Moment From The Flow That Is Bloomsday...
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
Ulysses, by James Joyce, chronicles the passage of Leopold Bloom
through Dublin during on June 16, 1904 (the day of Joyce's first
date with his future wife, Nora Barnacle)