have mistaken Stephen's cryptic remarks as overtures to Cissy and insults to the Crown. In fact, Stephen's quotation from a sixteenth-century canting song, "The Rogue's Delight in Praise of His Stroling Mort," does identify Cissy as a prostitute. At any rate, Cissy protests Stephen's alleged advances, saying to Private Carr, "Amn't I with you? Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl" (598.23). In the ensuing fanciful conflagration we return again to echoes of "My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl,'' "Factory lasses with fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs" (598.2930). Thus Stephen, now suitor for Cissy's hand, and in his own political allegory a suitor for Ireland, participates in a miniburlesque of the perpetual hostilities between England and Ireland. Cissy, as a figure of her country, is possessed by the British, while Stephen, the suitor, is vanquished by a superior military force. Lest there be any question of Cissy, the female figure, being identified with Ireland, Joyce has Old Gummy Granny, that Shan Van Vocht image from Telemachus, urge, like Yeats's Cathleen ni Holihan, that Stephen take up arms against the British, "(thrusts a dagger toward Stephen's hand.) Remove him, acushla. At 8:35 a.m. you will be in heaven and Ireland will be free. (she prays.) O good God, take him!" (600.1618). Thus, "My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl" becomes the center of an elaborate and delicately interwoven tapestry of music based on the rivalry and usurpation themes beginning with Bloom's rivalry, continuing through Stephen's oedipal complex and the representation of the Holy Mother Church, and ending in a political allegory. The range of music from sixteenth-century canting music through Wagnerian opera to musical hall song is symptomatic of the spectrum of sources that Joyce used as strands for this tapestry. In Gotterdämmerung Siegfried is finally conquered by the mistaken love and betrayal of a woman who thinks she herself has been betrayed, but who in the divine form of

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Valkyrie has wed herself to her perishable hero. Brunnhilde, like the Yorkshire girl and Stephen's perennial symbolic images of women, is larger than life, though at the same time mortal. Joyce combines here the common and the sublime, a Yorkshire girl-Brunnhilde, yet another aspect of Molly Bloom, sitting in bed waiting for her hero. What Joyce does with music and theme he also does with character. Drawing from a number of unlikely origins, he again effects combinations of the high and low, the comic and sublime. It bears repeating that while this technique is readily apparent in the Wake, in Ulysses it is not always so clear. Nevertheless it is a principal feature. The very incongruity of such disparate literary sources, while helping to establish the theme of universal unity, provides much of the novel's comedy. For instance, that the title of the novel overtly links one of the least effectual of protagonists in literature, Leopold Bloom, with the greatest epic hero of the Western world seems a wholly comic proposition until one is several hundred pages into Ulysses, when the inherent truth of the comic juxtaposition, with all of its implications of marital faithfulness, ingenuity, resourcefulness, etc., leads us to a far broader and truer definition of heroism, in which the common man (who is not common at all) is, in fact, the hero of the Odyssey, and Ulysses the hero of Joyce's novel. Supporting this major conjunction of characters are a series of character-theme identifications that give substance to the major premise that at the core, everything is interrelated. My second example, D. B. Murphy, is typical. Murphy is at the center of a complex web of allusion, linking a number of characters in Joyce's last two novels. One of the main threads in this web is Murphy's relation to Sinbad the Sailor. Murphy is directly referred to as Sinbad (636.33), a name not unexpected in the series of nautical pseudonyms the narrator bestows on Murphy. But later Murphy does tell us that the Arabian Nights' Entertainment was his favorite book (659.28). As a wanderer, a voyager, and a teller of fantastic stories, Murphy has much in common with Sinbad the Sailor, whose tales of his seven voyages comprise the 537th night through the 566th of The Thousand and One Nights. On his voyages Sinbad's general modus operandi is to lose all the goods and wealth that he has brought with him to trade, either through shipwreck or other natural calamity, undergo some fabulous adventure, and then come upon his goods again toward the end of the story, whereupon he relates his tale to those who hold his goods for him, supposing him dead. Invariably his tale is so farfetched that the merchants or captain,

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whoever has his goods in escrow, do not believe him. But someone comes forward either to corroborate part of his testimony or to recognize him so that the goods are generally recovered. And, of course, in the main tale Sinbad the Sailor relates to Sinbad the Porter a story of how he related the story to the custodians of his property as well as underwent the vicissitudes of plot and action. The tale within a tale is common to the Odyssey. Further, in reading the tales, one is struck by the similarity of Sinbad's voyages to parts of Odysseus's travels. For instance, the third voyage is a great deal like Odysseus's blinding of Polyphemus. There are echoes of Lestrygonians, cannibalism, and the casting of rocks by giants, as well as other hints of the Odyssey. The fourth voyage closely resembles Circe, and the fifth, Oxen of the Sun. The tales themselves go back to antiquity in Indian folklore with early references to its present form with the frame tale appearing as late as 956 A.D. Sinbad's voyages were based on a collection of Arabic travel romances, in part from the experiences of Oriental navigators especially in the eighth to tenth century, and in part from ancient poetry, particularly Homeric poetry. Scholars have long known the Odyssey to be an integral part of Sinbad's stories. But there is no such thing as a standard text of the Arabian Nights, and stories in the oral tradition have drifted in and out of the collection over the centuries. But, clearly the strongest links between the stories and sources are with the Odyssey and Sinbad's voyages, thus bringing about the linkage among Murphy, Sinbad, Odysseus, and Joyce's modern Odysseus, Leopold Bloom. These links appear in both Eumaeus and the rest of the book. Bloom the wanderer, the traveler, the Ulysses figure, produces for Stephen a postcard photo of his wife, a piece of advertising literature associated with the song "In Old Madrid," itself a source of Eastern enchantment for Bloom. With this ocular proof Bloom proceeds to document his own personal history, just as Murphy exhibits his Chilean postcard picture of savage women in striped loincloths to authenticate his own adventures. Like Odysseus, Murphy claims he has waiting at home a wife who has not seen her husband for seven years, just as Bloom's own Penelope waits less expectantly at home for his return. Murphy's stories, like Sinbad's stories and the masquerading Odysseus's stories, all suffer from a credibility gap in the ears of their listeners in this chapter full of half-truths, unexplained meanings, and fuzzy correspondences. Bloom too is a wanderer and in the passage that most clearly deals with his Sinbad side he discusses a Persian scene:

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Somewhere in the east: early morning set off at dawn, travel round in front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along a strand, strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches leaning on a long kind of a spear. Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Wander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well, meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques along the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches from her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark language. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl playing one of these instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. I pass. (57.1532) The affinity to Sinbad in this passage is more than merely the spirit of Eastern wandering. The allusion to Turko the Terrible is intimately linked with Sinbad, Murphy, and Bloom. The pantomime of Turko the Terrible was performed at the Gaiety Theatre first in 1873 and ran with great popularity during the closing decades of the nineteenth century, later evolving into another popular pantomime called Sinbad the Sailor, the first edition of which appeared in December 26, 1892. The pantomime, like Turko and like the Arabian Nights, was widely popular and returned year after year, revised with new material added and other sequences deleted. Because of the popularity of the earlier Turko, the character of King Turko was inserted in the Sinbad pantomime. Robert Adams has suggested that Joyce in Stephen's earlier reference to Turko the Terrible (10.2) really referred to the character Turko in the later Sinbad the Sailor, since Joyce had in his possession typed copies of the reviews from December 1892 to January 1893. 1 They are now in the Buffalo Joyce collection. Nevertheless, Turko and Sinbad were inextricably intertwined. In addition, Sinbad ran at the Gaiety Theatre, and the narrator's reference to Murphy as Sinbad contains an allusion to the Gaiety Theatre: "However, reverting to friend Sinbad and his horrifying adventures (who reminded him a bit of Ludwig, alias Ledwidge, when he occupied the boards of the Gaiety" (636.3133). The quotation continues with reference to the Flying Dutchman, which, like the Turko-Sinbad references, is also confused, because Wagner's opera and the musical by the same name, popular on the Dublin stage at the time, were often confused. Joyce is creating, of course, all through Eumaeus a

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pattern of obfuscation and confusion, but with enough hints to keep us sniffing after the scent. The point is that the reference to Sinbad links Bloom, both indirectly and directly, with the sailor. As Bloom drops off to sleep that night he has traveled with Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailor and Winbad the Whaler, and so on. Both Tinbad and Winbad were characters in the first edition of Sinbad the Sailor in 189293. So besides being fanciful, the passage ties in the pantomime with Sinbad, and the last answer in Ithaca is a reference to Sinbad's fifth voyagea voyage which, like the Oxen episode, involves eggs, fertility, and the new word. Incidental but interrelated to this investigation of Ulysses, Bloom's dream might turn out to be Finnegans Wake. Part of this seemingly outrageous assumption is based again on The Arabian Nights, in which there are two Sinbads, the Sinbad of the sea and Sinbad of the land. The Sinbad we have been discussing here is, of course, the first of this pair, who tells his story to another Sinbad. Sinbad the Sailor is a fabulously rich merchant prince, a man of adventure and enthusiasm, of courage and daring, while his landlocked counterpart is Sinbad the Porter, who is invited day after day to come and hear the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor and is given one hundred gold coins each day. They eventually spend their lives together in happy companionship. Now the porter Sinbad (what's in a name) is the mundane counterpart of the sailor. While the porter stays at home and profits mildly, his namesake engages in fabulous voyages, just as Porter keeps the mundane pub in Chapelizod while his counterpart, Here Comes Everybody (HCE), goes everywhere and does everything. Once we involve HCE and his multiple identities, the links among Sinbad, the Norwegian Captain, and the Ship's Husband expand the metaphor into a galaxy of associations, which comprise the subject matter as well as the method of Joyce's final ultimate blend of mundane and sublime, of the disparate and the similar into one gigantic monomyth. The point to be made here is that the principle of interconnectedness between people and things operates in Ulysses and even earlier in the Joyce canon. For purposes of our present discussion of Ulysses, however, it suffices to draw the conclusion that Porter and HCE may in fact be Sinbad the Porter and Sinbad the Sailor as combined in the rocks of Darkinbad the Brightdayler, the dreamer Leopold Bloom. Bruno Bettelheim in The Uses of Enchantment has drawn a Freudian inference between the two Sinbad figures. The porter Sinbad, a poverty-stricken merchant, is the superego, stay-at-home Penelope of the story,

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while the fabulous Sinbad, the rich merchant, engages in libidinous adventures, bringing fabulous wealth. The two Sinbads operate as alter egos in Finnegans Wake in precisely the same manner, just as the Sinbad figure of Murphy with his fabulous tales of adventure, his aggrandizing of the Phoenix Park murders, makes his alter ego, Bloom, more understandable and lovable in mundane everyday terms. Perhaps both are realized in Bloom's night dream. There is a touch of the superego even in Murphy, for Sinbad the Porter is carrying around men's clothing to sell, while Murphy's son works in a draper's shop and he himself wishes that he might stay home to be a "gentleman's valet at six quid a month" (630.40). If Murphy is the sailor Sinbad, and Bloom the porter, it is fitting that Bloom's last thoughts of Murphy deal with the ambiguity of his and Murphy's joint identity, and "the usual blarney about himself for as to who he in reality was let XX equal my right name and address, as Mr Algebra remarks passim. At the same time he inwardly chuckled over his repartee to the blood and ouns champion about his God being a jew" (658.1620). The reference to Bloom's encounter with the citizen in Cyclops corresponds to the activities of Sinbad's third voyage in The Arabian Nights, at the same time calling our attention to the commonality among the Cyclops scenes in the Odyssey, the Cyclops episode of Ulysses, and Sinbad's third voyage. Bloom's associative chuckle implies that he, at least subliminally, sees the parallels between Sinbad/Murphy and Ulysses/Bloom. If Murphy is Bloom, and father and son are one and the same in this trinitarian manifestation called Ulysses, it stands to reason that there might be some relation between Murphy and Stephen. John Henry Raleigh, in his pioneer essay "On the Way Home to Ithaca," has already speculated that Joyce and Stephen are also reflected in D. B. Murphy. One of Raleigh's principal proofs is the tattoo on Murphy's chest made by one Antonio in the form of a self-portrait of the artist, 2 not unlike Stephen Dedalus's portrait in Portrait, or James Joyce-Shem writing with his own excrement his own life on his skin. I have a footnote to add to Raleigh's portrait of the portrait of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: that involves the song that Murphy is inspired to sing by the mention of Antonio's name and his own perhaps narcissistic or unconventional love for the young artist. The song is one we heard echoed from Hades, "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" or "Oh, Oh, Antonio." The first time Bloom hears this song in Hades, it is being played on a street organ. It occurs as Bloom thinks of his father's suicide and in

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the midst of a series of references to fathers and sons, particularly Simon and Stephen, Bloom and his father, and Bloom and Rudy. Now we hear D. B. Murphy's gravelly voice growling out part of the chorus, "As bad as old Antonio / For he left me on my ownio" (32.1011). The song has three different versions, "Oh, Oh, Antonio," "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" and "Kelly from the Isle of Man." It is the same music with the same chorus. The composer kept altering the words, but they all fit the tune. And "Who was the composer?'' you might askC. W. Murphy, the artist making up the work of art about his namesake Antonio, who was drawing a work of art on the chest of his maker, D. B. Murphy, the Shem-Shawn-Stephen Dedalus figure and mirror image of James Joyce himself, both as Sinbad the PorterLeopold Bloom, with his life of domestic scratching and meager subsistence in Dublinand Sinbad the SailorUlysses' Odysseus, D. B. Murphythe voyager of fabulous wealth and dreams, the Here Comes Everybody-Finnegan, the counterpart to the dreaming porter, every man's journeyer. If sources, themes, characters are all interconnected, and if the process of transformation establishes those connections in an imitation of human existence, it stands to reason that the self-conscious artist, in presenting the transformation process in his art form, will also seek to explain how his work is in itself a part of the subject matter. No one will deny the unity inherent in Joyce's four major fictional works, but their commonality of purpose, lest it be lost to the reader, is set forth in the conclusion to each work. These endings each take the form of a recorso, which in part recapitulates major themes, often with specific scenes or allusions from the rest of the book, putting those into a new perspective, to blend the old or what has already been said with the future. In Portrait the diary entries provide just such a recorso. In Joyce's first two books, Dubliners and Portrait, the perspectives are those of two men, Gabriel Conroy and Stephen Dedalus, while in Joyce's last two works, Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, the perspective is feminine. The second hypothesis I would like to propose is an extension of the recorso theory: while at the end of Finnegans Wake the perspective is Anna Livia's, the narrator also takes on overtones of an androgynous figure, both male and female, as the final passages bring together not only the novel they conclude, but all of Joyce's fiction in a recorso that is both recapitulatory of Joyce's earlier works and a conclusion to his last great novel. Because it has the least obvious recorso pattern, the conclusion of Portrait

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is an interesting example. The five and a half pages of the diary, which cover five and a half weeks of Stephen's young life, begin with immediate links to the previous scene and at the same time put the diary in a considerably different perspective from the scene we have just read, belying either the diary view, or the previous account of Stephen's conversation with Cranly. Like the situation in the beginning of the novel, Stephen is initially concerned in the diary entries with fathers and mothers, with beards, with uncertainty about parental age, and with references to beds. These are followed by recapitulatory allusions to John the Baptist, the precursor of Christ, to the BVM, and to St. Stephen's Green (reminiscent of the novel's opening, not only because of the color, but also because it is associated with St. Stephen the martyr). The diary entries continue through a dream vision (taken from Joyce's own epiphanies) of a long curving gallery "peopled by the images of fabulous kings," reminiscent of the Jesuit founders whose portraits hung on the halls leading to Father Conmee's study. The crocodile entry of March 30 becomes the muck of Ireland in which Stephen is reared, suggesting Stephen's disgust with Stradbrook, "with its foul green puddles in clots of liquid dung and steaming brantroughs," and his own eventual self-conceived role as a Moses figure leading Ireland out of her bondage. Throughout the whole of the diary pages there runs the contemporary vision of E. C., which succeeds the discussions of Stephen's mother and later blends with her just as they are combined in the composite female image throughout Portrait. In this respect, the first entry of April 6 forms a structural crux of the diary section, just as the end of chapter 4 forms a climax to the novel as a whole. Certainly she remembers the past. Lynch says all women do. Then she remembers the time of her childhoodand mine if I was ever a child. The past is consumed in the present and the present is living only because it brings forth the future. Statues of women, if Lynch be right, should always be fully draped, one hand of the woman feeling regretfully her own hinder parts. (251) Thus, women represent the heritage of the past and the pregnant promise of the future. Stephen's life and work will be linked to a composite female image, "as a type of her race and his own, a batlike soul waking to the consciousness of itself in darkness and secrecy and loneliness and, through the eyes and voice and gesture of a woman without guile, calling the stranger to her bed" (183). Thus they are the temptresses of his future and the symbols of his past. In a second diary entry later on April 6, Stephen alludes to Yeats's poem "Michael Robartes Remembers Forgotten Beauty," "when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the

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loveliness which has long faded from the world" (251). Unlike Yeats, Stephen will not let the feminine temptress lure him back into the past and Ireland's history: "Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world" (251). It will not be as a spokesman for Ireland or his heritage but as the creator of a new beauty that Stephen will emerge. The nationalistic speculation leads us into John Alphonsus Mulrennan's account of a conversation with the quintessential old Irishman and Stephen's attempt to come to terms with his heritage. This will be examined in more detail presently. The entry is followed by another meeting with E. C., in which for the first time Stephen sees her not as a symbolic Dantesque inspiration figure but as a real person, one to be liked rather than worshipped. It is a dangerous diversion into reality, and Stephen restrains himself, preferring kinship with both past and future in the company of Dedalean figures, resplendent with bird imagery and Irish exiles, those "wild geese (who) spread the grey wing upon every tide." In the entry of April 16, when "the spell of arms and voices" assails Stephen, "They are held out to say: We are alone. Come" (252). The statement recalls two triumphful scenes, the first when Stephen has triumphed over Father Dolan and is in the Clongowes yard: "He was alone. He was happy and free" (59), and the second, at the beginning of the climactic scene on the beach concluding chapter 4: "He was alone. He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted'' (171). Now in Stephen's diary, the voices bid him to take off on another Dedalean excursion like the one that concluded chapter 4: "Come. And the voices say with them: We are your kinsmen. And the air is thick with their company as they call to me, their kinsman, making ready to go, shaking the wings of their exultant and terrible youth" (252). So the dramatic climax of the book and the call to the future are recapitulated now near the end of the diary entries, before returning, recorsolike, in this cycle within cycles, to Stephen's mother in the entry of April 26: Mother is putting my new secondhand clothes in order. She prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. (25253) Like the recorso, the last entry returns from mother to son, from past to present, from the beginning of the book to the end, concluding with the

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diary entry of April 27: "Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead" (253). It is easy to see, as countless critics have, how "The Dead" fits the recorso pattern. References, both direct and indirect, to the rest of Dubliners appear in the concluding story. Some are obvious, like the relationship of the coin given by Gabriel to Lily, the Morkans' slavey, and the coin taken from the slavey in "Two Gallants." The general themes of paralysis, death, simony and the like are all there, represented in other circumstances. But it is Gretta's memory of the past and the dead Furey that brings life to the conclusion of the story and the collection. While women's voices prevail in the conclusions of only the later two novels, both Gabriel's and Stephen's closing lines are strongly influenced by the women that are prominent in their minds. Gabrielthe artist, the writerinfluenced by his wife's memories of an early love, broadens his vision into the Christlike sacrifice of a young singer whose song inspires a Christian vision of the intermingling of life and death. The white snow falls, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. In this encomium to universal unity, Gabriel's loathing for his country and its citizens is combined with Furey's loneliness, as he longs to slip away to the continent but is overtaken by the overpowering vision of the West and death. The same things conclude the diary entries of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: John Alphonsus Mulrennan has just returned from the west of Ireland. (European and Asiatic papers please copy.) He told us he met an old man there in a mountain cabin. Old man had red eyes and short pipe. Old man spoke Irish. Mulrennan spoke Irish. Then old man and Mulrennan spoke English. Mulrennan spoke to him about universe and stars. Old man sat, listened, smoked, spat. Then said: Ah, there must be terrible queer creatures at the latter end of the world. I fear him. I fear his redrimmed horny eyes. It is with him I must struggle all through this night till day come, till he or I lie dead, gripping him by the sinewy throat till ... Till what? Till he yield to me? No. I mean him no harm. (25152)

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The old man is not only Irish; he is a symbol of death. The parenthesis following the beginning of the first sentence of this April 14 diary entry, "(European and Asiatic papers please copy)," was a traditional exhortation following obituary notices in the Irish papers. Mulrennan has not only come from the west of Ireland, the country's source, like Furey he has also come back from the dead. Stephen will wrestle through the night with the old man, whose name he does not know, a representative of the peasant roots of Ireland, or, as Mary Reynolds put it in her Yale lecture, "Joyce, Yeats and the Irish Renaissance," a symbol of Ireland, which was to give Stephen the subject matter of his art, a new life, a forward look at the same time it represented the past and death. Compare the concluding lines from Dubliners and Portrait above to others in the conclusion of Finnegans Wake: But I'm loothing them that's here and all I lothe. Loonely in me loneness. For all their faults I am passing out. O bitter ending! I'll slip away before they're up. They'll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me. And it's old and old it's sad and old it's sad and weary I go back to you, my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the near sight of the mere size of him, the moyles and moyles of it, moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only, into your arms. I see them rising! Save me from those therrble prongs! Two more. Onetwo moremens more. (62728) The passage combines Stephen and Gabriel's loathing, loneliness, and escape; father images (Stephen's feary father, Mulrennan's old man, and Furey's Christ-like association with the spears of the little gate and the barren thorns, not unlike ALP's beseeching the father to save her from the rising (both phallic and resurrectional) and to save her from those "therrble prongs!" She further beseeches her father, "Yes. Carry me along, taddy, like you done through the toy fair! If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he'd come from Arkangels, I sink I'd die down over his fest, humbly dumbly, only to washup" (628). The passage of "whitespread wings" links the Arkangels Michael and Gabriel, Furey's snow, Stephen's conclusion "Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead,'' and Molly's last lines, "and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes" (Ulysses, 783) in one great Leda and the Swan image. In Dubliners we have the falling snow, in Portrait the plunging Icarus, and

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in Ulysses Molly's descent into coital embrace. Indeed the leaves of Joyce's earlier works are not unlike Anna's leaves: "My leaves have drifted from me. All. But one clings still. I'll bear it on me. To remind me of" (Wake, 628). The parallels among the endings go on and on: The conclusion of Molly's soliloquy and Anna Livia's rush into her father's arms, the blend of Bloom and Mulvey into an indistinguishable everyman figure, the merging of characters and motivations, and the father's and son's searches are all too apparent. The conclusion of Portrait has an equally compelling resemblance to the Wake recorso. Like Anna, mother and father are blended in a past, full of future. Like Christ, Stephen's father is essential, inspirational and spiritual, the holy ghost, while like Christ's own mother, May Dedalus is real and temporal. If the old father, the sea, at the end of Finnegans Wake provides a way, alone, for the artist, a last ending to his travels, a loved vision as it flows along, it also provides a new beginning to the endless cycle. The recorso of the Wake is a recapitulation not only of the novel, but of all Joyce's works, just as the Wake itself is both new and recapitulatory, a new direction to the old, which will ever flow in the minds and hearts of Joyce readers, just as the Portrait has circled back on itself and flowed into the great androgynous amorphous mass of the cold mad Furey father, Ulysses the Finn again. Thus is Joyce's modern answer to the age-old problem of man's identity in relation to the rest of the universe. If the answers of the past were ultimately different, Joyce has subsumed them into his equation. His particular formations of the mundane and the extraordinary, the dross and the gold are the substance of his artenormous as human experience, microscopic as the seedcake on Howth. Making the modern world on one day in Dublin into a paradigm of all of everything is Joyce's unique gift, the source of his modernity, and the greatness of his art.

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6 And the Music Goes round and round: A Couple of New Approaches to Joyce's Uses of Music in Ulysses Musical scholars continue to seek out additional song references, operatic motifs, and musical parallels to the structure of individual episodes and scenes from Joyce's great Bloomusalem in song. Just when we think we've located them all, more come along, with new methods of interpretation, new applications of fugal structure, new references to popular songs long forgotten. But while the identification of songs and motifs is important, it does not tell the whole story of Joyce's genius in interweaving music into the text of his fabulous voyage. I would like to consider in this paper two examples of ways Joyce used music differently from any other writer before or since, ways which, unless the reader were a professional singer familiar with the history of music theory, would normally escape comment or seem to be of little special significance. I deliberately chose the first example from the Sirens episode, and the second from Circe. Sirens is transitional from the earlier, realistic section of the novel to the book's latter half, with its concentration on language and linguistic variation. Circe, while squarely in the second category, is largely recapitulatory, seeking new ways to represent motifs already established in the novel. It draws much of its material from earlier episodes, but transforms and transmutes earlier situations and language, combining

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seemingly disparate characters and events into interchangeable, if amorphous, new entities. For the first example, try to put yourself into the position of aging singers, whose professional performances have largely evolved into amusements for drinking buddiessingers who no longer practice continually in preparation for concerts, operas, or oratorios, but who maintain a repertoire of old favorites, accompanying themselves on the piano when there is no professional accompanist at hand, and in the process generally seeking to entertain rather than impress their friends. On occasion they may be capable of the glories their voices could once command, but they don't want to take too many risks to prove that they can still do it. Mix into your scenario an old musical purist like Father Cowley, who knows how the music should be performed and what the singers were once capable of vocally accomplishing. The result is so realistic it hurts. Simon Dedalus, Ben Dollard, and Father Cowley are performing on a stage in the back of the Ormond bar while Bloom sits eating liver and bacon in an adjoining room. Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding chords: When love absorbs my ardent soul ... Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roof-panes. War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior. So I am, Ben Warrior laughed.... Sure, you'd burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said through the smoke aroma, with an organ like yours. In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would. Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time, Ben. Amoroso ma non troppo. Let me there. (270) In reading the passage one might think that Dollard merely belts out every song he sings, but as we learn later, that is certainly not the case in his rendition of "The Croppy Boy," when his tender and modulated tones nearly bring his audience to tears. What Joyce does not say is that the song Ben is singing is a duet for tenor and bass. The tenor line, "When love absorbs my ardent soul," is a fourth higher than its counterpart melody, "When War absorbs my ardent soul,'' sung by the bass. Father Cowley, correcting Ben, cries "War! War! You're the Warrior." But that still doesn't explain why Dollard was singing so loudly. Joyce, an

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experienced singer, knew that when basses are called upon to sing in their top register, in this case up to a high G, they often are able to sing the higher notes only by increasing their volume. Cowley, who has been dying to play, takes Ben's seat at the piano, either to transpose the key downward so that Ben can sing the lover-tenor part in a normal voice, or to continue the accompaniment as Dollard starts to sing the bass part. But a transposition of key, if Dollard were singing the bass solo line, would take him down to a low E. We don't know whether Dollard in fact switched to the bass line, because the words "when (love or war) absorbs" are replaced by an ellipsis in the text. But the supposition is that he was singing the warrior's (bass) part because the music stopped so abruptly, presumably at the place where the bass and the tenor join and the bass is forced to sing harmony to the tenor melody line. Had Ben been singing the tenor line he could have finished the song. Bloom, who is sitting in the next room, can tell by the touch on the keys that Cowley is playing and is surprised by the abrupt cessation of the music. Ben, corrected by Cowley, is forced to give up both piano stool and musical choice to his ungrateful but accurate accompanist, as Cowley resumes playing another unnamed song, and presumably asks Simon Dedalus, a tenor, for a rendition of "M'appari." It is only natural that Ben Dollard, the bass, whose belongings in tight trousers underscore his manliness, should be a little chagrined at having to yield the stage to his tenor counterpart, Simon. While Joyce doesn't explicitly say this, Dollard's growl, "Go on blast you. Get it out in bits," assumes what Joyce as a singer and performer well knew, the perennial sensitivity and even occasional jealousy among singers who on the surface seem the closest of friends. Simon, however, is not the professional musician that Dollard is, despite a tenor voice that we will learn is capable of genuine brilliance. Cowley, the musician, wants to hear "M'appari" in Italian, but Simon will sing it in English. Cowley momentarily abandons the piano stool to sing a brief version of "M'appari'' to a girl painted on a seascape that hangs behind the stage. Then Simon, a bit reluctantly and apologetically, looks to Dollard, who has been offended and slightly miffed, for approbation, and when Dollard's mood changes Simon sits down at the piano. 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. (271)

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It is a Joycean irony that while Dedalus earlier sounded the tuning fork to check the piano's pitch, he now sits down to play the song, not in F major, the original key, but transposed, probably down to D. In other words, he does not have the requisite confidence that he will be able to hit the high B flat called for at the end of the song, and so wants to transpose the song downward a minor third. He has evidently been taking it easy on himself for a number of years, because he seems to remember how to play the song only in the lower key, and when Cowley, who has already ruined Dollard's performance, insists that Simon play it in the original key, Simon has forgotten how. No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat. The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused. (27172) The confession of the errant keys is that Simon would have been happy to settle for a less than brilliant performance in the habitually lower key of recent past performances, but the old musical pedant and perfectionist, Father Cowley, will not let him get away with it. "Here, Simon. I'll accompany you, he said. Get up" (272). And so Simon renders a magnificent performance of "M'appari," an aria that relates Lionel's plight over his lost love to Bloom's four o'clock cuckoldry predicament. It is ''Heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the least" (274), who at the end of the song becomes Siopold, a combination of Simon, Lionel, and Leopold. Thus does Joyce take trivial realistic musical details and weave them into a delicate but exceptionally realistic drama of musical performance and musicians' sensibilities. The second example, like Circe itself, is both transformative and recapitulatory, as well as considerably more complicated. Instead of simple song references, Joyce uses harmonics, Greek modes, and musicology as well as direct references to several musical works to develop what is perhaps the primary motif of the entire novel: the transformation process, with its attendant variations on language, characters, and themes. When Bloom, still in front of Bella Cohen's, hears Stephen playing Benedetto Marcello's psalms on the piano inside, he makes the same shrewd sort of guess he did when he identified Father Cowley by his touch earlier in the Ormond. "A man's touch. Sad music. Church music. Perhaps here" (475). Zoe, who greets him on the street, is identified as Jewish by singing "I am black yet comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem" from

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"The Song of Songs." Her suspect Semitic origins are not so much at issue here as the ancient Jewish chant. Marcello (16861739) set the psalms to melodies patterned after ancient Hebrew musical settings for the poetry, acting on the assumption that these compositions were closest to the tonal patterns of the Greeks. This brings us around to harmonics and Greek modes based on the mathematical relations of string vibrations, or nodes. It is pointless to recapitulate here Edmund Epstein's brilliant explication of Stephen's speech about the hyperphrygian and mixolydian modes, 1 except to say that Marcello transformed the Greeks' musical worship of Demeter and Ceres, through an emulation of Jewish religious music, into Roman Catholic ecclesiasticism. This is what Stephen means when he refers to "texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about his almightiness" (504). As Tindall pointed out so many years ago,2 we are led to the observation that all religions, characters, and situations converge. "Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet" (504). As Epstein points out, Stephen's subsequent observations on musical intervals and the relation of dominant to tonic in terms of their reconciliation in the octave form a harmonic analogy to the diverse religious music sources of Marcello's composition, and set the stage for the commonality between Stephen and Bloom. When Stephen turns and sees Bloom, whom we have earlier in Cyclops seen as a Christ figure, Bloom's entrance is associated with the Antichrist; and his fundamental unity with Stephen, whose Christlike and Satanic credentials have already been verified, is established. Epstein and I have long shared Tindall's theory of the commonality of characters in Ulysses. There is still another melody to be played at the transformative concert, however. It concerns the idea of the messianic-prophetic figure who will lead the Irish people out of their bondage. Stephen has seen himself in that light ever since the concluding passages of Portrait, and Bloom has been cast into the role of prophet-messiah repeatedly in earlier episodes. In Circe, however, hints become concrete images, as Bloom's messianic turn comes. The conversation between Bloom and Zoe on Bella's doorstep, in which Semitism has played a considerable role, gives way to Bloom's utopian visions of himself as politician-soldier-statesman-savior of Ireland, who promises "the new Bloomusalem in the Nova Hibernia of the future" (484). Just as Stephen later tries to apply musical composition to the problem of interchangeable identities, an appropriate musical accompani-

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ment is heard blending harmonics with a song about transformation. The following speeches about harmonics act as a unifying agent for both Marcello's blend of religions and the interchangeability of Bloom and Stephen as messiah figures: STEPHEN Here's another for you. (He frowns.) The reason is because the fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible interval which ... THE CAP Which? Finish. You can't. STEPHEN (With an effort) Interval which. Is the greatest possible ellipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return. The octave. Which. THE CAP Which? (Outside the gramophone begins to blare The Holy City.) (504) Thus to harmonic transformations Joyce adds the transformational message of the song popularly known as "Jerusalem" because of the name reiterated so often in the chorus. Bloom's "new Bloomusalem" is a Joycean distortion of the refrain of the song, which only now appears. We have not heard the last strains of this particular melody, and neither has Stephen, who, caught up in delineating the very thesis of interchangeability or consubstantiality or transformation, calls the musical theme that embodies his concept a "noise in the street": STEPHEN (Abruptly.) What went forth to the ends of the world to traverse not itself. God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself, becomes that self. Wait a moment. Wait a second. Damn that fellow's noise in the street. Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Ecco! Bloom enters to the triumphal strains of the refrain of "The Holy City." THE GRAMOPHONE Jerusalem! Open your gates and sing Hosanna.... (507) The meaning of the song's text was long since discussed in my musical allusions book. 3 For our purposes here, however, it should be noted that

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the song is about a twofold transformation of the city as it transpires in the dream of the singer. In the first dream vision, the city is alive with the voices of children and antiphonal angels singing "Jerusalem," etc. The scene shifts and the voices are quieted in the darkened city under the shadow of a cross. The third stanza envisions a regenerated egalitarian Jerusalem where all might enter, the prototype of Bloom's new Bloomusalem. If Stephen fails to grasp the significance of the music with its transformational utopia, Joyce is not about to let the reader do the same thing. The next voice we hear is that of (Ben Bloom) Elijah, identified at the conclusion of the Cyclops episode, and transformed during the course of his Circe speech into A. J. Christ Dowie, whose ringing message concluded the Oxen of the Sun chapter. Ben Bloom Elijah A. J. Christ Dowie's inspirational message is that the entire company are consubstantial or interchangeable with the Son of God himself: ELIJAH Just one word more. Are you a god or a doggone clod? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it's up to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersol. Are you all in this vibration? (508) Dowie does not let us forget that the entire metamorphosis is essentially musical in nature: It vibrates. I know and I am some vibrator. Joking apart and getting down to bedrock, A. J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that? ... Now then our glory song. All join heartily in the singing. Encore! (He sings.) Jeru ... THE GRAMOPHONE (Drowning his voice.) Whorusalaminyourhighhohhh. (508) If the characters are interchangeable with God, they also inhabit the bodies and abodes of whores. The first last and the last first, according to the classless society of the new Jerusalem. One final word. If Dowie's pronouncement is definitive here, it is no wonder that Joyce uses him to conclude the coda to Oxen. The narrative parodies are fairly chronological throughout the episode, but when we

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come to the concluding pages, most often described by critics as a modern polyglot, it is Dowie who restores understandability to the conclusion in the verbiage of an evangelical cough mixture salesman. Now we know that the elixir is the harmonial philosophy; and it's got a punch in it for you, my friend. Just you try it on!

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7 Music and Ritual in Ulysses Long before the beginning of recorded religious worship, music played a major role in nearly all ceremonial rites. Omnipotent powers were traditionally invoked through sound as well as action, and incantation and musical drama figured heavily into nearly every ceremony. As time went on, music and its metric counterpart in spoken chant became so identified with tradition that they assumed the property of ritual itself, so that certain works of music incorporated the whole ceremony. For example, chants or choruses evolved from mere response to spoken words, increasingly chanted themselves, to become the entirety of the rite. High masses were conducted entirely in music. What began as religious invocation was metrically and musically enhanced to give it additional dignity. This dignity accorded to music assumed a life of its own, and music became a principal vehicle of worship. At best, however, music used in this manner was always in a sense a profanation, a contrivance of humanity to enhance their already imperfect path to bravery or omnipotent truth. In attempting to approach this truth, priests turned to an art form that they conceived of as more closely emulating the perfection they were trying to express than spoken words could hope to offer. The bonus factor was that music has always had the power to arouse emotion, and the emotion produced by religious music and incantation proved more potent than any vehicle of reason arising from common discourse. Often music was accorded the property of having been divinely inspired, the words, the tune having come directly from the deity. Writers from

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Chaucer to Huxley have had a satiric field day with the excesses that have arisen from such claims. For instance, Sprandell in Point Counter Point kills himself after having been convinced that the perfection of Beethoven's AMinor Quartet represents some ultimate good, which proves the existence of evil and allows him to die triumphant. The dubious validity of attaching spiritual importance to a ritual by musical means, or, more blatantly, creating a musical ritual, was recognized by Joyce in Ulysses, where characters attempt to accord their bibulous activities a certain ritual dignity by invoking religion, patriotism, and love, and enhancing the whole lot musically. Here the characters are themselves following the patterns of tradition. Like religion, war and its counterpart, patriotism, draw upon music for dignity and enhanced emotion, from the drums, bugles, and pipes of the army going into battle, to the songs that swell the nationalistic hearts of those at home. When patriotic feelings are artificially aroused through musical tactics, the wedding of slaughter and music have an ultimately manipulative origin, not unlike the religion-music combination. We are trained to march rather than shuffle off to battle. The battles of Ulysses are barroom and bedroom oriented, with the occasional skirmish in the street. In terms of selecting an ideal national hero, cuckoldry and drunken pontificating or brawling are hardly the stuff of inspiration. But Joyce chose Odysseus as his prototypical hero, an adulterer fearful of cuckoldry, a reluctant draftee, and a man interested almost entirely in his own well-being and possessions, who used the worship of a ritual idol to dupe the credulous Trojans, and who defied the gods whenever he thought he could get away with it. The background to the modern day Odysseus's wanderings is a city with a cast of characters who have gone far beyond musically desacralizing ritual. Traditional institutions and rites are almost always undercut in the novel, and their modern day replacements bear the brunt of even harsher satire. While the Acheans used the ritual hecatomb as an excuse for a good meal and party, their consumption was the result of piety, not its cause. In Ulysses drinking is the end of the ritual, patriotism and war the excuse, and music the ritualizing device that rationalizes and adds the requisite piety and dignity to the whole occasion, just as it did with religious worship over the course of history. The sacrificial wine and wafer have merely been replaced by g.p.'s and sardines. There is insufficient space here to dwell at length on the role of music in the novel's depiction of traditional religious ritual per se, except to

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describe briefly how Joyce habitually uses Protestant music, nursery rhymes, bawdy ballads, and nonsense songs as an undercutting backdrop to the two ecclesiastical rites Bloom attends and desacralizes in All Hallows and in the cemetery chapel. In contrast to its usual ritual-enhancing value, Bloom consciously uses music to degrade formal worship on these occasions. Holy Communion prompts his reference to a couple of mealtime nursery rhymes: The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. (5.34850) Bloom is thinking of course of "Open your mouth / And close your eyes / And I'll give you something / To make you wise." However, his next reflections are a bit more convoluted: Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokeypokey penny a lump. (5.35962) Bloom's last line refers to a nursery rhyme called the "King of the Cannibal Islands." Hokey, pokey, whisky thum, How d'you like potatoes done? Boiled in whiskey, boiled in rum Says the King of the Cannibal Islands. The cannibalistic aspects of the Eucharist are referred to again by Bloom on the next page. While his interpretation of the rite is not far off the mark anthropologically, the idea coupled with the nursery rhymes trivializes the concept and transforms the worshipers into children. When Bloom spies a parishioner asleep near the confessional, his thoughts travel to a Protestant hymn, "Safe in the Arms of Jesus." Blind faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year. (5.36768) The Protestant hymn paints a typically sentimental picture in its own profanation of Catholic ritual: Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on his gentle breast, There by his gentle love o'er shaded Sweetly my soul shall rest.

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Sacred somnolence to the unbeliever's eye can take on highly satiric connotations. Finally in a gratuitous indignity, Bloom, watching the priest's lace garment, speculates on a bawdy ballad: Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what to do. (5.37172) Admittedly the song lyrics "O Mary Lost the Pin of Her Drawers. / She didn't know what to do to keep it up," have been in Bloom's mind since he got Martha's letter with the pin in it, but its use here is to deflower both priest and ritual. Again in the cemetery chapel Bloom debunks both priest and ritual via nursery rhymes: A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through a door. The whitesmocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly. Who'll read the book? I, said the rook. (6.58992) In verse 5 of the rhyme the Rook volunteers to perform the priestly duties: Who'll be the parson? I, said the Rook, With my bell and book I'll be the parson. Thus Bloom, whom we are eventually invited to compare with Christ, becomes the great desacralizer, ironically undercutting religious symbolism with music, the device traditionally employed to enhance ritual. The other aspect of music addressed earlier is its utility in augmenting or creating ritual from the profane, notably to draw upon love, war, and their combination in patriotism to give dignity to the boozy libations of their alcoholic celebrants. Bloom himself foreshadows this musical motif: Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power, Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp that once did starve us all. (8.60307) Bob Doran, the memory of whose drunken figure prompts the passage, is following the ritual Irish trek from innocence to alcoholism. Mixed with thoughts of Pat Kinsella's Harp Theatre, a favorite watering hole becomes in Bloom's mind the alcoholic grave of the celebrants. The pun

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on the name of the theatre and the Thomas Moore song of the lost grandeur of Ireland in the last line of the above passage turns drunkenness into a national tragedy. At the Harp Theatre, where music became drinking ritual, the music of Irish patriotism died: The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled, So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. The modern day ritual perversion of patriotic music to the ends of debauch in places like Kinsella's Harp prompts Bloom's modification of the lyrics to "The harp that once did starve us all." The two major barroom scenes, in Cyclops and Sirens, counterpoint the two ecclesiastical scenes in All Hallows and the cemetery chapel. The citizen serves as high priest of tippling in the latter scene, a role recognized immediately by the barfly narrator: There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his load of papers, working for the cause. (12.12223) The musical allusion to "The Cruiskeen Lawn" deals with a traditional Scotch-Irish song, translated literally, "my full little jug." The metaphor works because the citizen's cause is getting someone to buy him a drink. What follows is certainly one of the most ritualized invocations ever depicted in literature: Stand and deliver, says he. That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here. Pass, friends, says he. Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he: What's your opinion of the times? Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to the occasion. I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down his fork. So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says: Foreign wars is the cause of it. And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:

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It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. I've a thirst on me I wouldn't sell for half a crown. Give it a name, citizen, says Joe. Wine of the country, says he. What's yours? says Joe. Ditto MacAnaspey, says I. Three pints, Terry, says Joe. (12.12947) The barfly, miffed that Joe, evidently the only one with money, is holding off buying a round by prolonging the introductory conversation, admonishes his potential benefactor for not sticking to the ritual rules: drinks first, conversation later. That it will be patriotic conversation is signalled musically with the reference to ''The Irish Rapparee" and "Rory of the Hill," since both the first song and the citizen have a carping nationalistic quality about them and the second song celebrates a national hero, famous for harassing landlords, evictors, and the tenants who paid them. Having begun the ritual, it is not long before the citizen leads his followers around to a Talmudic diatribe on Irish history and patriotism, beginning with a brief musical overture: So of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word and he starts gassing out of him about the invincibles and the old guard and the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight. (12.47981) The last clause refers to the first line of "The Memory of the Dead," a song of which all great Irish drinker-heroes are fond because it embodies the ritual of fierce alcoholic patriotism: Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight? Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave, or half a slave, Who slights his country thus; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us. According to the song, it is unpatriotic not to drink, so when the citizen begins his long harangue, it will be in the company of like-minded drinkers. Bloom unknowingly violates ritual in two ways: first by accepting a cigar instead of a drink, thus proving himself no "true man," and second

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by not buying at least the obligatory round or two after a false report of his winning big on Throwaway. Bloom's problems begin and end with his Semitism, but are aggravated by the fact that he knows as little about the secular booze-patriotism ceremonies as he did about the Roman Catholic rituals in Lotus Eaters. The mistakes and the comic tone of the dual narration mitigate the viciousness of the emotion engendered in such frustrating, highly charged circumstances. Grandiose platitudes become comic when carried to their ceremonial extremes, and often musical allusions are used to further the process. The seastones dangling from the mythic citizen's belt, for instance, include a dozen names from song titles. When the citizen, fed up with Bloom's out of place sweet reasonableness, finally invokes ritual incantation, it is to the words of Thomas Moore's song of fallen Ireland: Sinn Fein! says the citizen. Sinn fein amhain! The friends we love are by our side and the foes we hate before us. The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far and near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the gloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums punctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance.... Considerable amusement was caused by the favourite street singers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang The Night before Larry was Stretched in their usual mirthprovoking fashion. (12.52328, 54143) The description of the execution turns decidedly toward mirth with the reference to "The Night Before Larry Was Stretched." The song is a curious mixture of pathos, ribaldry, and grisly realism. It was intended to be funny, but at the same time in its description of the last violent jerks of the hanged man its gallows humor fits both the comic and sinister aspects of the scene at Kiernan's. The episode ends happily enough with Bloom's miraculous escape, but the invocation of all the biblical imagery at the end doesn't completely dispel our distaste for the barroom secular rituals of contemporary Ireland. Sirens is of course the high mass of musically inspired drinking ritual. Presided over by two priests, Simon Dedalus and Ben Dollard, who sing of love, war, and patriotism respectively, its sentimentality includes all three subjects in one final comic musical climax, punctuated by Bloom's wind instrument. Simon and his friends will take the Ormond stage at four o'clock, the most emotion-laden hour of Bloom's day, so that their

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love songs will produce enhanced pathos, only to be cheapened by the sentimentality of amorous sacrifice transferred to patriotic and finally to religious sacrifice. There is only so much sentiment to be tolerated by readers bombarded for thirty-five pages by the romantic musical losses of sweethearts and martyrs, and so the episode inevitably turns comic. If Simon touches Bloom with his version of Lionel's cry for his lost love in "M'appari," Bloom becomes much more cynical toward the croppy boy's suffering during Dollard's ballad of youthful martyrdom, and resolves to "Get out before the end," the same way he exited All Hallows to beat the collection plate. The alcoholic connotations of the musical ritual of Sirens are considerably more muted than they will be in the company of lower-class brawlers at Barney Kiernan's. One difference is that while a body of musical reference is involved in Cyclops, here the music is performed as well as alluded to. The citizen merely pronounces a catechism enhanced by music allusion, while the musical litany of emotion is performed in Sirens. This is not meant to imply that Simon and company do not like their booze, or that the afternoon will not become increasingly patriotic as the drinking continues. Rather, beginning with such love songs as "When the Bloom is on the Rye," "The Shade of the Palm," "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye," and ''M'appari," the chapter undergoes a gradual metamorphosis into the melodies of war. These begin with the triumphal arrival of Boylan to the martial strains "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and proceed through the transitional duet, "Love and War," to the pathos of the sacrificial croppy boy, whose only serious crime was loving his country above his king. The music degenerates into the patriotic nostalgia we are to hear later in Cyclops, and finally into the last words of Christ, intoned to the text of Robert Emmet's gallows statement and accompanied by Bloom's fortissimo flatulence. The conclusion of the Sirens ritual is much the same as it is in Cyclops: True men like you men. Ay, ay, Ben. Will lift your glass with us. They lifted. Tschink. Tschunk. (11.127680) But again Bloom puts his own variation and final commentary on the chapter and its ceremonies, when he discovers Emmet's last words in Lionel Marks's window, sets them to the tune of Mercadante's profanation

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of Christ's death, and waits for the tram noise to crescendo before adding his own final blast of self-generated hot air to the performance. Throughout the novel Joyce uses Bloom as the agent of desacralization, not only to debunk the quixotic motifs of his would-be son, but to explode the mythologies and rituals of Joyce's fellow countrymen. Where they have used music to heighten as well as create ritual, Bloom has come along to explode literally as well as figuratively the profanation of tradition for ignoble purpose. And the demythologizing process is accomplished largely through the same means used to create it, notably music. As readers we can examine the debris in full knowledge of its sentimental pretenses, and yet be mightily moved despite ourselves. Is it genius or schlock? I'm not sure there's a great deal of difference.

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8 Music as Comedy in Ulysses Although critics have pointed to numerous musical allusions in Ulysses, the extent to which these allusions advance the novel's comic impulse has not received much attention. 1 This essay will develop the connection between the musical allusions in Ulysses and the comedic spirit that informs the book. I have belabored the point elsewhere that Ulysses is predominantly a comic novel.2 When one considers that among the myriad allusions to music most have comic overtones, the idea of characterizing the novel as a musical comedy is not so far-fetched as it seems. Even the funeral dirge, "The Pauper's Drive," repeated a number of times on the way to Glasnevin, is alluded to in counterpoint to the jostling of the fast-paced carriage as it proceeds at a near gallop toward the cemetery, and to the street organ sending after the carriage "a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy," to which Bloom adds, "Dead March from Saul," while the street organ continues with the music hall song, ''He's as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio" (6.37375). The effect of mixing the two dirges with a comic song, in the context of Bloom's satirical mind, is ultimately laughable. An absent, perhaps dead Kelly, the dead pauper, the funeral march from Saul, even Bloom's father's suicide generate a grim atmosphere that is mitigated by the comic effect of the music surrounding the scene. In this essay I discuss three variations on Joyce's combination of music and comedy: the entire novel as an example of musical comedy; the Sirens episode as another variation on the musical comedy form; and Circe as a particular model of musical comedythe post-Christmas music hall

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pantomime. These three comedic structures of Ulysses are exemplified by individual instances of the comedy of farce, hyperbole, and confusion. Romance and Reunification Ulysses anticipates the experiments of the Wake in a number of ways, not the least of which is to foreshadow Joyce's later reliance on music to summarize and refine themes and encapsulate plot. The most accurate analogy that can be drawn to characterize the structure of Ulysses musically is not opera, in which every word is generally sung, but musical comedy, in which spoken dialogue is integrated with music, which comically lightens the tone even as it develops themes and plot. The evolution from opera, itself a bastard form of drama set to music, is through a gradual popularization and violation of the traditional tenets of operatic form, which demands that credulity be suspended to allow the unrealistic conceit of singing every word in the drama itself. The operetta moved from operatic form by permitting some spoken dialogue to intervene between musical selections, and it was only a short step, once the blend of spoken dialogue and music became established, merely to suspend the action while appropriate music was sung and played. The resultant form is loosely called "the musical." This further popularized version made use of the verisimilitude of traditional drama, at the same time it required that the audience suspend belief in realistic action while songs were sung. The idea of the bowdlerized action interspersed with incongruous music caused the music itself to act in most instances as a sort of comic relief, even when spurned lovers lamented their woes. Thus most musicals shed their tragic trappings for the more familiar comic mode. Those that did not admit of comedy did not survive as serious drama. It is difficult today to take seriously the sober-faced Jeanette MacDonald in billowing gossamer and Nelson Eddy in his Mountie's uniform singing "The Indian Love Call." Although comedy per se was not the only form the musicals took, it certainly was the predominant one. While Joyce does not have every character literally sing a song or two, many in fact do, and the protagonist Bloom not only alludes to lyrics, but often to the music from which the lyrics came. The stream-of-conscious thought technique allows readers to experience the music as well as the lyrics, as Bloom and Molly mentally sing the songs to themselves. That Joyce often intended music as well as words is apparent from his quotations

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of lyrics that hyphenate one-syllable words to indicate that the words are sung to more than one note: "Comes loove's old" (5.161), "Co-ome thou lost one" (7.59), ''Glowworm 's la-amp is gleaming, love" (8.590), and so on. We read the passages as if we hear the music as well as the words. With all these tunes going on in the minds of the characters and in the spoken and sung dialogue, it would be hard to think of Ulysses as other than a musical. Structurally, musical comedy usually occurs in two acts. At the end of the first, the lovers traditionally part, having experienced some seemingly insurmountable difficulty or mistake or parental or societal intransigence that seems, for all intents and purposes, to doom their love. The second act brings about their reconciliation. Sirens is the episode corresponding to the end of the first act, when "All Is Lost Now," to borrow a song from the chapter. At the four o'clock hour of assignation, the song marks the low point of Bloom's day, a point at which music becomes paramount. I discuss this in the Sirens section to come; but for now, however, it is enough to call to mind Bloom's recovery, his proof of his worthiness of the romantic fulfillment that inevitably awaits him at the conclusion of a traditional musical comedy. Bloom's trials in Bella Cohen's, in Barney Kiernan's, on Sandymount Strand, in Holles Street, the cabman's shelter, and elsewhere prove his valor, his compassion, and his magnanimity, thus enabling his triumphal homecoming and reconciliation with his beloved in their bower of bliss, marred by only a few flakes of potted meat. Bloom's generally hapless escapades are even funnier if seen as a parody of the musical comedy form, with Molly's flatulence ringing down the curtain to the concluding bars of the traditional restatement of the original musical motif, "Love's Old Sweet Song," just the tune for twilight, when the lights are low. If the main musical comedy story line lies, as tradition dictates, in the romance between Leopold and Molly, the subplot consists of the almost-as-popular reconciliation between father and son. Of course neither Joyce's plot nor subplot is anything like what a musical comedy audience was used to hearing, since the romance is hardly apparent; the search for father-son reconciliation is, on the conscious level, confined to Bloom; and any satisfactory traditionally happy resolution to either dilemma is so understated as to seem almost nonexistent. Even so, "Love's Old Sweet Song" and the selections from Don Giovanni are the romantic leitmotifs of the Blooms' love relationshipwith all its comic complexitiesbeginning with the introduction of the song and the opera in connection with

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Boylan's concert tour and the adulterous four o'clock rehearsal of the program. Echoes of the music reverberate throughout the day, concluding with Molly's lengthy rendition of "looooves old" (18.897) "sweet sooooooooooong" (18.877) with a prolonged fart under the cover of a passing train in the distance: I wish hed sleep in some bed by himself with his cold feet on me give us room even to let a fart God or do the least thing better yes hold them like that a bit on my side piano quietly sweeeee theres that train far away pianissimo eeeee one more tsong" (18.9058). The musical affinities between song and flatulence have been the subject of several gaseous attacks, most noticeably at the end of the Sirens episode, always to exquisite comic effect. The second predominant musical motif, Don Giovanni, is an entire opera in which Bloom mentally participates, singing the songs of the cuckolded Masetto when Bloom feels the pangs of his wife's infidelity with Boylan, and then taking the Don's and Masetto's parts as he reconstructs Zerlina-Molly's line in the duet from "I would" to "I will" after Bloom is certain of the four o'clock assignation. Later Bloom sings the Don's part in the duet when he is feeling like an amorous lover in his affair with Martha Clifford; and finally, thinking of the inevitable seduction of his own daughter, Milly, Bloom sings the Commendatore's recitative lines as he pictures himself avenging her loss of innocence. 3 At the risk of minimizing Bloom's pain over the Boylan affair, the music, by creating an appropriate yet ludicrous picture of Bloom as a noble sufferer, far from inspiring additional pathos, goes a long way toward comically mitigating the damages and creating the idea that the marriage will survive satisfactorily, if not ideally. The major songs relevant to the romantic motif are supplemented by a series of minor variations on the theme: "The Young May Moon," sung by Molly and Boylan as they touch each other's hands in the darkness while walking along the Tolka with Bloom (8.58891); "The Last Rose of Summer," a comic leitmotif for the tortured husband; the "Seaside Girls," as temptress figures in Bloom's continuing ineffectual attempts to go astray himself; "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye,'' as the peripatetic Boylan's traveling music; and "Home, Sweet Home" to represent in the most maudlin comic terms the situation at Number 7 Eccles Street; as well as a host of other melodies ancillary to aspects of the lovers' activities. Augmenting the idea that the music of Ulysses is used for musical comedic purpose is its contribution to funny hyperbolic comparison. Examples that come immediately to mind are the association of the cursing

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blind piano tuner with the near-sainted croppy boy who has cursed only "three times since last Easter Day"; the figure of Jesus/Mario, and subsequently Bloom's parody figure singing "M'appari"; Bloom as Don Giovanni and Lionel; Dublin as the Holy City; and the comparisons among Mercadante's Seven Last Words of Christ, Robert Emmet's last words, and Bloom's last, flatulent statement at the end of Sirens. As a final addendum to the musical comedy form, all the essentially comic characters of the novel are associated with comic music or more serious music transformed by the circumstances into comedy: Buck Mulligan establishes his harlequin role by singing his "Ballad of Joking Jesus"; Simon Dedalus sings Lionel's role in Martha; D. B. Murphy is associated with "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" or "Kelly from the Isle of Man," by the old tarpaulin's reference to Antonio; John Alexander Dowie's theme song is ''Washed in the Blood of the Lamb," which Bloom comically confuses with his own name; and the citizen owns a dog named "Garryowen," the title of a song of riot and drunken debauchery in the Owen's Garden (Garryowen) suburb of Limerick. The conscious exaggeration provided by musical allusion, coupled with Bloom's off-key memory regarding lyrics and composers, as well as the music associated with comic characters, provides more than mere comic relief to serious matters; in aggregate, through parody and association, the repeated comic references become the stuff of full-blown musical comedy. Sirens: The Encapsulated Form The medley overture to Sirens is precisely the prose fiction parallel to the type of overture that precedes the action of musical comedies. Composed of leitmotifs from sixty-seven thematic and descriptive passages from the entire chapter, and set to twenty-one musical leitmotifs or excerpts from eleven songs, the overture anticipates the concentrated use of music throughout the episode, which contains 158 references to forty-seven songs. Although I earlier rejected the notion that Sirens was a light or comic opera, 4 I am now ready to embrace the idea that it is in fact a musical comedy, exactly as the presence of the overture indicates. In my youth, I saw Bloom's plight as being so pathetic that it admitted no happy conclusion; but in my dotage, his dilemma does not seem so serious to me that it would deny a comic interpretation. Certainly the conclusion of Sirens is one of the high comic points of the novel, ending on an up-

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or rather a downbeat of flatulent exuberance not unlike the novel as a whole. In fact, though varied in tone and quality, Molly's final gaseous response to "Love's Old Sweet Song," the romantic leitmotif of the novel, comes from precisely the same bodily instrumental section as Bloom's answer to the "Love and War" pathos generated by the Sirens' singers. Sirens follows the traditional musical comedy pattern of preliminary exposition by two minor characters, Misses Douce and Kennedy; followed by the introduction of the protagonist of the romantic dilemma, Bloom; again followed by a minor character associated with the subplot (the father-son relationship), Simon Dedalus. These elements form a story line connected with and commenting on the main plot: Bloom as surrogate father for Stephen, and Simon as the grieving Lionel who has lost his love. Boylan, Bloom's rival and antagonist, appears briefly on the scene and then leaves to the traveling music of "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye," on his way to cuckold Bloom. Boylan's exit from the Ormond coincides with the arrival of Ben Dollard, who introduces the topic of Molly to the company, and who sings the prophetic song "Love and War," which sets the action for the rest of the Sirens comedy. Dollard starts to sing the tenor's part in the duet, the part of the lover (identified with Bloom): "While love absorbs my ardent soul, I think not of the morrow.'' But Dollard is a bass, and after being admonished by Cowley, begins the bass response to the tenor: "While war absorbs." When the two singers unite in the last stanza, they vow to blend both love and war, like the immortal lovers, Venus and Mars, summoning "Bacchus, all divine, / To cure both pains with rosy wine, ... [and] / ... sing and laugh the hours away." Thus the mood of Sirens shifts from love to war to their combined counterpart in patriotism, the transition oiled with booze and song. As the music at the conclusion of the chapter commemoratively links the final sacrifice of an Irish patriot with Jesus' end, Bacchus's carbonated burgundy has at least the penultimate word. Simon's detested brother-in-law, Richie Goulding, arrives to commiserate musically with Bloom as they listen to "All Is Lost Now" at the four o'clock hour of assignation, the low point of Bloom's day and the traditional conclusion of the first act. At the beginning of the second act, Simon sings the great love lament, "M'appari," from the opera Martha, as Richie and Poldy listen in an adjoining room: "When first they saw, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word" (11.67880). Though "sorrow from them each seemed to from both depart when first they heard"

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(11.67778), the song offers more than mere consolation; it also presents an issue out of Bloom's affliction in the form of Martha Clifford, with whom, Bloom remembers, he is just about to communicate: "Martha it is. Coincidence. Just going to write" (11.713). However, thoughts of Molly soon overcome Martha's attraction, and the song, especially in the context of the action of the opera as a whole, promises a happy resolution of Siopold's affliction. Boylan's rap on the door at Number 7 coincides with yet another modulation of tone and theme, as Dollard begins his long rendition of "The Croppy Boy," linking the war motif to the search for the father, Stephen Dedalus, and the intertwined subplot of Ulysses, a novel based on the ancient epical archetype of universal homecoming, faithfulness, and familial reconciliation. After the false priest-father's betrayal of the innocent croppy boy, Bloom will have no part of the final sentimental stanza: "Get out before the end. Thanks, that was heavenly" (11.1122). He leaves pathos to the drinker-patriots, whose sentiments turn comic as they chink glasses to the tune of "The Memory of the Dead," while Bloom tootles away in commemoration of Emmet's last words, happy that a passing tram covers the sound and affords him the "oppor'' (11.1290). Sirens could rightly be termed a modernist musical comedy, untraditional only in its antisentimental conclusion. The rest of the comic trappings are there. It is also a musical within a musical, a score and a libretto for the action and the musical setting of the rest of the novel, and an encapsulation of the character traits that define the longsuffering but ultimately defiant modern comic hero. Circe: The Panto Brand of Musical Comedy Circe has often been associated with the art of pantomime, but less often recognized by critics in terms of its affinity with that particularly British and Irish phenomenon by the same name: the entertainments staged right after Christmas and running until the beginning of Lent. The best work on the pantomimes are an early essay by David Hayman and the fuller development of their various influences on Joyce by Elliott Gose and Cheryl Herr. 5 Exhibited immediately after the winter solstice and its Christian counterpart, Christmas, the pantos reflect the ancient comic spirit of rebirth, recognized at the turn of the century by Cornford and brought brilliantly to our attention by Bakhtin.6 Pantomime as a form

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of drama (distinguished from the much later development of British "pantos") was a precursor of both Attic and medieval continental drama. As aspects of the saturnalia, pantomime has long featured harlequins, comedy, and music, precisely as the productions do today. The earliest version of the English pantomime form as we know it today was the 1702 Drury Lane production of "Tavern Bilkers," written by John Weaver. 7 The form has not changed a great deal since in tenor or tone. It was always an extremely popular form with the general populace and condemned as crass, dull, and vulgarly plebeian by people like Cibber and Fielding. Of exactly the sort of carnival spirit Bakhtin relates in his descriptions of the early processions, pantomimes represent a sort of leveling Bacchanalia in which officialdom was satirized.8 The tremendous popularity of the productions in the nineteenth century and later was in part due to their proximity to the Christmas holidays, which made them treats for children, to whose mentalities they catered. The tender age of a large segment of the audience meant that stories that were popular with youngsters, such as variations on Sinbad and Aladdin, Cinderella, and a variety of fairy tales, were standard fare year after year, often with two or more theaters in the same town simultaneously playing pantos with the same title.9 While the same general plot with minor variations was often repeated annually, the songs and the topical jokes varied from year to year. The pantomimes were so popular that their revenues could carry the entire season for the theater, and since they made a lot of money, a great deal of expense was lavished on their production, especially on spectacular scenes and mechanical devices. These promoted a tradition of including Utopian scenes or visions, frequently transformed on the stage from the drab or dismal circumstances under which the characters labored to a realization of the millennium when their fondest hopes were realized: constant celibates were united or reunited with lovers, the poor acquired fabulous wealth, the downtrodden secured power, and so forth. Pantos represented a return to innocence and childhood for adults, and a fairytale vision of reality for children. With all this sweetness and light there still remained less savory overtones from ancient times, harlequin figures of subversion, and a satiric questioning of the order of events and traditions under the guise of comedy. David Hayman and Cheryl Herr see the appearance of Rudy as a transformation scene typical of pantomime activities, while Elliott Gose cites two direct references to pantomime in Circe to support his contention that Joyce made extensive use of the form.10 The conventions of later nineteenth-

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and twentieth-century pantomime, particularly as practiced in Ireland, also regularly included an assertive if ludicrous harlequin character known as the Widow Twankey, portrayed by a male comedian. 11 Hayman and Herr also point out that the principal boy is normally played by a girl. The similarities to the role reversals between Bloom and Bello in Circe are obvious. Elliott Gose has linked Bloom's successive cycles of rise and fall in Circe with the traditional scapegoat activities of early comedy and saturnalia, from which pantomime is descended.12 In assuming the role of pig-donkey and being ridden around by Bello, Bloom is also closely allied with another ancient tradition, the wicker-basket donkeys, revived in the later pantomimes. Bloom's role as the combination of clown-harlequin and scapegoat under constant attack and vilification comes close to meriting the praise of the Veiled Sibyl: "I'm a Bloomite and I glory in it. I believe in him in spite of all. I'd give my life for him, the funniest man on earth" (15.173637). Bloom is a funny man. Such remarks have traditionally been reserved for the great harlequins of British and Irish pantomime, comedians such as the Grimaldis, James Byrne, and Dan Leno, whose popularity rivaled that of Will Rogers and Bob Hope as esteemed vaunted public figures and Presidential Medal winners. My concern here, however, is with the music of these comedies, the mainstay of the celebrations of antiquity, and no less important in Christmas pantomimes and in Joyce's version of that genre in Circe. The Circe episode opens with opposing versions of morality parodied in Cissy Caffrey's bawdy "The Leg of the Duck," and Stephen's mockery of the church in his rendition of the "Asperges" for paschal tide.13 Joyce's panto is hardly the party-line saccharine that whole parishes travel in school buses to Dublin to see each year, but is much closer to the gross saturnalia of the form's ancient ancestor. Molly, the embodiment of Bloom's dream, appears early in traditional Eastern costume to intone "The Shade of the Palm'' and reestablish the Don Giovanni motif as the love song of the panto, repeated again in part by Mrs. Breen, while Bloom, in a subplot variation of the theme, assumes the Don's role, having established himself as a dashing quasi-military type with his borrowed and perverted toast to "Ireland, home, and beauty": a Celtic version of the phrase "For England, home and beauty" immortalized in the popular song "The Death of Nelson." When the military, Privates Carr and Compton, come on the scene they are heralded by the navvy's rendition of the Irish patriotic song, "The Boys of Wexford," as prelude and leitmotif for the coming strife between Ireland and England: Stephen's comic altercation

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with the privates. A number of songs related to Bloom establish his sexual and political prowess, and at the apex of his rise to power, the references to "The Holy City" occur as the climax of perhaps the most important politically related transformation in Circe, the establishment of the New Bloomusalem. The construction of the "colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the shape of a huge pork kidney, containing forty thousand rooms" (15.154849) is as miraculous as any fabulous pantomime transformation ever seen on the Irish stage. The song itself is about transformation of the Holy City and the ups and downs of its Redeemer and the capital of the "Nova Hibernia." The lyrics relate a dream of happy children singing antiphonally with choirs of angels, the beatific vision interrupted in the second stanza by a dark vision of a cross on a ''lonely hill" that silenced the happy little chanters until a new city took its place with the light of God shining on its streets, free and open to all, the New Jerusalem (15.154448) "that would not pass away." 14 It is the culmination of Stephen's (and perhaps Joyce's) youthful vision of creating the new city of Dublin and the uncreated conscience of the Irish race, now comically transformed into satiric parody involving a middle-aged harlequin scapegoat in a pantomime. A monumental example of the ancient carnivalistic leveler, the comic audacity of the vision is one of the gems of modern literature. As the gramophone later picks up the song, and all the participants at Bella's are exhorted by Elijah to join in singing of the new millennium, the machine malfunctions, and the anguished "Ahhkkk!" (15.2214) of the whores is the last we hear in Circe of Bloom's magnificent if degraded comic vision. Another harlequin in the form of Virag makes his appearance accompanied by a spate of comic music hall songs, "Lily of the Valley," "Sally in Our Alley," "What Ho! She Bumps!" and "Slap! Bang! Here We Are Again Boys!" One of the repeated complaints regarding the wholesomeness of pantomimes was the use of music hall comedians and songs of occasionally unsavory nature to brighten the lives of the adults and inadvertently tarnish those of the children who came to the pantos, an art form conceived by the turn of the twentieth century to be an embodiment of childish purity, but ironically one whose saturnalian, low comic origins were always lurking just underneath the surface. When Bello revives the donkey-ride tradition of earlier pantomimes, she blends the early licentious tradition with feigned childish innocence by invoking the nursery rhymes, "Ride a Cock Horse" and "This Is the Way the Ladies Ride," again underscoring the puerile nature of Bloom's fantasy and the pantomime it imitates: "Gee up! A cockhorse to Banbury

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cross. I'll ride him for the Eclipse stakes.... The lady goes a pace a pace and the coachman goes a trot a trot and the gentleman goes a gallop a gallop a gallop a gallop" (15.294449). When Bloom is reduced to the infantile state of wetting his pants, Bello's retort again is in terms of a low music hall song: "The sawdust is there in the corner for you. I gave you strict instructions, didn't I? Do it standing, sir! I'll teach you to behave like a jinkleman! If I catch a trace on your swaddles. Aha! By the ass of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet" (15.302225). "Doran's Ass" relates the story of Paddy Doran's brief affair with a jackass. Doran, drunk, mistakes a jackass for his girl, spends the night making love with the animal, and finally weds the girl two days later. 15 Joyce returns the songs of saturnalia to their original place in the pantomime. Amid a cacophony of other melodies, the soldiers return to the tune of "My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl," and Stephen enters the fray under the musical auspices of the image of the hanged croppy boy, while old Gummy Granny, a degraded parody of the Shan Van Vocht, intones lines from "The Wearing of the Green." In the middle of the altercation Father Malachi O'Flynn, a combination of Stephen's blasphemous towermate and the perfect priest celebrated in the song that bears his name, performs the black mass of ritual sacrifice as Stephen is martyred in the fray. The accompanying music is a combination of antipapist blasphemy, "Kick the Pope," and a well-known Roman Catholic hymn, "Daily, Daily Sing to Mary."16 His wounded lips still intoning the line from Fergus's song, Stephen is metamorphosed by the misunderstanding Bloom into a combination of Cinderella (a pantomime favorite), Hamlet (Stephen's self-generated surrogate), and a brother Mason, all in the final grand transformationas Hayman claimsof the pantomime. Circe has more references to music than any other chapter except Sirens. Like Sirens, the episode is not only rife with song, but bears resemblance to a musically dominated dramatic form. Pantomimes are made up of the stuff of transformation, of adherence both to the modern form of sweet morality and a comic subversive ritual form far older than the nineteenth-and early twentieth-century Dublin stage. As musical celebrations of comic saturnalia and rebirth, they delve deep into the psyche of human nature, an establishment-defying impulse, happy to do battle with seriousness and shame.

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Coda I began my scholarship with the idea that musical allusions were not essentially different from literary allusions. For a number of reasons literary critics pay close attention to primary text segments that resemble those in other familiar works: similar words, lines, ideas, and/or metaphors that trigger association with present circumstances and corroborate or set the examined work in a traditional context. The impulse to fix metaphors, to look at the world through the lens of previously learned linguistic construction, discussed so often in contemporary critical theory, applies doubly when those metaphors are set to music. Even for those with minimal musical affinities, the melody and even its context of chords are a powerful ally in the mnemonic process of recalling the lyricsthe poetry, language, ideaby charging them with the subliminal emotions of music. I have always been fascinated with schlock, and am a part-time schlock-poet whose ever failing recollection of names and details is partially mitigated by a tendency to remember obscure songs and to set new words to them. I don't mean to imply that Joyce's brilliant memory shared much in common with my own, but Bloom's deficient recollections do. His musical memories linger and influence the character of his thoughts, and the thoughts of a lot of other Joycean characters. Since I began to read I have always had a tendency to identify with the characters in literature, and of course I identify with Bloom; but also with Molly, Simon, Mulligan, Father Cowley, Ben Dollard, and a host of others who think in terms of the music of their culture. Joyce's musical strategy furthers the function of establishing Bloom as

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an ordinary (and therefore an extraordinary) person, and at the same time identifies his commonality as a principal source of his ignoble comic potential. The kind of music Bloom most appreciates is a staple of popular culture, the currency of pathos, sentimentality, ribaldry, and the low-life humanity he shares not so much with intellectuals as with common people whose foibles comedy celebrates. Vladimir Nabokov often put an intellectual snob in the most common circumstances in order to produce a satire on his protagonist's affectationsa Malvolio, whose pretensions as often as not lead to stark conclusions. Joyce's characters, including Stephen, Simon, and Mulligan, as well as Bloom, are less starkly drawn and more susceptible to the influences of popular culture. Though they are eminently singular, they are far closer to character types to whom we can assign names and faces from our own everyday lives, because they are identified in part by the music they sing. I write this in the midst of a holiday season celebrated by continual television retrospectives of the previous year, decade, generation, and/or eraprograms the networks and local stations feel obliged to mix with reruns of It's a Wonderful Life. Besides Jimmy Stewart, the one permanent element in all of this is the obligatory music "we danced to." The point is that the nostalgia arising from popular culture is infused with musicthat we define our age and circumscribe our memories with its cadences. Heartland Records dredges up and reproduces one album after another, advertising them with old women lip-synching Perry Como and old men mouthing Patti Page sentiments. While some of the golden oldies do trigger memories of awkward junior high school dances, as often as not I can't recognize most of the nonentity beboppers that Heartland tells me sang to the heart mysteries of my bygone era. The idea that an age is defined by a particular music album has so permeated our culture that I wonder whether people buy albums by someone named Boxcar Willie just because they want to find out what they are supposed to be nostalgic about. Growing up in Philadelphia, I seldom listened to country-western music in the fifties and sixties. I still don't. I don't know if Renaissance folks walked around whistling sixteenth-century canting songs or Dowland's airs, but they probably associated their lives with some sort of music, and I suspect their melodies were just as various. The point is that while music represents the popular culture of an age, any single piece of music in a plethora of discordant diverse melodies can only be a metaphor and not the microcosm of a culture. For Joyceans "Love's Old Sweet Song" is the musical metaphor of

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Dublin on June 16, 1904, our own "Auld Lang Syne." Its tongue-in-cheek sentimentality gives readers access to a commonality that allows identification with the unheroic strife of daily living shared by most people and frozen in melody just as securely as the embodiment of the American Ideal, John Wayne, was frozen in celluloid and song at the Alamo. In a way turn-of-the-century music is something we can share with Joyce himselfthe world he grew up in encased in a 700-page time capsule. That is why each new discovery of some particular historical fact or aspect of 1904 Dublin life so energizes popular culture criticism. Cheryl Herr's popular sermon models, and pantomime transvestism, or Brandy Kershner's penny dreadfuls and forgotten popular novels allow all of us to share more completely with Joyce the relation of his fictive and real worlds. The publication of each new discovery is like an admission into some new intimacy and fuller participation with the text, meeting the signifiers who have been at the party all the time, though unseen. The versions of history we are afforded by popular culture criticism are as selective as any official version deplored by Foucault. But Joyce goes beyond the boundaries of officially sanctioned language when he introduces music that dances around languagesometimes a part of the signifiers (the tapping piano tuner/Stephen/Bloom/croppy boy), sometimes the rhythms of the narration ("It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a second best, Mr Secondbest Best said finely" [7.1415]), and sometimes the chorded background against which the fiction is played (The Seven Last Words of Christ and a patriotic drinking song as background for Robert Emmet's last words and Bloom's fart). The result is a Dublin attached to one day by the dateline on a stenographer's letter, confirmed by the newspapers and actual events occurring on June 16, 1904, perceived through the sights and sounds of the literary imagination, and emotionally appeased by the music that gives it energy and context, just as those TV retrospectives sought to encapsulate World War II in an Andrews Sisters' rendition of "Don't Sit under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me." Perhaps Joyce's greatest contribution to modernism was his coalescence of populist with singularly intellectual art. His was an art built on the dialogics of popular, comic roots overlaid with the self-selecting intellectualism of literary history. The result was an astounding representation of the amorphous human condition, both Bahktinian bodily poles interacting in a constant state of transformation. If from the Ithaca episode we learn no meaningful catechismal or scientific verities, or even who will get breakfast the next morning, it is because the human condition is itself a

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transformational process, always assuming new shapes, constantly offering new impermanent answers to unanswerable questions. Vicki Mahaffey has observed that a great deal of my music criticism deals with transformation. I now realize that transformation and process are what Joyce was all about. One has to look no further than Finnegans Wake for the clearest example of process and transformation translated in protolinguistic, protomusical terms: a long book metamorphosing from a popular Irish ballad written in America and embracing all of Irish, all of human history, in the polyglot of its amorphous representations. Its titular centerpiece is musical fall and resurrection (transformation/process); its medium, performance; its hero, Everybody. What Joyce represented on the macrocosmic level in the Wake, he particularized in the domestic dilemmas of an individual in Ulysses. As hallmarks of a modernism that admits few answers to the eternal questions, and a postmodernism and contemporary critical theory that admit even fewer questions and no certitude in any answer, Joyce's works stand out even in an age of transition. I began my studies of Joyce and music with a distrust of generalities and a fascination for specifics, and I seem in dotage to have developed a fixation on metaphoric oversimplification. There is a dangerous fascination in ideas, especially when they involve the certitude of incertitude. But there is a womblike comfort in the banal cultural origins from which we ventured forth, the familiar sentimental emotionalism that sustains us and is embodied in Bloom and "Love's Old Sweet Song": Once in the dear dead days beyond recall, When on the world the mists began to fall, Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng Low in our hearts love sang an old sweet song; And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam Softly it wove itself into our dream. Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low, And the flick'ring shadows softly come and go, Tho' the heart be weary, sad the day and long, Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song, comes Love's old, sweet song.

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Notes Introduction 1. Matthew John Caldwell Hodgart and Mabel P. Worthington, Song in the Works of James Joyce (New York: Columbia University Press, 1959). 2. The record albums (available from Smithsonian Folkways at the Smithsonian Institution) were Lestrygonians (Folkways FL 9562, 1961); Calypso (Folkways FL 9835, 1963); Lotus Eaters (Folkways FL 9836, 1964); Hades (Folkways FL 9814, 1964); and Sirens (Folkways FL 9563, 1966). 3. Zack Bowen, Musical Allusions in the Works of James Joyce: Early Poetry through "Ulysses" (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1974). 4. Mabel Worthington and I divided the study of musical allusions in Joyce; I covered the texts through Ulysses and Mabel did the Wake. Unfortunately, she died before she could finish the second volume. 5. Following Bloom's mistake of confusing Meyerbeer with Mercadante, I was caught misattributing authorship of The Seven Last Words of Christ in my gloss of the reference contained in the concluding lines of Sirens: Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is. (290:3335) Cf. The Seven Last Words of Christ REMARKS: Here we have one of the most obvious associative patterns in the novel, as Bloom goes from Emmet's last words, to Christ's seven last words, to Meyerbeer's oratorio. (Bowen, Musical Allusions, 210) I knew better, even when I was writing Musical Allusions. One hundred seven pages later I called attention to Bloom's mistake without realizing I had earlier made the same one.

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6. Zack Bowen, "Ulysses" as a Comic Novel (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1989). 7. Ruth Bauerle, ed., Picking Up Airs: Hearing the Music in Joyce's Text (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1993). 8. Michael Kenneally, ed., Irish Literature and Culture, Irish Literary Studies, vol. 35 (Gerrards Cross: Colin Smythe, 1992). Chapter 1: Libretto for Bloomusalem in Song 1. The great bulk of song references, together with appropriate page and line numbers, were first listed by Hodgart and Worthington in Song. 2. For a complete treatment of the Don Giovanni motif in Ulysses, see Vernon Hall, "Joyce's Use of DaPonte and Mozart's Don Giovanni," PMLA 66 (1951): 7884. 3. The tapes played at the Symposium in Dublin were from our recordings of the various segments of Ulysses. Quotations including appropriate music were tape-recorded copies of the following record albums: Lestrygonians (Folkways FL 9562, 1961); Hades (Folkways FL 9814, 1964); and Sirens (Folkways FL 9563, 1966). Excerpts from the Ithaca episode were separately taped for this essay, since they had not been previously recorded. 4. Stuart Gilbert, James Joyce's "Ulysses" (New York: Random House, 1959), 252. 5. Zack Bowen, "The Bronzegold Sirensong: A Musical Analysis of the Sirens Episode in Joyce's Ulysses," Literary Monographs I (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1967), 24750, reprinted as chapter 2 of this collection. 6. In the Sirens recording itself (see n. 3), the music was begun before the spoken parts and continued through the overture. The music, played on a piano, consisted of all of the songs alluded to in the text, the motifs of various songs coinciding with the occurrence of their lyrics in the text. In the case of "Goodbye, Sweetheart, Goodbye," which in the novel is played on the piano and not sung, but which is alluded to in the text by the lyrics of the passages played, a narrator on the recording reads the lines while they are being played. Once the entire musical background was recorded, I doubled the speed, giving a high, tinny effect, and then added the voices to it. Since all of the lines of the overture are duplicates of lines in the chapter, they were spoken by the characters who say them in the body of the episode. Chapter 2: The Bronzegold Sirensong 1. Martin Ross, Music and James Joyce (Chicago: Argus Book Shop, 1936), 6. 2. The most comprehensive and ingenious effort thus far to connect the Sirens'

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structure with the fugue is in an article by Lawrence L. Levin, "The Sirens Episode as Music: Joyce's Experiment in Prose Polyphony," James Joyce Quarterly 3, no. 1 (Fall 1965): 1224. 3. Gilbert followed the general outline Joyce gave to Linati. Now popularly known as the "Linati Schema," the outline categorized certain aspects of each episode, and then detailed the specific idea or method Joyce used to fulfill every category in each episode. 4. Willi Apel, Harvard Dictionary of Music (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 112. 5. Gilbert, "Ulysses," 25253. 6. Harry Levin, James Joyce (New York: Faber and Faber, 1941), 99; Horst Petri, Literatur und Musik (Göttingen, 1964), 3543. Petri's arguments regarding the fugal aspects of the chapter are not unlike some of those presented in this study; however, his conclusion that the structure of the chapter is based on the sonata form is just as indefensible as the fugal structure idea. I am indebted to Calvin Brown for calling Petri's work to my attention. 7. A. Walton Litz, The Art of James Joyce: Method and Design in "Ulysses" and "Finnegans Wake" (New York: Oxford University Press, 1961), 70. 8. Stanley Sultan, "The Sirens at the Ormond Bar: Ulysses," University of Kansas City Review 26 (Winter 1959): 91. 9. Most of the musical references used in this study are derived from the allusion list published in Hodgart and Worthington, Song. 10. I do not mean to imply that I completely disagree with the assertion of Sultan in "Sirens" that the Sirens chapter is the dramatic climax and turning point of Ulysses. 11. I am indebted to Mabel Worthington for sharing her discovery of Jeffreys' version of "M'appari" with me. 12. For an especially comprehensive treatment, see Sultan, "Sirens." 13. The "Seaside Girls" was discovered after the present essay was originally published, but before Musical Allusions came out. The lyrics of the song are as follows. SEASIDE GIRLS Down at Margate looking very charming you are sure to meet, Those girls, dear girls, those lovely seaside girls, With sticks they steer and promenade the pier to give the boys a treat, In pique silks and lace, they tip you quite a playful wink. It always is the case you seldom stop to think, You fall in love of course upon the spot, But not with one girl always with the lot. Chorus: Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls, All dimples smiles and curls, your head it simply whirls,

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They look all right, complexions pink and white, They've diamond rings and dainty feet, Golden hair from Regent Street, Lace and grace and lots of face those pretty little seaside girls. There's Maud and Clara, Gwendoline and Sarah where do they come from? Those girls, dear girls, those lovely seaside girls, In bloomers smart, they captivate the heart, when cycling down the prom. At wheels and heels and hose, you must not look 'tis understood, But ev'ry Johnnie knows, it does your eyesight good, The boys observe the latest thing in socks, They earn the time by looking at the clocks. When you go to do a little boating just for fun you take, Those girls, dear girls, those lovely seaside girls, They all say "we so dearly love the sea" their way on board they make The wind begins to blow each girl remarks "how rough today." "It's lovely don't you know," and then they sneak away. And as the yacht keeps rolling with the tide, You'll notice hanging o'er the vessel's side. Chorus: Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls, All dimples smiles and curls, each head it simply whirls, They look a sight, complexions green and white, Their hats fly off and at your feet, Falls golden hair from Regent Street, Rouge and puffs, slip down the cuffs of pretty little seaside girls. 14. I am indebted to Joseph Prescott for pointing out to me the methodology by which Joyce arrived at the combination name, "Siopold." Following is the pertinent documentation that Professor Prescott was kind enough to abstract from an as yet unpublished section of his dissertation, "James Joyce's Ulysses as a Work in Progress" (Harvard University, 1944), 22324. In the margin [of a proofsheet now at Harvard] appear the following notations: Lionel Leopold Simon Richie Richsiopold [canceled] Siopold

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Here is a complete record of the progress by which Joyce composed the verbal chord ''Siopold"! 15. Bloom's association stems from passages in the Lotus Eaters episode: Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain. O, Mairy lost the pin in her drawers. She didn't know what to do To keep it up To keep it up It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. (77.3138) The "It? Them." after the song is an indication of Bloom's literal mind as he worries about the pronounantecedent agreement in the song. He seems to overlook the bawdy ambiguity of it possibly referring to the sex act or male organ in the ballad. References to this song occur five times in the book, serving in Bloom's mind as an antithesis to purity, wholesomeness, and pomp throughout the day. In Bloom's present mood it adds an undercurrent of roguish impropriety to his love affair with Martha. He continues: What perfume does your wife use? Now could you make out a thing like that? To keep it up. Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forgot now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen. To keep it up. (77.3878.7) Martha's romantic question about Molly's perfume strikes the practical-minded Bloom as being incongruous, since the adulterous nature of the whole business is all too apparent to him. The association of the song and the sluts in the Coombe affirms this. The naiveté of Martha and her concern with what to Bloom seems unimportant reminds him of a picture of Christ talking to Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus. The story about which Bloom is thinking occurs in Luke 10:3842. Jesus is seated in Mary and Martha's house, and Martha, fussing about the details of housework, asks Jesus to rebuke Mary. Jesus answers that Mary has concerned herself with one meaningful thing (presumably his word) rather than bothering with trivia as Martha has. It seems to Bloom that Martha Clifford, like the biblical Martha, has placed her values on trivia rather than the essentials, i.e., the physical aspects of their liaison. In John 11:2, Martha's sister is identified with the Mary who dried Jesus' feet with her hair and consequently Mary Magda-

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lene, a reformed prostitute. If Mary would listen to Jesus' word, so too (Bloom thinks) would the sluts in the Coombe. This brings Bloom back full cycle to the last line of the bawdy song: "To keep it up." 16. Frederick Sternfeld, "Poetry and MusicJoyce's Ulysses," in Sound and Poetry, ed. Northrop Frye (New York, 1957), 24. 17. Marian Kaplun, "The Search for 'The Song the Sirens Sang,'" James Joyce Review 3, nos. 12 (1959): 52. 18. Sternfeld, "Poetry and Music," 2631; Mabel Worthington, "Irish Folksongs in Joyce's Ulysses," PMLA 71 (1956): 32527. 19. Sternfeld, "Poetry and Music," 30. 20. Kathleen Hoagland, ed., 1000 Years of Irish Poetry (New York: Devin-Adair, 1947), 540. 21. When Kaplun, "Search for 'The Song,' " 52, tells us in her description of the music in the Sirens chapter, "Yet no one melody is ever completed, sung from beginning to end," she has failed to take into consideration "The Croppy Boy," which is sung from the first to the last word by Ben Dollard. 22. Percy A. Scholes, The Oxford Companion to Music (New York: Oxford University Press, 1955), 614. 23. At this point in the text Hodgart and Worthington cite another song of Irish patriotism, "The Thirty-Two Counties." The citation is made presumably because of the similarity of the chinking glasses in Ulysses and the chorus of the song, which is as follows: So chink your glasses chink, 'Tis a toast we all must drink, And let ev'rybody join in the chorus. Old Ireland is our home, and no matter where we roam, We'll be true to the dear land that bore us. Whether Joyce did have the song in mind is questionable; however, it would have fit perfectly into the patriotism-alcohol theme. Chapter 3: The New Bloomusalem 1. Robert Scholes, "Joyce and the Epiphany: The Key to the Labyrinth?" Sewanee Review 72 (1964): 6571. 2. Weldon Thornton, Allusions in "Ulysses" (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1961), 2728. 3. William Blake, "A Vision of the Last Judgment," in The Poetry and Prose of William Blake, ed. David V. Erdman (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1970), 544. 4. This is not to say that Stephen is wholly unconcerned with political and

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social change any more than Bloom is unconcerned with art; neither is Stephen of the opinion that the New Jerusalem can be brought about without upheaval. His ultimate didactic-political reasons for his art are, of course, to forge a conscience for his race, and his earlier Blakean references to "Shattered glass and toppling masonry" (43) involve his reflection on Kevin Egan's bombing Clerkenwell in order to provide just such a social transformation. 5. Bowen, Musical Allusions, 27071. 6. See Thornton, Allusions in "Ulysses," 2829. Chapter 4: Stephen's Villanelle 1. Robert Alter, Partial Magic: The Novel as a Self-Conscious Genre (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975). 2. See Robert Scholes, "Stephen Dedalus, Poet or Esthete?" in James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (New York: Viking Press, 1968), 46880; Charles Rossman, "Stephen Dedalus' Villanelle," James Joyce Quarterly 12 (Spring 1975): 28193; and Bernard Benstock, "The Temptation of St. Stephen: A View of the Villanelle," James Joyce Quarterly 14 (Fall 1976): 3138. 3. Benstock, "Temptation of St. Stephen," 3436. 4. Scholes, "Stephen Dedalus," 480. Chapter 5: Joyce and the Modern Coalescence 1. Robert Adams, Surface and Symbol. The Consistency of James Joyce's "Ulysses" (New York: Oxford University Press, 1962), 7682. 2. John Henry Raleigh, "On the Way Home to Ithaca: The Functions of the 'Eumaeus' Section in Ulysses," Irish Renaissance Annual II (East Brunswick, N.J.: Associated University Presses for University of Delaware Press, 1981), 1056. Chapter 6: And the Music Goes round and round 1. Edmund Epstein, "King David and Benedetto Marcello in the Works of James Joyce," James Joyce Quarterly 6 (1968): 8386. 2. William York Tindall, James Joyce: His Way of Interpreting the Modern World (New York: Scribners, 1950), 3132. 3. Bowen, Musical Allusions.

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Chapter 8: Music as Comedy in Ulysses 1. For the texts and applications to Ulysses of the songs alluded to in this essay, see Bowen, Musical Allusions. For reproductions of the actual music and the history of many of these songs, see Ruth Bauerle, The James Joyce Songbook (New York: Garland, 1982, 1984). 2. For detailed definitions and analyses of the various aspects of comedy, see Bowen, "Ulysses" as a Comic Novel, 1744. 3. See Bowen, Musical Allusions, 2, 8687, 89, 91, 95, 117, 14041, 142, 150, 167, 19293, 256, 27374, 319, 345; Hall, "Joyce's Use of Da Ponte," 7884. 4. Bowen, Musical Allusions, 53. 5. David Hayman, "Forms of Folly in Joyce: A Study of Clowning in Ulysses," ELH 34 (1967): 26083; Elliott B. Gose, Jr., The Transformation Process in Joyce's "Ulysses" (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1980), 13766; Cheryl Herr, Joyce's Anatomy of Culture (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1986), 96135. 6. Francis Macdonald Cornford, The Origin of Attic Comedy, ed. Theodore H. Gaster (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1961); Mikhail Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics, ed. and trans. Caryl Emerson (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984); and Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, trans. Helene Iswolsky (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1968). 7. See R. J. Broadbent, A History of Pantomime (London: Simpkin, 1901; reprint, New York: Citadel, 1965), for an interesting idiosyncratic history of the genre, from which much of my brief account is taken. 8. Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, 34. 9. Broadbent, History of Pantomime, 19596. 10. Gose, Transformation Process, 149. 11. See Herr, Joyce's Anatomy of Culture, 13688, on transvestism and transformation. 12. Gose, Transformation Process, 146. 13. Joyce errs in calling this the "introit" for the Easter season, which would be Resurrexi, et adhuc tecum sum, alleluia: posuisti super me manum tuam, alleluia. 14. The lyrics of the song "Bloomusalem," which I performed at the Joyce conference in Vancouver (June 1991), were of course of my own composition. 15. "Doran's Ass," in Colm O Lochlainn, Irish Street Ballads (Dublin: Three Candles Limited, 1939), 16667, 217. 16. "Kick the Pope" and "Daily, Daily Sing to Mary" are in the Bowen Collection, Richter Library, University of Miami, Coral Gables, Fla.

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Index A "Ach! so fromm, ach so traut" (Flotow), 44. See also "M'appari"; "When First I Saw 'That Form Endearing" Adams, Robert, 98 Adams, Stephen (pseud. of Michael Maybrick), 78 "Alice Ben Bolt" (trad.), 11 "All Is Lost Now." See "Tutto é Sciolto" Alter, Robert, 85 A-Minor Quartet (Beethoven), 116 Andrews Sisters, 137 Arabian Nights, 97-100. See also Arabian Nights' Entertainment; Thousand and One Nights, The Arabian Nights' Entertainment, 96 "Asperges," 132 Augustine, Saint, 79 "Auld Lang Syne" (Burns), 137 B Bahktin, Mikhail, 130, 138 Balfe, Michael, 12, 44 "Ballad of Joking Jesu" (Gogarty), 87, 128 "Ballad of Little Harry Hughes, The" (trad.), 3, 6, 20-24, 88-90 Bauerle, Ruth, xi, 7-9 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 116 Bellini, Vincenzo, 40, 71. See also La Sonnambula; "Tutto é Sciolto" Benstock, Bernard, ix, 5, 86 Bettleheim, Bruno, 99-100 Blake, William, 80, 82

"Blumenlied" (Heine), 56 Bohemian Girl, The (Balfe), 44 Boxcar Willie, 136 "Boys of Wexford, The" (R. D. Joyce), 28, 64, 132 Broadbent, R. J., 146n.7 Byrne, James, 132 "By the Sad Sea Waves" (Benedict), 66 C Cathleen ni Holihan, 95 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 88, 116 Cibber, Colley, 131 "Circus Animals' Desertion, The," 79 Colum, Padraic, 5 Como, Perry, 136 Connolly, Thomas, 76 Cornford, Francis MacDonald, 130 Countess Cathleen, The, 94, 134 "Croppy Boy, The" (Malone), 27, 60-69, 72, 74-75, 108, 122, 128-29, 134, 144n.21 "Cruiskeen Lawn, The" ("My Full Little Jug") (trad.), 119 D "Daily, Daily Sing to Mary" (Bittlestone), 134

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Dante Alighieri, 4, 103 "Dead March" (from Saul) (Handel), 124 "Death of Nelson, The" (Braham, Arnold), 132 Don Giovanni (Mozart, da Ponte), 11, 18, 58-59, 126-28, 132 Donnelly, Mary, xi "Don't Sit under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me" (Stept, Tobias and Brown), 137 "Doran's Ass" (trad.), 134 Dowland, John, 136 "Down among the Dead Men" (Saville, Dyer), 40-41 E "Echo" (Moore), 41 Eddy, Nelson, 125 Emmet, Robert, 74-75, 128, 130, 137 "Epilogue." See "Last Farewell, A" Epstein, Edmund, 111 F Fielding, Henry, 131 Florodora (Stuart, Boyd-Jones, Rubens), 29 Flotow, Friedrich von, 26, 39, 45, 69. See also "M'appari"; Martha Flying Dutchman, The (Wagner), 98 Foucault, Michel, 137 From Olivet to Calvary (Maunder), 70 G "Garryowen" (trad.), 128 Gilbert, Stuart, 16, 25-26 Gillespie, Michael, xi Glover, Charles W., 40 "Goodbye Sweetheart Goodbye" (Hatton, Williams), 17, 26-27, 32-33, 35, 37, 68, 75, 122, 127, 129, 140n.6 Gose, Elliot, 130-32

Gotterdämmerung (Wagner), 94-96 Grieg, Edvard, 39 Grimaldi family, 132 H Hamlet (Shakespeare), 79, 88, 134 "Handy Spandy" (Trabar), 60 "Harp That Once through Tara's Halls, The" (Moore), 38, 118-19 "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" (Murphy, Letters), 100-101, 124, 128 "Hatikvah" ("Hope") (Cohen, Imber), 19, 88 Hayman, David, 130-32, 134 "Heart Bowed Down, The" (Balfe), 44 Herr, Cheryl, 130-32 Hickerson, Joseph, 5 History of Pantomime, A, 146n.7 H.M.S. Pinafore (Gilbert and Sullivan), 73 Hodgart, Matthew, 2, 10, 35, 140n.1, 144n.23 "Holy City, The" ("Jerusalem") (Adams, Waetherly), 6, 78-84, 112-13, 128, 132 "Home Sweet Home," 27, 73, 127 Hope, Bob, 132 "How Sweet the Answer Echo Makes." See "Echo" Hungarian Rhapsodies, The (Liszt), 27 Huppé, Bernard, 76 Huxley, Aldous, 7, 116 I Idylls of the King, 55-56 "Indian Love Call, The" (Friml, Harbach and Hammerstein), 125 "In Old Madrid" (Trotère, Bingham), 51, 97 Irish Literature and Culture, 8-9 "Irish Rapparee, The" (Duffy), 120 It's a Wonderful Life, 136 J Jeffreys, Charles, 5, 40, 44, 141n.11

"Jerusalem" (Adams, Weatherly), 112-13. See also "The Holy City" "Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye" (trad.), 40 "John Peel" (Graves), 71-72 Joyce, James: Dubliners, ix, xi, 77, 101, 104-5; Exiles, ix; Finnegans Wake, ix, xi, 1-2, 7, 77, 92, 96, 99-101, 105-6, 125, 138; A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, ix, xi, 3, 77-79, 82, 84-90, 92, 100-6, 111; Stephen Hero, 78, 82; Ulysses, xi, 1-75, 77-84, 87-90, 92-101, 105-38

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"Joyce, Yeats, and the Irish Renaissance," 105 Judas Maccabeus, 34 K Kaplun, Marion, 58, 144n.21 "Kelly from the Isle of Man." See "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" Kenneally, Michael, 8-9 "Kick the Pope" (trad.), 134 "King of the Cannibal Islands, The" (trad.), 117 Knowles, Sebastian, xi L "Là ci darem" (Mozart, da Ponte), 10-11. See also Don Giovanni La Sonnambula (Bellini), 40, 44 "Last Farewell, A" (Willis), 39-40 "Last Rose of Summer, The" (Flotow), 26-28, 69-70, 74, 127 "Leg of the Duck, The" (trad.), 132 Leno, Dan, 132 Levin, Harry, 26 Levin, Lawrence L., 141n.2 "Lily of the Valley" (Friedland, Gilbert, Cooper, Tocaber, Carey), 133 Linati, Carlo, 141n.3 Liszt, Franz, 27, 60 "Little Harry Hughes." See "Ballad of Little Harry Hughes, The" Litz, A. Walton, 26 "Long John, Waken the Dead," 71-72. See "John Peel" "Lost Chord, The" (Sullivan, Procter), 70 "Love and War" (Coote), 27, 35-38, 108-9, 122, 129 "Love's Old Sweet Song" (Molloy, Bingham), 10, 46-47, 126-27, 129, 137-38 "Low-Backed Car, The" (Lover), 18 M MacDonald, Jeanette, 125

Magic Flute, The (Mozart), 60-61 Mahaffey, Vicki, 138 "M'appari" (Flotow), 5, 10-11, 26-27, 39-40, 44-54, 61, 72, 75, 109-10, 122, 128-29. See also Martha Marcello, Benedetto, 110-12 Martha (Flotow), 18, 26-27, 39, 44-46, 49-53, 69-70, 129-30. See also "M'appari" "Martha, O Return Love," 40, 126. See also "When First I Saw That Form Endearing" Martin, Timothy, xi Maunder, John Henry, 70 McGrory, Kathleen, xi "Meeting of the Waters, The" (Moore), 12 "Memory of the Dead, The" (Ingram), 65, 74, 120, 129 "Men of the West, The" (Moore), 35 Mercandante, Saverio, 5, 59-60, 74, 122, 128, 139n.5 Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 5, 74-75, 139n.5 "Michael Robartes Remembers Forgotten Beauty," 102-3 Moore, Thomas, 12, 42, 119, 121. See also "Harp That Once through Tara's Halls, The"; "Meeting of the Waters, The"; "Where Is the Slave?" Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 60-61. See also Don Giovanni; Magic Flute, The Murphy, C. W., 101 Musical Allusions in the Works of James Joyce (Bowen), ix, 3-5, 139n.5, 141n.13, 146n.1 "My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl" (Murphy, Lipton, Bayford), 6, 92-96, 134 "My Irish Molly, O" (Schwartz, Jerome), 35 N Nabokov, Vladimir, 136 Neville, William, 76 "Night Before Larry Was Stretched, The" (trad.), 121 O Odyssey, The (Homer), 27, 93, 96-97, 100, 116 "Oh, Oh, Antonio." See "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" "O Mary Lost the Pin of Her Drawers" (trad.), 28, 56-57, 118, 143-44n.15

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"Open Your Mouth" (trad.), 117 Oxford Companion to Music, The, 70 P Page, Patti, 136 "Pauper's Drive, The" (Noel), 14-16, 124 Penitence, Pardon, and Peace (Maunder), 70 Petri, Horst, 26, 141n.6 Picking Up Airs: Hearing the Music in Joyce's Text, 7-9 Plato, 77 Point Counter Point (Huxley), 7, 116 Power, Henriette, xi Prescott, Joseph, 142n.14 Pyrrhus, 80 Q "Qui sdegno" ("In diesen heil'gen Hallen") (Mozart, Schikaneder, Giesecke), 60-61 "Quis est homo?" (Rossini, du Todi), 28, 59-60 R Raleigh, John Henry, 100 Reynolds, Mary, 105 "Ride a Cock Horse" (trad.), 133-34 Ring, The (Wagner), 6, 92, 94-96 "Rhyme of the Rook, The" (trad.), 118 Rogers, Margaret, xi Rogers, Will, 132 "Rogue's Delight in Praise of His Stroling Mort, The" (trad.), 95 "Rory of the Hill," 120 Rose of Castille, The (Balfe), 16, 26, 53, 67-68, 74 Rossini, Gioachino, 60 Rossman, Charles, 86 Russel, Myra, xi

S "Safe in the Arms of Jesus" (Doane, Crosby), 117 "Sally in Our Alley" (Carey), 133 Saul (Handel), 124 Schneider, Ulrich, xi Scholes, Robert, 86 "Seaside Girls." See "Those Lovely Seaside Girls" "See the Conquering Hero Comes" (Handel, Morell), 34, 122 "Seven Last Words of Christ, The" (Mercadante), 5, 18, 60, 74-75, 128, 137, 139n.5 "Shade of the Palm, The" (Stuart, Boyd-Jones, Rubens), 16, 29-30, 34-36, 50-51, 68, 122, 132 Shakespeare, William, 79, 88 Shan Van Vocht, 6, 95, 134 Sharp, Cecil T., 23 Shirley, Wayne D., 5 "Shule Aroon" (Moore), 18-19 Siegfried (Wagner), 94 Sinbad the Sailor, 98-99 "Slap! Bang! Here We Are Again, Boys!" (Sheridan), 133 Smith, Henry Lee, Jr., 76 Song in the Works of James Joyce, 2 "Song of Solomon, The," 18-19. See also "Song of Songs, The" "Song of Songs, The," 110-11. See also "Song of Solomon, The" Stabat Mater (Rossini, da Todi), 60 Sternfeld, Frederick, 58, 61 Stewart, Jimmy, 136 Sultan, Stanley, 26, 141n.10 T Talmud, 120 Tavern Bilkers (Weaver), 131 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 55-56 Tindall, William York, 111 "Thirty-two Counties, The" (Sullivan), 144n.23

"This Is the Way the Ladies Ride" (trad.), 133-34 Thornton, Weldon, 80 "Those Lovely Seaside Girls" (Norris), 5, 47-48, 57-58, 65-66, 127, 141-42n.13 Thousand and One Nights, The, 96 Townsend, J. Benjamin, 76 Turko the Terrible (Hamilton), 98 "Tutto è Sciolto" ("All Is Lost Now") (Bellini), 27, 40-43, 71, 75, 126, 129 "'Twas Rank and Fame" (Balfe), 53-54

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U "Ulysses" as a Comic Novel (Bowen), 7, 146n.2 Uses of Enchantment, The, 99-100 W Wagner, Richard, 6, 84, 92, 94, 98; Wagnerian leitmotif, 10, 16, 25-26 "Waiting" (Millard, Flagg), 50 "Washed in the Blood of the Lamb," 128 "We Never Speak as We Pass By" (Egerton), 54-55 "Wearing of the Green, The" (trad.), 134 Weaver, John, 131 "What Ho! She Bumps!" (Casting, Mills), 133 "When First I Saw That Form Endearing" (Flotow), 27, 40, 44-45, 126. See also "Ach! so fromm, ach so traut"; "M'appari" "When the Bloom Is on the Rye" (Bishop, Fitzball), 11, 16, 26, 31, 33-35, 68, 122 "Where Is the Slave?" (Moore), 121 Worthington, Mabel, 2, 5, 10, 27, 35, 61, 76, 140n.1, 141n.11, 144n.23 Y Yeats, William Butler, 78-79, 94-95, 102-3, 105, 134 "The Young May Moon" (Moore), 13, 126-27

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