Section 9 of 74 - Table of Contents
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 is.
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 prescriptions
book.
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 wax.
--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 glum.
--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 they?
--Fourpence, sir.
Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.
--I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.
--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 weakly.
--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 Egypt.
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, sir?
Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here.
Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare
street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line.
And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor.
Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the
stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.
Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle
tepid stream. This is my body.
He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of
warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and
limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow:
his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush
floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands,
a languid floating flower.
* * * * * * *
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A Little Princess Sections: 24 What's this? Table of Contents |
 Non FictionShort StoriesPoetryPlaysSci FiPhilosophyReligionBiography |
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