He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well
in, and kneel an instant before it, showing a large grey
bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. Suppose he
lost the pin of his. He wouldn’t know what to do to. Bald
spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S.
Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no:
I have suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.
Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my
request. Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the
light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round
her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly.
Their character. That fellow that turned queen’s evidence
on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his
name, the communion every morning. This very church.
Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of.
Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children
at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those
crawthumpers, now that’s a good name for them, there’s
always something shiftylooking about them. They’re not
straight men of business either. O, no, she’s not here: the
flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope?
Yes: under the bridge.
The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed
off the dregs smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic
than for example if he drank what they are used to
Guinness’s porter or some temperance beverage
Wheatley’s Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane’s
ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn’t give them any of it: shew
wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite
right: otherwise they’d have one old booser worse than
another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the
whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that
Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going
to be any music. Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder?
Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk,
the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner
street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater of
Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan’s sermon first. Christ or
Pilate? Christ, but don’t keep us all night over it. Music
they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop. I
told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel
the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:
Quis est homo.
Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante:
seven last words. Mozart’s twelfth mass: Gloria in that.
Those old popes keen on music, on art and statues and
pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too. They had
a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting,
regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green
Chartreuse. Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was
coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be
curious to hear after their own strong basses.
Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn’t feel anything after.
Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don’t they?
Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way
out of it.
He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and
then face about and bless all the people. All crossed
themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced about him
and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at
the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees
again and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came
down from the altar, holding the thing out from him, and
he and the massboy answered each other in Latin. Then
the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:
—O God, our refuge and our strength ...
Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words.
English. Throw them the bone. I remember slightly. How
long since your last mass? Glorious and immaculate virgin.
Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you
understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation
certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone
wants to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me,
please. Great weapon in their hands. More than doctor or
solicitor. Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And
did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down
at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls
have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God’s little joke.
Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame.
Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers,
incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army
blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the
meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps
those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. And
don’t they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the
P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses
for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open
doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in that
Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. No browbeating
him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and
exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of
the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.
The priest prayed:
—Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of
conflict. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and
snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly
pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the
power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him
those other wicked spirits who wander through the world
for the ruin of souls.
The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off.
All over. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.
Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around
with the plate perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.
He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my
waistcoat open all the time? Women enjoy it. Never tell
you. But we. Excuse, miss, there’s a (whh!) just a (whh!)
fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Glimpses of
the moon. Annoyed if you don’t. Why didn’t you tell me
before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn’t
farther south. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the
aisle and out through the main door into the light. He
stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl
while before him and behind two worshippers dipped
furtive hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of
Prescott’s dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice
because I’m in mourning myself. He covered himself.
How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet.
Better get that lotion made up. Where is this? Ah yes, the
last time. Sweny’s in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move.
Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir.
Hamilton Long’s, founded in the year of the flood.
Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.
He walked southward along Westland row. But the
recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that
latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow,
it’s not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait. I
changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it
must have been or the second. O, he can look it up in the
The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy
shrivelled smell he seems to have. Shrunken skull. And
old. Quest for the philosopher’s stone. The alchemists.
Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then.
Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes
your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments,
disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle.
Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you like
the dentist’s doorbell. Doctor Whack. He ought to physic
himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that
picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples.
Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you.
Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose
of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric
poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm.
Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it.
Clever of nature.
—About a fortnight ago, sir?
—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen
reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs.
Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains.
—Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr
Bloom said, and then orangeflower water ...
It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like
—And white wax also, he said.
Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the
sheet up to her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was
fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are
often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles and
rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk.
Skinfood. One of the old queen’s sons, duke of Albany
was it? had only one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have.
Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you
want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau
d’Espagne. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell
these soaps have. Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath
round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets
rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I
think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water
to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time
for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather
—Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine.
Have you brought a bottle?
—No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I’ll call later
in the day and I’ll take one of these soaps. How much are
Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony
—I’ll take this one, he said. That makes three and a
—Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together,
sir, when you come back.
—Good, Mr Bloom said.
He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under
his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
At his armpit Bantam Lyons’ voice and hand said:
—Hello, Bloom. What’s the best news? Is that today’s?
Show us a minute.
Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold
upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy.
Younger than I am.
Bantam Lyons’s yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the
baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good
morning, have you used Pears’ soap? Dandruff on his
shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.
—I want to see about that French horse that’s running
today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?
He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his
high collar. Barber’s itch. Tight collar he’ll lose his hair.
Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.
—You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
—Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered.
Half a mo. Maximum the second.
—I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.
Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered
—What’s that? his sharp voice said.
—I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was
going to throw it away that moment.
Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust
the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom’s arms.
—I’ll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.
He sped off towards Conway’s corner. God speed scut.
Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and
lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap.
Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys
stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey.
Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming
embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America.
Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of
He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths.
Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets.
College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster
over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod
in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round
like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and
the hub big: college. Something to catch the eye.
There’s Hornblower standing at the porter’s lodge.
Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the
nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do,
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