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Ulysses 

138 

of

 1305 

winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy 

pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers 

of its froth. 

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. 

Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card 

from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather 

headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M’Coy for 

a pass to Mullingar. 

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend 

John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the 

African Mission. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone 

they had too when he was almost unconscious. The 

protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh 

D.D. to the true religion. Save China’s millions. Wonder 

how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an 

ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them. 

Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking 

it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not 

like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea 

Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin 

Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I 

didn’t work him about getting Molly into the choir 

instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn’t. 

They’re taught that. He’s not going out in bluey specs 

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with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The 

glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them 

sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. 

Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose. 

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the 

worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by 

the rere. 

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. 

Nice discreet place to be next some girl. Who is my 

neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That 

woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt 

in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, 

heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altarrails. The priest 

went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his 

hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook 

a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly 

into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next 

one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next one: a small old 

woman. 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. What? Corpus: body. Corpse. 

Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the 

dying. They don’t seem to chew it: only swallow it down. 

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Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals 

cotton to it. 

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down 

the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached 

a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat 

and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to 

have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him 

here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson 

halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs. Something 

like those mazzoth: it’s that sort of bread: unleavened 

shewbread. 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. Hokypoky penny a 

lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the 

theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I’m sure of that. 

Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit 

spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. 

Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock 

apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that 

confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the 

arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next 

year. 

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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 

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