尤利西斯-第14章

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MARTHA。
P。S。　Do　tell　me　what　kind　of　perfume　does　your　wife　use。　I　want　to　know。
He　tore　the　flower　gravely　from　its　pinhold　smelt　its　almost　no　smell　and　placed　it　in　his　heart　pocket。　Language　of　flowers。　They　like　it　because　no…one　can　hear。　Or　a　poison　bouquet　to　strike　him　down。　Then；　walking　slowly　forward；　he　read　the　letter　again；　murmuring　here　and　there　a　word。　Angry　tulips　with　you　darling　manflower　punish　your　cactus　if　you　don't　please　poor　forgetmenot　how　I　long　violets　to　dear　roses　when　we　soon　anemone　meet　all　naughty　nightstalk　wife　Martha's　perfume。　Having　read　it　all　he　took　it　from　the　newspaper　and　put　it　back　in　his　sidepocket。　
Weak　joy　opened　his　lips。　Changed　since　the　first　letter。　Wonder　did　she　write　it　herself。　Doing　the　indignant：　a　girl　of　good　family　like　me；　respectable　character。　Could　meet　one　Sunday　after　the　rosary。　Thank　you：　not　having　any。　Usual　love　scrimmage。　Then　running　round　corners。　Bad　as　a　row　with　Molly。　Cigar　has　a　cooling　effect。　Narcotic。　Go　further　next　time。　Naughty　boy：　punish：　afraid　of…words；　of　course。　Brutal；　why　not？　Try　it　anyhow。　A　bit　at　a　time。　
Fingering　still　the　letter　in　his　pocket　he　drew　the　pin　out　of　it。　mon　pin；　eh？　He　threw　it　on　the　road。　Out　of　her　clothes　somewhere：　pinned　together。　Queer　the　number　of　pins　they　always　have。　No　roses　without　thorns。　
Flat　Dublin　voices　bawled　in　his　head。　Those　two　sluts　that　night　in　the　Coombe；　linked　together　in　the　rain。　
O；　Mary　lost　the　pin　of　her　drawers。
She　didn't　know　what　to　do
To　keep　it　up
To　keep　it　up。
It？　Them。　Such　a　bad　headache。　Has　her　roses　probably。　Or　sitting　all　day　typing。　Eyefocus　bad　for　stomach　nerves。　What　perfume　does　your　wife　use？　Now　could　you　make　out　a　thing　like　that？　
To　keep　it　up。　
Martha；　Mary。　I　saw　that　picture　somewhere　I　forget　now　old　master　or　faked　for　money。　He　is　sitting　in　their　house；　talking。　Mysterious。　Also　the　two　sluts　in　the　Coombe　would　listen。　
To　keep　it　up。　
Nice　kind　of　evening　feeling。　No　more　wandering　about。　Just　loll　there：　quiet　dusk：　let　everything　rip。　Forget。　Tell　about　places　you　have　been；　strange　customs。　The　other　one；　jar　on　her　head；　was　getting　the　supper：　fruit；　olives；　lovely　cool　water　out　of　the　well　stonecold　like　the　hole　in　the　wall　at　Ashtown。　Must　carry　a　paper　goblet　next　time　I　go　to　the　trottingmatches。　She　listens　with　big　dark　soft　eyes。　Tell　her：　more　and　more：　all。　Then　a　sigh：　silence。　Long　long　long　rest。　
Going　under　the　railway　arch　he　took　out　the　envelope；　tore　it　swiftly　in　shreds　and　scattered　them　towards　the　road。　The　shreds　fluttered　away；　sank　in　the　dank　air：　a　white　flutter　then　all　sank。　
Henry　Flower。　You　could　tear　up　a　cheque　for　a　hundred　pounds　in　the　same　way。　Simple　bit　of　paper。　Lord　Iveagh　once　cashed　a　sevenfigure　cheque　for　a　million　in　the　bank　of　Ireland。　Shows　you　the　money　to　be　made　out　of　porter。　Still　the　other　brother　lord　Ardilaun　has　to　change　his　shirt　four　times　a　day；　they　say。　Skin　breeds　lice　or　vermin。　A　million　pounds；　wait　a　moment。　Twopence　a　pint；　fourpence　a　quart；　eightpence　a　gallon　of　porter；　no；　one　and　fourpence　a　gallon　of　porter。　One　and　four　into　twenty：　fifteen　about。　Yes；　exactly。　Fifteen　millions　of　barrels　of　porter。　
What　am　I　saying　barrels？　Gallons。　About　a　million　barrels　all　the　same。　
An　ining　train　clanked　heavily　above　his　head；　coach　after　coach。　Barrels　bumped　in　his　head：　dull　porter　slopped　and　churned　inside。　The　bungholes　sprang　open　and　a　huge　dull　flood　leaked　out；　flowing　together；　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　and　the　African　mission。　Save　China's　millions。　Wonder　how　they　explain　it　to　the　heathen　Chinee。　Prefer　an　ounce　of　opium。　Celestials。　Rank　heresy　for　them。　Prayers　for　the　conversion　of　Gladstone　they　had　too　when　he　was　almost　unconscious。　The　protestants　the　same。　Convert　Dr。　William　J。　Walsh　D。　D。　to　the　true　religion。　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：　distinguished　looking。　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　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　altar　rails。　The　priest　went　along　by　them；　murmuring；　holding　the　thing　in　his　hands。　He　stopped　at　each；　took　out　a　munion；　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：　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。　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　municants。　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　e　out　a　big　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　confession　box。　Hence　those　snores。　Blind　faith。　Safe　in　the　arms　of　Kingdom　e。　Lulls　all　pain。　Wake　this　time　next　year。　
He　saw　the　priest　stow　the　munion　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　munion　every　morning。　This　very　church。　Peter　Carey。　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　fort。　Pious　fraud　but　quite　right：　otherwise　they'd　have　one　old　booser　worse　than　another　ing　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　is　splendid。　Mercadante：　seven　last　words。　Mozart's　twelfth　mass：　the　Gloria　in　that。　Those　old　popes　were　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　ing　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？　Gloria　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