Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came
from
the stairhead, bearing
a
bowl
of
lather
on
which
a
mirror
and
a
razor
lay
crossed.
A
yellow
dressinggown, ungirdled,
was
sustained gently
behind
him
on
the
mild
morning
air.
He
held the bowl
aloft
and
intoned: Halted,
he
peered
down
the dark winding stairs
and
called
out
coarsely: —Come up, Kinch!
Come
up,
you
fearful jesuit! Solemnly
he
came forward
and
mounted the round gunrest.
He
faced
about
and
blessed gravely
thrice
the tower, the surrounding
land
and
the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight
of
Stephen Dedalus,
he
bent
towards
him
and
made
rapid
crosses
in
the air, gurgling
in
his
throat
and
shaking
his
head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased
and
sleepy, leaned
his
arms
on
the
top
of
the staircase
and
looked coldly
at
the shaking gurgling face
that
blessed him,
equine
in
its length,
and
at
the
light
untonsured hair, grained
and
hued
like
pale
oak. Buck Mulligan peeped an
instant
under the
mirror
and
then
covered the bowl smartly. —Back
to
barracks!
he
said sternly.
He
added
in
a
preacher's tone: —For this, O
dearly
beloved,
is
the
genuine
Christine:
body
and
soul
and
blood
and
ouns.
Slow
music, please.
Shut
your eyes, gents.
One
moment.
A
little
trouble
about
those
white
corpuscles. Silence, all.
He
peered sideways
up
and
gave
a
long
slow
whistle
of
call,
then
paused
awhile
in
rapt
attention,
his
even
white
teeth glistening here
and
there
with
gold
points. Chrysostomos.
Two
strong
shrill whistles answered through the calm. —Thanks,
old
chap,
he
cried briskly.
That
will
do
nicely. Switch
off
the current,
will
you?
He
skipped
off
the gunrest
and
looked gravely
at
his
watcher,
gathering
about
his
legs the
loose
folds
of
his
gown. The plump shadowed face
and
sullen
oval
jowl
recalled
a
prelate,
patron
of
arts
in
the
middle
ages.
A
pleasant
smile
broke
quietly
over
his
lips. —The
mockery
of
it!
he
said gaily. Your
absurd
name, an
ancient
Greek!
He
pointed
his
finger
in
friendly
jest
and
went
over
to
the parapet, laughing
to
himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed
him
wearily halfway
and
sat
down
on
the
edge
of
the gunrest, watching
him
still
as
he
propped
his
mirror
on
the parapet, dipped the brush
in
the bowl
and
lathered cheeks
and
neck. Buck Mulligan's
gay
voice went on. —My
name
is
absurd
too: Malachi Mulligan,
two
dactyls. But
it
has
a
Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping
and
sunny
like
the buck himself.
We
must
go
to
Athens.
Will
you
come
if
I
can
get
the
aunt
to
fork
out
twenty
quid?
He
laid the brush
aside
and, laughing
with
delight, cried: —Will
he
come? The
jejune
jesuit! Ceasing,
he
began
to
shave
with
care. —Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly. —Yes, my love? —How
long
is
Haines going
to
stay
in
this
tower? Buck Mulligan showed
a
shaven
cheek
over
his
right
shoulder. —God, isn't
he
dreadful?
he
said frankly.
A
ponderous
Saxon.
He
thinks you're not
a
gentleman. God,
these
bloody
English! Bursting
with
money
and
indigestion.
Because
he
comes
from
Oxford.
You
know, Dedalus,
you
have
the
real
Oxford manner.
He
can't
make
you
out. O, my
name
for
you
is
the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.
He
shaved warily
over
his
chin. —He
was
raving all
night
about
a
black
panther, Stephen said.
Where
is
his
guncase? —A woful lunatic! Mulligan said.
Were
you
in
a
funk? —I was, Stephen said
with
energy
and
growing
fear.
Out
here
in
the dark
with
a
man
I don't
know
raving
and
moaning
to
himself
about
shooting
a
black
panther.
You
saved men
from
drowning. I'm not
a
hero, however.
If
he
stays
on
here I
am
off. Buck Mulligan frowned
at
the
lather
on
his
razorblade.
He
hopped
down
from
his
perch
and
began
to
search
his
trouser pockets hastily. —Scutter!
he
cried thickly.
He
came
over
to
the gunrest and, thrusting
a
hand
into
Stephen's
upper
pocket, said: —Lend
us
a
loan
of
your noserag
to
wipe my razor. Stephen suffered
him
to
pull
out
and
hold
up
on
show
by
its
corner
a
dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing
over
the handkerchief,
he
said: —The bard's noserag!
A
new
art
colour
for
our
Irish poets: snotgreen.
You
can
almost
taste
it, can't you?
He
mounted
to
the
parapet
again
and
gazed
out
over
Dublin bay,
his
fair
oakpale
hair
stirring slightly. Stephen stood
up
and
went
over
to
the parapet. Leaning
on
it
he
looked
down
on
the
water
and
on
the mailboat
clearing
the harbourmouth
of
Kingstown. —Our
mighty
mother! Buck Mulligan said.
He
turned abruptly
his
grey searching eyes
from
the
sea
to
Stephen's face. —The
aunt
thinks
you
killed your mother,
he
said. That's
why
she
won't
let
me
have
anything
to
do
with
you. —Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily. —You
could
have
knelt down,
damn
it, Kinch,
when
your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm
hyperborean
as
much
as
you. But
to
think
of
your mother begging
you
with
her
last
breath
to
kneel
down
and
pray
for
her.
And
you
refused. There
is
something
sinister
in
you...
He
broke
off
and
lathered
again
lightly
his
farther
cheek.
A
tolerant
smile
curled
his
lips. —But
a
lovely
mummer!
he
murmured
to
himself. Kinch, the loveliest
mummer
of
them
all!
He
shaved
evenly
and
with
care,
in
silence, seriously. Stephen, an elbow rested
on
the
jagged
granite, leaned
his
palm
against
his
brow
and
gazed
at
the fraying
edge
of
his
shiny
black
coat-sleeve. Pain,
that
was
not
yet
the
pain
of
love, fretted
his
heart. Silently,
in
a
dream
she
had
come
to
him
after
her death, her wasted
body
within its
loose
brown graveclothes giving
off
an
odour
of
wax
and
rosewood, her breath,
that
had bent
upon
him, mute, reproachful,
a
faint
odour
of
wetted ashes.
Across
the threadbare cuffedge
he
saw
the
sea
hailed
as
a
great
sweet
mother
by
the wellfed voice
beside
him. The ring
of
bay
and
skyline held
a
dull
green
mass
of
liquid.
A
bowl
of
white
china had stood
beside
her
deathbed
holding the
green
sluggish
bile
which
she
had torn
up
from
her rotting
liver
by
fits
of
loud
groaning
vomiting. Buck Mulligan wiped
again
his
razorblade. —Ah,
poor
dogsbody!
he
said
in
a
kind
voice. I
must
give
you
a
shirt
and
a
few
noserags.
How
are
the secondhand breeks? —They fit
well
enough, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan attacked the
hollow
beneath
his
underlip. —The
mockery
of
it,
he
said contentedly. Secondleg
they
should be.
God
knows
what
poxy
bowsy
left
them
off. I
have
a
lovely
pair
with
a
hair
stripe, grey. You'll
look
spiffing
in
them. I'm not joking, Kinch.
You
look
damn
well
when
you're dressed. —Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear
them
if
they
are
grey. —He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told
his
face
in
the mirror.
Etiquette
is
etiquette.
He
kills
his
mother but
he
can't wear grey trousers.
He
folded
his
razor
neatly
and
with
stroking palps
of
fingers felt the
smooth
skin. Stephen turned
his
gaze
from
the
sea
and
to
the plump face
with
its smokeblue mobile eyes. —That
fellow
I
was
with
in
the
Ship
last
night, said Buck Mulligan, says
you
have
g.p.i. He's
up
in
Dottyville
with
Connolly Norman.
General
paralysis
of
the insane!
He
swept the
mirror
a
half circle
in
the air
to
flash the
tidings
abroad
in
sunlight
now
radiant
on
the sea.
His
curling shaven lips laughed
and
the edges
of
his
white
glittering teeth.
Laughter
seized all
his
strong
wellknit trunk. —Look
at
yourself,
he
said,
you
dreadful bard! Stephen bent forward
and
peered
at
the
mirror
held
out
to
him, cleft
by
a
crooked crack.
Hair
on
end.
As
he
and
others
see
me.
Who
chose
this
face
for
me?
This
dogsbody
to
rid
of
vermin.
It
asks
me
too. —I pinched
it
out
of
the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said.
It
does her all right. The
aunt
always
keeps plainlooking servants
for
Malachi. Lead
him
not
into
temptation.
And
her
name
is
Ursula. Laughing again,
he
brought the
mirror
away
from
Stephen's peering eyes. —The
rage
of
Caliban
at
not
seeing
his
face
in
a
mirror,
he
said.
If
Wilde
were
only
alive
to
see
you! Drawing
back
and
pointing, Stephen said
with
bitterness: —It
is
a
symbol
of
Irish art. The
cracked
looking-glass
of
a
servant. Buck Mulligan suddenly linked
his
arm
in
Stephen's
and
walked
with
him
round the tower,
his
razor
and
mirror
clacking
in
the
pocket
where
he
had thrust them. —It's not
fair
to
tease
you
like
that, Kinch,
is
it?
he
said kindly.
God
knows
you
have
more
spirit
than
any
of
them. Parried again.
He
fears the
lancet
of
my
art
as
I
fear
that
of
his. The cold steelpen. —Cracked lookingglass
of
a
servant!
Tell
that
to
the oxy chap downstairs
and
touch
him
for
a
guinea. He's
stinking
with
money
and
thinks you're not
a
gentleman.
His
old
fellow
made
his
tin
by
selling jalap
to
Zulus
or
some
bloody
swindle
or
other. God, Kinch,
if
you
and
I
could
only
work
together
we
might
do
something
for
the island. Hellenise it. Cranly's arm.
His
arm. —And
to
think
of
your having
to
beg
from
these
swine. I'm the
only
one
that
knows
what
you
are.
Why
don't
you
trust
me
more?
What
have
you
up
your
nose
against me?
Is
it
Haines?
If
he
makes
any
noise
here I'll
bring
down
Seymour
and
we'll
give
him
a
ragging
worse
than
they
gave Clive Kempthorpe.
Young
shouts
of
moneyed
voices
in
Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces:
they
hold
their
ribs
with
laughter,
one
clasping another. O, I
shall
expire!
Break
the
news
to
her gently, Aubrey! I
shall
die!
With
slit
ribbons
of
his
shirt
whipping
the air
he
hops
and
hobbles round the table,
with
trousers
down
at
heels, chased
by
Ades
of
Magdalen
with
the tailor's shears.
A
scared calf's face
gilded
with
marmalade. I don't
want
to
be
debagged! Don't
you
play
the
giddy
ox
with
me! Shouts
from
the
open
window
startling
evening
in
the quadrangle.
A
deaf
gardener, aproned, masked
with
Matthew Arnold's face, pushes
his
mower
on
the
sombre
lawn
watching
narrowly
the dancing motes
of
grasshalms.
To
ourselves...
new
paganism... omphalos. —Let
him
stay, Stephen said. There's
nothing
wrong
with
him
except
at
night. —Then
what
is
it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently.
Cough
it
up. I'm
quite
frank
with
you.
What
have
you
against
me
now?
They
halted, looking
towards
the blunt
cape
of
Bray
Head
that
lay
on
the
water
like
the
snout
of
a
sleeping whale. Stephen freed
his
arm
quietly. —Do
you
wish
me
to
tell
you?
he
asked. —Yes,
what
is
it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't
remember
anything.
He
looked
in
Stephen's face
as
he
spoke.
A
light
wind passed
his
brow, fanning softly
his
fair
uncombed
hair
and
stirring
silver
points
of
anxiety
in
his
eyes. Stephen, depressed
by
his
own
voice, said: —Do
you
remember
the first
day
I went
to
your
house
after
my mother's death? Buck Mulligan frowned
quickly
and
said: —What? Where? I can't
remember
anything. I
remember
only
ideas
and
sensations. Why?
What
happened
in
the
name
of
God? —You
were
making tea, Stephen said,
and
went
across
the landing
to
get
more
hot
water. Your mother
and
some
visitor
came
out
of
the drawingroom.
She
asked
you
who
was
in
your room. —Yes? Buck Mulligan said.
What
did
I say? I forget.
A
flush
which
made
him
seem
younger
and
more
engaging
rose
to
Buck Mulligan's cheek. —Did I
say
that?
he
asked. Well?
What
harm
is
that?
He
shook
his
constraint
from
him
nervously. —And
what
is
death,
he
asked, your mother's
or
yours
or
my own?
You
saw
only
your mother die. I
see
them
pop
off
every
day
in
the Mater
and
Richmond
and
cut
up
into
tripes
in
the dissectingroom. It's
a
beastly
thing
and
nothing
else.
It
simply doesn't matter.
You
wouldn't
kneel
down
to
pray
for
your mother
on
her
deathbed
when
she
asked you. Why?
Because
you
have
the cursed jesuit strain
in
you,
only
it's injected the
wrong
way.
To
me
it's all
a
mockery
and
beastly. Her
cerebral
lobes
are
not functioning.
She
calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle
and
picks buttercups
off
the quilt. Humour her
till
it's over.
You
crossed her
last
wish
in
death
and
yet
you
sulk
with
me
because
I don't
whinge
like
some
hired mute
from
Lalouette's. Absurd! I
suppose
I
did
say
it. I didn't
mean
to
offend
the
memory
of
your mother.
He
had spoken
himself
into
boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds
which
the words had
left
in
his
heart, said
very
coldly: —I
am
not thinking
of
the offence
to
my mother. —Of
what
then? Buck Mulligan asked. —Of the offence
to
me, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan swung round
on
his
heel. —O, an
impossible
person!
he
exclaimed.
He
walked
off
quickly
round the parapet. Stephen stood
at
his
post, gazing
over
the
calm
sea
towards
the headland.
Sea
and
headland
now
grew dim. Pulses
were
beating
in
his
eyes, veiling
their
sight,
and
he
felt the
fever
of
his
cheeks.
A
voice within the
tower
called loudly: —Are
you
up
there, Mulligan? —I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered.
He
turned
towards
Stephen
and
said: —Look
at
the sea.
What
does
it
care
about
offences?
Chuck
Loyola, Kinch,
and
come
on
down. The Sassenach wants
his
morning
rashers.
His
head
halted
again
for
a
moment
at
the
top
of
the staircase,
level
with
the roof: —Don't
mope
over
it
all day,
he
said. I'm inconsequent.
Give
up
the
moody
brooding.
His
head
vanished but the
drone
of
his
descending voice boomed
out
of
the stairhead: Woodshadows floated silently
by
through the
morning
peace
from
the stairhead seaward
where
he
gazed. Inshore
and
farther
out
the
mirror
of
water
whitened, spurned
by
lightshod hurrying feet.
White
breast
of
the
dim
sea. The twining stresses,
two
by
two.
A
hand
plucking the harpstrings, merging
their
twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering
on
the
dim
tide.
A
cloud
began
to
cover the
sun
slowly, wholly, shadowing the
bay
in
deeper green.
It
lay
beneath him,
a
bowl
of
bitter
waters. Fergus' song: I sang
it
alone
in
the house, holding
down
the
long
dark chords. Her
door
was
open:
she
wanted
to
hear
my music.
Silent
with
awe
and
pity
I went
to
her bedside.
She
was
crying
in
her wretched bed.
For
those
words, Stephen: love's
bitter
mystery.
Where
now? Her secrets:
old
featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered
with
musk,
a
gaud
of
amber
beads
in
her locked drawer.
A
birdcage
hung
in
the
sunny
window
of
her
house
when
she
was
a
girl.
She
heard
old
Royce sing
in
the pantomime
of
Turko the
Terrible
and
laughed
with
others
when
he
sang: Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed. Folded
away
in
the
memory
of
nature
with
her toys. Memories
beset
his
brooding brain. Her glass
of
water
from
the
kitchen
tap
when
she
had approached the sacrament.
A
cored apple, filled
with
brown sugar, roasting
for
her
at
the hob
on
a
dark
autumn
evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened
by
the blood
of
squashed lice
from
the children's shirts.
In
a
dream, silently,
she
had
come
to
him, her wasted
body
within its
loose
graveclothes giving
off
an
odour
of
wax
and
rosewood, her breath, bent
over
him
with
mute
secret
words,
a
faint
odour
of
wetted ashes. Ghoul! Chewer
of
corpses! No, mother!
Let
me
be
and
let
me
live. —Kinch ahoy! Buck Mulligan's voice sang
from
within the tower.
It
came nearer
up
the staircase, calling again. Stephen,
still
trembling
at
his
soul's cry, heard
warm
running
sunlight
and
in
the air
behind
him
friendly
words. —Dedalus,
come
down,
like
a
good
mosey.
Breakfast
is
ready. Haines
is
apologising
for
waking
us
last
night. It's all right. —I'm coming, Stephen said, turning. —Do,
for
Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said.
For
my sake
and
for
all
our
sakes.
His
head
disappeared
and
reappeared. —I told
him
your
symbol
of
Irish art.
He
says it's
very
clever.
Touch
him
for
a
quid,
will
you?
A
guinea, I mean. —I
get
paid
this
morning, Stephen said. —The
school
kip? Buck Mulligan said.
How
much? Four quid?
Lend
us
one. —If
you
want
it, Stephen said. —Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried
with
delight. We'll
have
a
glorious
drunk
to
astonish
the druidy druids. Four
omnipotent
sovereigns.
He
flung
up
his
hands
and
tramped
down
the
stone
stairs, singing
out
of
tune
with
a
Cockney
accent:
Warm
sunshine
merrying
over
the sea. The
nickel
shavingbowl shone, forgotten,
on
the parapet.
Why
should I
bring
it
down?
Or
leave
it
there all day, forgotten friendship?
He
went
over
to
it, held
it
in
his
hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the
clammy
slaver
of
the
lather
in
which
the brush
was
stuck.
So
I carried the
boat
of
incense
then
at
Clongowes. I
am
another
now
and
yet
the same.
A
servant
too.
A
server
of
a
servant.
In
the gloomy domed livingroom
of
the
tower
Buck Mulligan's gowned
form
moved briskly
to
and
fro
about
the hearth,
hiding
and
revealing its
yellow
glow.
Two
shafts
of
soft
daylight
fell
across
the flagged
floor
from
the high barbacans:
and
at
the
meeting
of
their
rays
a
cloud
of
coalsmoke
and
fumes
of
fried
grease
floated, turning. —We'll
be
choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines,
open
that
door,
will
you? Stephen laid the shavingbowl
on
the locker.
A
tall
figure
rose
from
the
hammock
where
it
had been sitting, went
to
the doorway
and
pulled
open
the
inner
doors. —Have
you
the key?
a
voice asked. —Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked!
He
howled, without looking
up
from
the fire: —Kinch! —It's
in
the lock, Stephen said, coming forward. The
key
scraped round harshly
twice
and,
when
the heavy
door
had been
set
ajar,
welcome
light
and
bright
air entered. Haines stood
at
the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled
his
upended
valise
to
the table
and
sat
down
to
wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the
fry
on
to
the dish
beside
him.
Then
he
carried the dish
and
a
large
teapot
over
to
the table,
set
them
down
heavily
and
sighed
with
relief. —I'm melting,
he
said,
as
the
candle
remarked when... But, hush! Not
a
word
more
on
that
subject! Kinch,
wake
up! Bread, butter, honey. Haines,
come
in. The
grub
is
ready.
Bless
us, O Lord,
and
these
thy gifts. Where's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk. Stephen fetched the
loaf
and
the
pot
of
honey
and
the buttercooler
from
the locker. Buck Mulligan sat
down
in
a
sudden
pet. —What
sort
of
a
kip
is
this?
he
said. I told her
to
come
after
eight. —We
can
drink
it
black, Stephen said thirstily. There's
a
lemon
in
the locker. —O,
damn
you
and
your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I
want
Sandycove milk. Haines came
in
from
the doorway
and
said quietly: —That
woman
is
coming
up
with
the milk. —The blessings
of
God
on
you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping
up
from
his
chair.
Sit
down.
Pour
out
the
tea
there. The sugar
is
in
the bag. Here, I can't
go
fumbling
at
the damned eggs.
He
hacked through the
fry
on
the dish
and
slapped
it
out
on
three
plates, saying: Haines sat
down
to
pour
out
the tea. —I'm giving
you
two
lumps each,
he
said. But, I say, Mulligan,
you
do
make
strong
tea, don't you? Buck Mulligan, hewing
thick
slices
from
the loaf, said
in
an
old
woman's wheedling voice: —When I makes
tea
I makes tea,
as
old
mother Grogan said.
And
when
I makes
water
I makes water. —By Jove,
it
is
tea, Haines said. Buck Mulligan went
on
hewing
and
wheedling:
He
lunged
towards
his
messmates
in
turn
a
thick
slice
of
bread, impaled
on
his
knife. —That's folk,
he
said
very
earnestly,
for
your book, Haines.
Five
lines
of
text
and
ten pages
of
notes
about
the
folk
and
the fishgods
of
Dundrum. Printed
by
the
weird
sisters
in
the
year
of
the
big
wind.
He
turned
to
Stephen
and
asked
in
a
fine
puzzled voice, lifting
his
brows: —Can
you
recall, brother,
is
mother Grogan's
tea
and
water
pot
spoken
of
in
the Mabinogion
or
is
it
in
the Upanishads? —I
doubt
it, said Stephen gravely. —Do
you
now? Buck Mulligan said
in
the
same
tone. Your reasons, pray? —I fancy, Stephen said
as
he
ate,
it
did
not
exist
in
or
out
of
the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was,
one
imagines,
a
kinswoman
of
Mary Ann. Buck Mulligan's face smiled
with
delight. —Charming!
he
said
in
a
finical
sweet
voice, showing
his
white
teeth
and
blinking
his
eyes pleasantly.
Do
you
think
she
was?
Quite
charming! Then, suddenly overclouding all
his
features,
he
growled
in
a
hoarsened rasping voice
as
he
hewed
again
vigorously
at
the loaf:
He
crammed
his
mouth
with
fry
and
munched
and
droned. The doorway
was
darkened
by
an entering form. —The milk, sir! —Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch,
get
the jug. An
old
woman
came forward
and
stood
by
Stephen's elbow. —That's
a
lovely
morning, sir,
she
said.
Glory
be
to
God. —To whom? Mulligan said, glancing
at
her. Ah,
to
be
sure! Stephen reached
back
and
took the milkjug
from
the locker. —The islanders, Mulligan said
to
Haines casually,
speak
frequently
of
the
collector
of
prepuces. —How much, sir? asked the
old
woman. —A quart, Stephen said.
He
watched her
pour
into
the
measure
and
thence
into
the jug
rich
white
milk, not hers.
Old
shrunken
paps.
She
poured
again
a
measureful
and
a
tilly.
Old
and
secret
she
had entered
from
a
morning
world, maybe
a
messenger.
She
praised the
goodness
of
the milk, pouring
it
out. Crouching
by
a
patient
cow
at
daybreak
in
the lush field,
a
witch
on
her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers
quick
at
the squirting dugs.
They
lowed
about
her
whom
they
knew, dewsilky cattle.
Silk
of
the
kine
and
poor
old
woman, names
given
her
in
old
times.
A
wandering crone, lowly
form
of
an
immortal
serving her
conqueror
and
her
gay
betrayer,
their
common
cuckquean,
a
messenger
from
the
secret
morning.
To
serve
or
to
upbraid,
whether
he
could
not tell: but scorned
to
beg
her favour. —It
is
indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring
milk
into
their
cups. —Taste it, sir,
she
said.
He
drank
at
her bidding. —If
we
could
live
on
good
food
like
that,
he
said
to
her
somewhat
loudly,
we
wouldn't
have
the
country
full
of
rotten
teeth
and
rotten
guts.
Living
in
a
bogswamp, eating
cheap
food
and
the streets paved
with
dust, horsedung
and
consumptives' spits. —Are
you
a
medical student, sir? the
old
woman
asked. —I am, ma'am, Buck Mulligan answered. —Look
at
that
now,
she
said. Stephen listened
in
scornful silence.
She
bows her
old
head
to
a
voice
that
speaks
to
her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman:
me
she
slights.
To
the voice
that
will
shrive
and
oil
for
the
grave
all there
is
of
her but her woman's
unclean
loins,
of
man's flesh
made
not
in
God's likeness, the serpent's prey.
And
to
the
loud
voice
that
now
bids her
be
silent
with
wondering unsteady eyes. —Do
you
understand
what
he
says? Stephen asked her. —Is
it
French
you
are
talking, sir? the
old
woman
said
to
Haines. Haines
spoke
to
her
again
a
longer speech, confidently. —Irish, Buck Mulligan said.
Is
there Gaelic
on
you? —I
thought
it
was
Irish,
she
said,
by
the
sound
of
it.
Are
you
from
the west, sir? —I
am
an Englishman, Haines answered. —He's English, Buck Mulligan said,
and
he
thinks
we
ought
to
speak
Irish
in
Ireland. —Sure
we
ought
to, the
old
woman
said,
and
I'm
ashamed
I don't
speak
the
language
myself. I'm told it's
a
grand
language
by
them
that
knows. —Grand
is
no
name
for
it, said Buck Mulligan.
Wonderful
entirely.
Fill
us
out
some
more
tea, Kinch. Would
you
like
a
cup, ma'am? —No,
thank
you, sir, the
old
woman
said, slipping the ring
of
the milkcan
on
her forearm
and
about
to
go. Haines said
to
her: —Have
you
your bill?
We
had
better
pay
her, Mulligan, hadn't we? Stephen filled
again
the
three
cups. —Bill, sir?
she
said, halting. Well, it's
seven
mornings
a
pint
at
twopence
is
seven
twos
is
a
shilling
and
twopence
over
and
these
three
mornings
a
quart
at
fourpence
is
three
quarts
is
a
shilling. That's
a
shilling
and
one
and
two
is
two
and
two, sir. Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled
his
mouth
with
a
crust
thickly buttered
on
both sides, stretched
forth
his
legs
and
began
to
search
his
trouser pockets. —Pay
up
and
look
pleasant, Haines said
to
him, smiling. Stephen filled
a
third
cup,
a
spoonful
of
tea
colouring
faintly
the
thick
rich
milk. Buck Mulligan brought
up
a
florin, twisted
it
round
in
his
fingers
and
cried: —A miracle!
He
passed
it
along
the table
towards
the
old
woman, saying: —Ask
nothing
more
of
me, sweet. All I
can
give
you
I give. Stephen laid the
coin
in
her uneager hand. —We'll
owe
twopence,
he
said. —Time enough, sir,
she
said, taking the coin.
Time
enough.
Good
morning, sir.
She
curtseyed
and
went out, followed
by
Buck Mulligan's
tender
chant:
He
turned
to
Stephen
and
said: —Seriously, Dedalus. I'm stony. Hurry
out
to
your
school
kip
and
bring
us
back
some
money.
Today
the bards
must
drink
and
junket. Ireland expects
that
every
man
this
day
will
do
his
duty. —That reminds me, Haines said, rising,
that
I
have
to
visit
your
national
library
today. —Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.
He
turned
to
Stephen
and
asked blandly: —Is
this
the
day
for
your
monthly
wash, Kinch?
Then
he
said
to
Haines: —The
unclean
bard
makes
a
point
of
washing
once
a
month. —All Ireland
is
washed
by
the gulfstream, Stephen said
as
he
let
honey
trickle
over
a
slice
of
the loaf. Haines
from
the
corner
where
he
was
knotting easily
a
scarf
about
the
loose
collar
of
his
tennis
shirt
spoke: —I
intend
to
make
a
collection
of
your sayings
if
you
will
let
me. Speaking
to
me.
They
wash
and
tub
and
scrub. Agenbite
of
inwit. Conscience.
Yet
here's
a
spot. —That
one
about
the
cracked
lookingglass
of
a
servant
being the
symbol
of
Irish
art
is
deuced good. Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's
foot
under the table
and
said
with
warmth
of
tone: —Wait
till
you
hear
him
on
Hamlet, Haines. —Well, I
mean
it, Haines said,
still
speaking
to
Stephen. I
was
just
thinking
of
it
when
that
poor
old
creature
came in. —Would I
make
any
money
by
it? Stephen asked. Haines laughed and,
as
he
took
his
soft
grey
hat
from
the holdfast
of
the hammock, said: —I don't know, I'm sure.
He
strolled
out
to
the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent
across
to
Stephen
and
said
with
coarse
vigour: —You
put
your
hoof
in
it
now.
What
did
you
say
that
for? —Well? Stephen said. The
problem
is
to
get
money.
From
whom?
From
the milkwoman
or
from
him. It's
a
toss up, I think. —I
blow
him
out
about
you, Buck Mulligan said,
and
then
you
come
along
with
your
lousy
leer
and
your gloomy jesuit jibes. —I
see
little
hope, Stephen said,
from
her
or
from
him. Buck Mulligan sighed tragically
and
laid
his
hand
on
Stephen's arm. —From me, Kinch,
he
said.
In
a
suddenly changed tone
he
added: —To
tell
you
the God's
truth
I
think
you're right.
Damn
all
else
they
are
good
for.
Why
don't
you
play
them
as
I do?
To
hell
with
them
all.
Let
us
get
out
of
the kip.
He
stood up, gravely ungirdled
and
disrobed
himself
of
his
gown,
saying
resignedly: —Mulligan
is
stripped
of
his
garments.
He
emptied
his
pockets
on
to
the table. —There's your snotrag,
he
said.
And
putting
on
his
stiff collar
and
rebellious
tie
he
spoke
to
them, chiding them,
and
to
his
dangling watchchain.
His
hands plunged
and
rummaged
in
his
trunk
while
he
called
for
a
clean handkerchief. God, we'll simply
have
to
dress the character. I
want
puce
gloves
and
green
boots. Contradiction.
Do
I
contradict
myself?
Very
well
then, I
contradict
myself. Mercurial Malachi.
A
limp
black
missile
flew
out
of
his
talking hands. —And there's your Latin
quarter
hat,
he
said. Stephen picked
it
up
and
put
it
on. Haines called
to
them
from
the doorway: —Are
you
coming,
you
fellows? —I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going
towards
the door.
Come
out, Kinch.
You
have
eaten all
we
left, I suppose. Resigned
he
passed
out
with
grave
words
and
gait, saying, wellnigh
with
sorrow: —And going
forth
he
met Butterly. Stephen, taking
his
ashplant
from
its leaningplace, followed
them
out
and,
as
they
went
down
the ladder, pulled
to
the
slow
iron
door
and
locked it.
He
put
the
huge
key
in
his
inner
pocket.
At
the
foot
of
the
ladder
Buck Mulligan asked: —Did
you
bring
the key? —I
have
it, Stephen said, preceding them.
He
walked on.
Behind
him
he
heard Buck Mulligan club
with
his
heavy bathtowel the
leader
shoots
of
ferns
or
grasses. —Down, sir!
How
dare
you, sir! Haines asked: —Do
you
pay
rent
for
this
tower? —Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said. —To the
secretary
of
state
for
war, Stephen added
over
his
shoulder.
They
halted
while
Haines surveyed the
tower
and
said
at
last: —Rather
bleak
in
wintertime, I should say. Martello
you
call
it? —What
is
your
idea
of
Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen. —No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted
in
pain. I'm not equal
to
Thomas Aquinas
and
the fiftyfive reasons
he
has
made
out
to
prop
it
up.
Wait
till
I
have
a
few
pints
in
me
first.
He
turned
to
Stephen, saying,
as
he
pulled
down
neatly the peaks
of
his
primrose
waistcoat: —You couldn't
manage
it
under
three
pints, Kinch,
could
you? —It has waited
so
long, Stephen said listlessly,
it
can
wait
longer. —You
pique
my curiosity, Haines said amiably.
Is
it
some
paradox? —Pooh! Buck Mulligan said.
We
have
grown
out
of
Wilde
and
paradoxes. It's
quite
simple.
He
proves
by
algebra
that
Hamlet's grandson
is
Shakespeare's
grandfather
and
that
he
himself
is
the
ghost
of
his
own
father. —What? Haines said,
beginning
to
point
at
Stephen.
He
himself? Buck Mulligan slung
his
towel
stolewise round
his
neck
and, bending
in
loose
laughter, said
to
Stephen's ear: —O, shade
of
Kinch the elder! Japhet
in
search
of
a
father! —We're
always
tired
in
the morning, Stephen said
to
Haines.
And
it
is
rather
long
to
tell. Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised
his
hands. —The
sacred
pint
alone
can
unbind
the tongue
of
Dedalus,
he
said. Buck Mulligan turned suddenly
for
an
instant
towards
Stephen but
did
not speak.
In
the
bright
silent
instant
Stephen
saw
his
own
image
in
cheap
dusty
mourning
between
their
gay
attires. —It's
a
wonderful
tale, Haines said, bringing
them
to
halt
again. Eyes,
pale
as
the
sea
the wind had freshened, paler,
firm
and
prudent. The seas' ruler,
he
gazed
southward
over
the bay, empty save
for
the smokeplume
of
the mailboat
vague
on
the
bright
skyline
and
a
sail
tacking
by
the Muglins. —I read
a
theological
interpretation
of
it
somewhere,
he
said bemused. The Father
and
the
Son
idea. The
Son
striving
to
be
atoned
with
the Father. Buck Mulligan
at
once
put
on
a
blithe
broadly smiling face.
He
looked
at
them,
his
wellshaped
mouth
open
happily,
his
eyes,
from
which
he
had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking
with
mad
gaiety.
He
moved
a
doll's
head
to
and
fro, the brims
of
his
Panama
hat
quivering,
and
began
to
chant
in
a
quiet
happy
foolish
voice:
He
held
up
a
forefinger
of
warning.
He
tugged swiftly
at
Stephen's ashplant
in
farewell
and, running forward
to
a
brow
of
the cliff, fluttered
his
hands
at
his
sides
like
fins
or
wings
of
one
about
to
rise
in
the air,
and
chanted:
He
capered before
them
down
towards
the fortyfoot hole, fluttering
his
winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's
hat
quivering
in
the
fresh
wind
that
bore
back
to
them
his
brief
birdsweet cries. Haines,
who
had been laughing guardedly, walked
on
beside
Stephen
and
said: —We oughtn't
to
laugh, I suppose. He's
rather
blasphemous. I'm not
a
believer myself,
that
is
to
say.
Still
his
gaiety
takes the
harm
out
of
it
somehow, doesn't it?
What
did
he
call
it? Joseph the Joiner? —The
ballad
of
joking Jesus, Stephen answered. —O, Haines said,
you
have
heard
it
before? —Three times
a
day,
after
meals, Stephen said drily. —You're not
a
believer,
are
you? Haines asked. I mean,
a
believer
in
the
narrow
sense
of
the word.
Creation
from
nothing
and
miracles
and
a
personal
God. —There's
only
one
sense
of
the word,
it
seems
to
me, Stephen said. Haines stopped
to
take
out
a
smooth
silver
case
in
which
twinkled
a
green
stone.
He
sprang
it
open
with
his
thumb
and
offered it. —Thank you, Stephen said, taking
a
cigarette. Haines helped
himself
and
snapped the
case
to.
He
put
it
back
in
his
sidepocket
and
took
from
his
waistcoatpocket
a
nickel
tinderbox, sprang
it
open
too, and, having
lit
his
cigarette, held the flaming
spunk
towards
Stephen
in
the shell
of
his
hands. —Yes,
of
course,
he
said,
as
they
went
on
again. Either
you
believe
or
you
don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't
stomach
that
idea
of
a
personal
God.
You
don't
stand
for
that, I suppose? —You
behold
in
me, Stephen said
with
grim displeasure,
a
horrible
example
of
free
thought.
He
walked on, waiting
to
be
spoken to, trailing
his
ashplant
by
his
side. Its
ferrule
followed
lightly
on
the path, squealing
at
his
heels. My familiar,
after
me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen!
A
wavering line
along
the path.
They
will
walk
on
it
tonight, coming here
in
the dark.
He
wants
that
key.
It
is
mine. I paid the rent.
Now
I
eat
his
salt
bread.
Give
him
the
key
too. All.
He
will
ask
for
it.
That
was
in
his
eyes. —After all, Haines began... Stephen turned
and
saw
that
the cold gaze
which
had measured
him
was
not all unkind. —After all, I should
think
you
are
able
to
free
yourself.
You
are
your
own
master,
it
seems
to
me. —I
am
a
servant
of
two
masters, Stephen said, an English
and
an Italian. —Italian? Haines said.
A
crazy queen,
old
and
jealous.
Kneel
down
before me. —And
a
third, Stephen said, there
is
who
wants
me
for
odd
jobs. —Italian? Haines said again.
What
do
you
mean? —The
imperial
British state, Stephen answered,
his
colour rising,
and
the
holy
Roman
catholic
and
apostolic
church. Haines detached
from
his
underlip
some
fibres
of
tobacco
before
he
spoke. —I
can
quite
understand
that,
he
said calmly. An Irishman
must
think
like
that, I daresay.
We
feel
in
England
that
we
have
treated
you
rather
unfairly.
It
seems
history
is
to
blame. —Of
course
I'm
a
Britisher, Haines's voice said,
and
I feel
as
one. I don't
want
to
see
my
country
fall
into
the hands
of
German jews either. That's
our
national
problem, I'm afraid,
just
now.
Two
men stood
at
the
verge
of
the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman. —She's making
for
Bullock
harbour. The boatman nodded
towards
the north
of
the
bay
with
some
disdain. —There's
five
fathoms
out
there,
he
said. It'll
be
swept
up
that
way
when
the
tide
comes
in
about
one. It's
nine
days today. The
man
that
was
drowned.
A
sail
veering
about
the
blank
bay
waiting
for
a
swollen
bundle
to
bob
up,
roll
over
to
the
sun
a
puffy face, saltwhite. Here I am.
They
followed the winding
path
down
to
the creek. Buck Mulligan stood
on
a
stone,
in
shirtsleeves,
his
unclipped
tie
rippling
over
his
shoulder.
A
young
man
clinging
to
a
spur
of
rock
near
him, moved
slowly
frogwise
his
green
legs
in
the
deep
jelly
of
the water. —Is the
brother
with
you, Malachi? —Down
in
Westmeath.
With
the Bannons. —Still there? I got
a
card
from
Bannon. Says
he
found
a
sweet
young
thing
down
there. Photo
girl
he
calls her. —Snapshot, eh?
Brief
exposure. Buck Mulligan sat
down
to
unlace
his
boots. An
elderly
man
shot
up
near
the
spur
of
rock
a
blowing
red
face.
He
scrambled
up
by
the stones,
water
glistening
on
his
pate
and
on
its garland
of
grey hair,
water
rilling
over
his
chest
and
paunch
and
spilling jets
out
of
his
black
sagging loincloth. Buck Mulligan
made
way
for
him
to
scramble past and, glancing
at
Haines
and
Stephen, crossed
himself
piously
with
his
thumbnail
at
brow
and
lips
and
breastbone. —Seymour's
back
in
town, the
young
man
said, grasping
again
his
spur
of
rock. Chucked
medicine
and
going
in
for
the army. —Ah,
go
to
God! Buck Mulligan said. —Going
over
next
week
to
stew.
You
know
that
red
Carlisle girl, Lily? —Yes. —Spooning
with
him
last
night
on
the pier. The father
is
rotto
with
money. —Is
she
up
the pole? —Better
ask
Seymour that. —Seymour
a
bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.
He
nodded
to
himself
as
he
drew
off
his
trousers
and
stood up,
saying
tritely: —Redheaded women buck
like
goats.
He
broke
off
in
alarm, feeling
his
side
under
his
flapping shirt.
He
struggled
out
of
his
shirt
and
flung
it
behind
him
to
where
his
clothes
lay. —Are
you
going
in
here, Malachi? —Yes.
Make
room
in
the bed. The
young
man
shoved
himself
backward
through the
water
and
reached the
middle
of
the
creek
in
two
long
clean strokes. Haines sat
down
on
a
stone, smoking. —Are
you
not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked. —Later on, Haines said. Not
on
my breakfast. Stephen turned away. —I'm going, Mulligan,
he
said. —Give
us
that
key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said,
to
keep
my
chemise
flat. Stephen handed
him
the key. Buck Mulligan laid
it
across
his
heaped clothes. —And twopence,
he
said,
for
a
pint. Throw
it
there. Stephen threw
two
pennies
on
the
soft
heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan erect,
with
joined hands before him, said solemnly: —He
who
stealeth
from
the
poor
lendeth
to
the Lord.
Thus
spake Zarathustra.
His
plump
body
plunged. —We'll
see
you
again, Haines said, turning
as
Stephen walked
up
the
path
and
smiling
at
wild Irish.
Horn
of
a
bull,
hoof
of
a
horse,
smile
of
a
Saxon. —The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve. —Good, Stephen said.
He
walked
along
the upwardcurving path. The priest's grey
nimbus
in
a
niche
where
he
dressed discreetly. I
will
not
sleep
here tonight.
Home
also
I cannot go.
A
voice, sweettoned
and
sustained, called
to
him
from
the sea. Turning the curve
he
waved
his
hand.
It
called again.
A
sleek brown head,
a
seal's,
far
out
on
the water, round. Usurper.