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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 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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