Chapter. I

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl ofrnlather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellowrndressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mildrnmorning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:rnrn—_Introibo ad altare Dei_.rnrnHalted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:rnrn—Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!rnrnSolemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced aboutrnand blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and thernawaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bentrntowards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throatrnand shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leanedrnhis arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shakingrngurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the lightrnuntonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.rnrnBuck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered thernbowl smartly.rnrn—Back to barracks! he said sternly.rnrnHe added in a preacher’s tone:rnrn—For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soulrnand blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. Onernmoment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.rnrnHe peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then pausedrnawhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here andrnthere with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistlesrnanswered through the calm.rnrn—Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch offrnthe current, will you?rnrnHe skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gatheringrnabout his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face andrnsullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages.rnA pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.rnrn—The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!rnrnHe pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet,rnlaughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearilyrnhalfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still asrnhe propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl andrnlathered cheeks and neck.rnrnBuck Mulligan’s gay voice went on.rnrn—My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has arnHellenic ring, hasn’t it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. Wernmust go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork outrntwenty quid?rnrnHe laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:rnrn—Will he come? The jejune jesuit!rnrnCeasing, he began to shave with care.rnrn—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.rnrn—Yes, my love?rnrn—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?rnrnBuck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.rnrn—God, isn’t he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinksrnyou’re not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with moneyrnand indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, yournhave the real Oxford manner. He can’t make you out. O, my name for yournis the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.rnrnHe shaved warily over his chin.rnrn—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where isrnhis guncase?rnrn—A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?rnrn—I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the darkrnwith a man I don’t know raving and moaning to himself about shooting arnblack panther. You saved men from drowning. I’m not a hero, however. Ifrnhe stays on here I am off.rnrnBuck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped downrnfrom his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.rnrn—Scutter! he cried thickly.rnrnHe came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen’s upperrnpocket, said:rnrn—Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.rnrnStephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner arndirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.rnThen, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:rnrn—The bard’s noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.rnYou can almost taste it, can’t you?rnrnHe mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fairrnoakpale hair stirring slightly.rnrn—God! he said quietly. Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweetrnmother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. _Epi oinoparnponton_. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read themrnin the original. _Thalatta! Thalatta!_ She is our great sweet mother.rnCome and look.rnrnStephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he lookedrndown on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth ofrnKingstown.rnrn—Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.rnrnHe turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen’srnface.rnrn—The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That’s why she won’trnlet me have anything to do with you.rnrn—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.rnrn—You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying motherrnasked you, Buck Mulligan said. I’m hyperborean as much as you. But tornthink of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down andrnpray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you....rnrnHe broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerantrnsmile curled his lips.rnrn—But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliestrnmummer of them all!rnrnHe shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.rnrnStephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm againstrnhis brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve.rnPain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently,rnin a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body withinrnits loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood,rnher breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour ofrnwetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as arngreat sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay andrnskyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china hadrnstood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she hadrntorn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.rnrnBuck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.rnrn—Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirtrnand a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?rnrn—They fit well enough, Stephen answered.rnrnBuck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.rnrn—The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. Godrnknows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hairrnstripe, grey. You’ll look spiffing in them. I’m not joking, Kinch. Yournlook damn well when you’re dressed.rnrn—Thanks, Stephen said. I can’t wear them if they are grey.rnrn—He can’t wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror.rnEtiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear greyrntrousers.rnrnHe folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt thernsmooth skin.rnrnStephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with itsrnsmokeblue mobile eyes.rnrn—That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan,rnsays you have g. p. i. He’s up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman.rnGeneral paralysis of the insane!rnrnHe swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidingsrnabroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lipsrnlaughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seizedrnall his strong wellknit trunk.rnrn—Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!rnrnStephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft byrna crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose thisrnface for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.rnrn—I pinched it out of the skivvy’s room, Buck Mulligan said. It does herrnall right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi.rnLead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.rnrnLaughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen’s peering eyes.rnrn—The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. IfrnWilde were only alive to see you!rnrnDrawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:rnrn—It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked lookingglass of a servant.rnrnBuck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen’s and walked with himrnround the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where hernhad thrust them.rnrn—It’s not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly.rnGod knows you have more spirit than any of them.rnrnParried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. Therncold steel pen.rnrn—Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chaprndownstairs and touch him for a guinea. He’s stinking with money andrnthinks you’re not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by sellingrnjalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you andrnI could only work together we might do something for the island.rnHellenise it.rnrnCranly’s arm. His arm.rnrn—And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I’m the only onernthat knows what you are. Why don’t you trust me more? What have you uprnyour nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I’llrnbring down Seymour and we’ll give him a ragging worse than they gavernClive Kempthorpe.rnrnYoung shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe’s rooms. Palefaces:rnthey hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shallrnexpire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slitrnribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round therntable, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with therntailor’s shears. A scared calf’s face gilded with marmalade. I don’trnwant to be debagged! Don’t you play the giddy ox with me!rnrnShouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deafrngardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold’s face, pushes his mowerrnon the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.rnrnTo ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.rnrn—Let him stay, Stephen said. There’s nothing wrong with him except atrnnight.rnrn—Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I’mrnquite frank with you. What have you against me now?rnrnThey halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay onrnthe water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his armrnquietly.rnrn—Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.rnrn—Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don’t remember anything.rnrnHe looked in Stephen’s face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow,rnfanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points ofrnanxiety in his eyes.rnrnStephen, depressed by his own voice, said:rnrn—Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother’srndeath?rnrnBuck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:rnrn—What? Where? I can’t remember anything. I remember only ideas andrnsensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?rnrn—You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to getrnmore hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of therndrawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.rnrn—Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.rnrn—You said, Stephen answered, _O, it’s only Dedalus whose mother isrnbeastly dead._rnrnA flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to BuckrnMulligan’s cheek.rnrn—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?rnrnHe shook his constraint from him nervously.rnrn—And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own? You sawrnonly your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater andrnRichmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It’s a beastlyrnthing and nothing else. It simply doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t kneelrndown to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why?rnBecause you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it’s injectedrnthe wrong way. To me it’s all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobesrnare not functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picksrnbuttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it’s over. You crossed herrnlast wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don’t whinge likernsome hired mute from Lalouette’s. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. Irndidn’t mean to offend the memory of your mother.rnrnHe had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gapingrnwounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:rnrn—I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.rnrn—Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked.rnrn—Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.rnrnBuck Mulligan swung round on his heel.rnrn—O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.rnrnHe walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post,rngazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland nowrngrew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and hernfelt the fever of his cheeks.rnrnA voice within the tower called loudly:rnrn—Are you up there, Mulligan?rnrn—I’m coming, Buck Mulligan answered.rnrnHe turned towards Stephen and said:rnrn—Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola,rnKinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.rnrnHis head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, levelrnwith the roof:rnrn—Don’t mope over it all day, he said. I’m inconsequent. Give up thernmoody brooding.rnrnHis head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out ofrnthe stairhead:rnrn     And no more turn aside and broodrn     Upon love’s bitter mysteryrn     For Fergus rules the brazen cars.rnrnWoodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from thernstairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror ofrnwater whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of therndim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking thernharpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded wordsrnshimmering on the dim tide.rnrnA cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay inrndeeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus’rnsong: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords.rnHer door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe andrnpity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. Forrnthose words, Stephen: love’s bitter mystery.rnrnWhere now?rnrnHer secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk,rna gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in thernsunny window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce singrnin the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when hernsang:rnrn     I am the boyrn     That can enjoyrn     Invisibility.rnrnPhantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.rnrn     And no more turn aside and brood.rnrnrnFolded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset hisrnbrooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she hadrnapproached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar,rnroasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapelyrnfingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children’srnshirts.rnrnIn a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within itsrnloose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath,rnbent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.rnrnHer glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. Onrnme alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on therntortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while allrnprayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. _Liliatarnrutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginumrnchorus excipiat._rnrnGhoul! Chewer of corpses!rnrnNo, mother! Let me be and let me live.rnrn—Kinch ahoy!rnrnBuck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up thernstaircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry,rnheard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.rnrn—Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines isrnapologising for waking us last night. It’s all right.rnrn—I’m coming, Stephen said, turning.rnrn—Do, for Jesus’ sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all ourrnsakes.rnrnHis head disappeared and reappeared.rnrn—I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it’s very clever. Touchrnhim for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.rnrn—I get paid this morning, Stephen said.rnrn—The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.rnrn—If you want it, Stephen said.rnrn—Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We’ll haverna glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotentrnsovereigns.rnrnHe flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out ofrntune with a Cockney accent:rnrn     O, won’t we have a merry time,     Drinking whisky, beer and wine!     On coronation,     Coronation day!     O, won’t we have a merry timern     On coronation day!rnrnWarm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone,rnforgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave itrnthere all day, forgotten friendship?rnrnHe went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness,rnsmelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck.rnSo I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another nowrnand yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.rnrnIn the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan’s gowned formrnmoved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing itsrnyellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floorrnfrom the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud ofrncoalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.rnrn—We’ll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?rnrnStephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from thernhammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled openrnthe inner doors.rnrn—Have you the key? a voice asked.rnrn—Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I’m choked!rnrnHe howled, without looking up from the fire:rnrn—Kinch!rnrn—It’s in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.rnrnThe key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had beenrnset ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at therndoorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table andrnsat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish besidernhim. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, setrnthem down heavily and sighed with relief.rnrn—I’m melting, he said, as the candle remarked when... But, hush! Not arnword more on that subject! Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey.rnHaines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thyrngifts. Where’s the sugar? O, jay, there’s no milk.rnrnStephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler fromrnthe locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.rnrn—What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.rnrn—We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There’s a lemon in thernlocker.rnrn—O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycovernmilk.rnrnHaines came in from the doorway and said quietly:rnrn—That woman is coming up with the milk.rnrn—The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from hisrnchair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here,rnI can’t go fumbling at the damned eggs.rnrnHe hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on threernplates, saying:rnrn—_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti._rnrnHaines sat down to pour out the tea.rnrn—I’m giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you dornmake strong tea, don’t you?rnrnBuck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an oldrnwoman’s wheedling voice:rnrn—When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when Irnmakes water I makes water.rnrn—By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.rnrnBuck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:rnrn—_So I do, Mrs Cahill,_ says she. _Begob, ma’am,_ says Mrs Cahill, _Godrnsend you don’t make them in the one pot._rnrnHe lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaledrnon his knife.rnrn—That’s folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five linesrnof text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods ofrnDundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.rnrnHe turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting hisrnbrows:rnrn—Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan’s tea and water pot spokenrnof in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?rnrn—I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.rnrn—Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?rnrn—I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of thernMabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.rnrnBuck Mulligan’s face smiled with delight.rnrn—Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teethrnand blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming!rnrnThen, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsenedrnrasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:rnrn_—For old Mary AnnrnrnShe doesn’t care a damn.rnrnBut, hising up her petticoats..._rnrnHe crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.rnrnThe doorway was darkened by an entering form.rnrn—The milk, sir!rnrn—Come in, ma’am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.rnrnAn old woman came forward and stood by Stephen’s elbow.rnrn—That’s a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.rnrn—To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure!rnrnStephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.rnrn—The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently ofrnthe collector of prepuces.rnrn—How much, sir? asked the old woman.rnrn—A quart, Stephen said.rnrnHe watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich whiternmilk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and arntilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe arnmessenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out.rnCrouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch onrnher toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. Theyrnlowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine andrnpoor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowlyrnform of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, theirrncommon cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or tornupbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.rnrn—It is indeed, ma’am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.rnrn—Taste it, sir, she said.rnrnHe drank at her bidding.rnrn—If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhatrnloudly, we wouldn’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rottenrnguts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets pavedrnwith dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits.rnrn—Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.rnrn—I am, ma’am, Buck Mulligan answered.rnrn—Look at that now, she said.rnrnStephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voicernthat speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me shernslights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all therernis of her but her woman’s unclean loins, of man’s flesh made not inrnGod’s likeness, the serpent’s prey. And to the loud voice that now bidsrnher be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.rnrn—Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.rnrn—Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.rnrnHaines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.rnrn—Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?rnrn—I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from thernwest, sir?rnrn—I am an Englishman, Haines answered.rnrn—He’s English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speakrnIrish in Ireland.rnrn—Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I’m ashamed I don’t speakrnthe language myself. I’m told it’s a grand language by them that knows.rnrn—Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fillrnus out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma’am?rnrn—No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of thernmilkcan on her forearm and about to go.rnrnHaines said to her:rnrn—Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn’t we?rnrnStephen filled again the three cups.rnrn—Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it’s seven mornings a pint atrntwopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these threernmornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling. That’s arnshilling and one and two is two and two, sir.rnrnBuck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thicklyrnbuttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to searchrnhis trouser pockets.rnrn—Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.rnrnStephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly thernthick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round inrnhis fingers and cried:rnrn—A miracle!rnrnHe passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:rnrn—Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.rnrnStephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.rnrn—We’ll owe twopence, he said.rnrn—Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Goodrnmorning, sir.rnrnShe curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan’s tender chant:rnrn_—Heart of my heart, were it more,rnrnMore would be laid at your feet._rnrnHe turned to Stephen and said:rnrn—Seriously, Dedalus. I’m stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bringrnus back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Irelandrnexpects that every man this day will do his duty.rnrn—That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit yourrnnational library today.rnrn—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.rnrnHe turned to Stephen and asked blandly:rnrn—Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?rnrnThen he said to Haines:rnrn—The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.rnrn—All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honeyrntrickle over a slice of the loaf.rnrnHaines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about thernloose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:rnrn—I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.rnrnSpeaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit.rnConscience. Yet here’s a spot.rnrn—That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbolrnof Irish art is deuced good.rnrnBuck Mulligan kicked Stephen’s foot under the table and said withrnwarmth of tone:rnrn—Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.rnrn—Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was justrnthinking of it when that poor old creature came in.rnrn—Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked.rnrnHaines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast ofrnthe hammock, said:rnrn—I don’t know, I’m sure.rnrnHe strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephenrnand said with coarse vigour:rnrn—You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?rnrn—Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From thernmilkwoman or from him. It’s a toss up, I think.rnrn—I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come alongrnwith your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.rnrn—I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.rnrnBuck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen’s arm.rnrn—From me, Kinch, he said.rnrnIn a suddenly changed tone he added:rnrn—To tell you the God’s truth I think you’re right. Damn all else theyrnare good for. Why don’t you play them as I do? To hell with them all.rnLet us get out of the kip.rnrnHe stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, sayingrnresignedly:rnrn—Mulligan is stripped of his garments.rnrnHe emptied his pockets on to the table.rnrn—There’s your snotrag, he said.rnrnAnd putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them,rnchiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged andrnrummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God,rnwe’ll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and greenrnboots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, Irncontradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out ofrnhis talking hands.rnrn—And there’s your Latin quarter hat, he said.rnrnStephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from therndoorway:rnrn—Are you coming, you fellows?rnrn—I’m ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out,rnKinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed outrnwith grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:rnrn—And going forth he met Butterly.rnrnStephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them outrnand, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door andrnlocked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.rnrnAt the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked:rnrn—Did you bring the key?rnrn—I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.rnrnHe walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavyrnbathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.rnrn—Down, sir! How dare you, sir!rnrnHaines asked:rnrn—Do you pay rent for this tower?rnrn—Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.rnrn—To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.rnrnThey halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last:rnrn—Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?rnrn—Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were onrnthe sea. But ours is the _omphalos_.rnrn—What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.rnrn—No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I’m not equal to Thomas Aquinasrnand the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till Irnhave a few pints in me first.rnrnHe turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of hisrnprimrose waistcoat:rnrn—You couldn’t manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?rnrn—It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.rnrn—You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox?rnrn—Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes.rnIt’s quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet’s grandson isrnShakespeare’s grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his ownrnfather.rnrn—What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?rnrnBuck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending inrnloose laughter, said to Stephen’s ear:rnrn—O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!rnrn—We’re always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it isrnrather long to tell.rnrnBuck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.rnrn—The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.rnrn—I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, thisrntower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. _Thatrnbeetles o’er his base into the sea,_ isn’t it?rnrnBuck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but didrnnot speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image inrncheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.rnrn—It’s a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.rnrnEyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent.rnThe seas’ ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for thernsmokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sailrntacking by the Muglins.rnrn—I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused.rnThe Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with thernFather.rnrnBuck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He lookedrnat them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he hadrnsuddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He movedrna doll’s head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, andrnbegan to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice:rnrn_—I’m the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.rnMy mother’s a jew, my father’s a bird.rnWith Joseph the joiner I cannot agree.rnSo here’s to disciples and Calvary._rnrnHe held up a forefinger of warning.rnrn_—If anyone thinks that I amn’t divinernHe’ll get no free drinks when I’m making the winernBut have to drink water and wish it were plainrnThat I make when the wine becomes water again._rnrnHe tugged swiftly at Stephen’s ashplant in farewell and, runningrnforward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides likernfins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:rnrn_—Goodbye, now, goodbye! Write down all I saidrnAnd tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead.rnWhat’s bred in the bone cannot fail me to flyrnAnd Olivet’s breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye!_rnrnHe capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering hisrnwinglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury’s hat quivering in the freshrnwind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.rnrnHaines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen andrnsaid:rnrn—We oughtn’t to laugh, I suppose. He’s rather blasphemous. I’m not arnbeliever myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out ofrnit somehow, doesn’t it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?rnrn—The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.rnrn—O, Haines said, you have heard it before?rnrn—Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.rnrn—You’re not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer inrnthe narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and arnpersonal God.rnrn—There’s only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.rnrnHaines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled arngreen stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.rnrn—Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.rnrnHaines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in hisrnsidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprangrnit open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunkrntowards Stephen in the shell of his hands.rnrn—Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe orrnyou don’t, isn’t it? Personally I couldn’t stomach that idea of arnpersonal God. You don’t stand for that, I suppose?rnrn—You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horriblernexample of free thought.rnrnHe walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by hisrnside. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels.rnMy familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering linernalong the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark.rnHe wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his saltrnbread. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in hisrneyes.rnrn—After all, Haines began...rnrnStephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him wasrnnot all unkind.rnrn—After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are yourrnown master, it seems to me.rnrn—I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and anrnItalian.rnrn—Italian? Haines said.rnrnA crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.rnrn—And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.rnrn—Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?rnrn—The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, andrnthe holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.rnrnHaines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before hernspoke.rnrn—I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must thinkrnlike that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated yournrather unfairly. It seems history is to blame.rnrnThe proud potent titles clanged over Stephen’s memory the triumph ofrntheir brazen bells: _et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicamrnecclesiam:_ the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his ownrnrare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the massrnfor pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud inrnaffirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the churchrnmilitant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresiesrnfleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whomrnMulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon thernconsubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurningrnChrist’s terrene body, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius whornheld that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spokenrna moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The voidrnawaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and arnworsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael’s host, whorndefend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and theirrnshields.rnrnHear, hear! Prolonged applause. _Zut! Nom de Dieu!_rnrn—Of course I’m a Britisher, Haines’s voice said, and I feel as one. Irndon’t want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either.rnThat’s our national problem, I’m afraid, just now.rnrnTwo men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman,rnboatman.rnrn—She’s making for Bullock harbour.rnrnThe boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.rnrn—There’s five fathoms out there, he said. It’ll be swept up that wayrnwhen the tide comes in about one. It’s nine days today.rnrnThe man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waitingrnfor a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face,rnsaltwhite. Here I am.rnrnThey followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stoodrnon a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over hisrnshoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowlyrnfrogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.rnrn—Is the brother with you, Malachi?rnrn—Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.rnrn—Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet youngrnthing down there. Photo girl he calls her.rnrn—Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.rnrnBuck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up nearrnthe spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones,rnwater glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, waterrnrilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his blackrnsagging loincloth.rnrnBuck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Hainesrnand Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow andrnlips and breastbone.rnrn—Seymour’s back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur ofrnrock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.rnrn—Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said.rnrn—Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?rnrn—Yes.rnrn—Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto withrnmoney.rnrn—Is she up the pole?rnrn—Better ask Seymour that.rnrn—Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.rnrnHe nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, sayingrntritely:rnrn—Redheaded women buck like goats.rnrnHe broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.rnrn—My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I’m the _Übermensch._ ToothlessrnKinch and I, the supermen.rnrnHe struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where hisrnclothes lay.rnrn—Are you going in here, Malachi?rnrn—Yes. Make room in the bed.rnrnThe young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached thernmiddle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on arnstone, smoking.rnrn—Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked.rnrn—Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast.rnrnStephen turned away.rnrn—I’m going, Mulligan, he said.rnrn—Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.rnrnStephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heapedrnclothes.rnrn—And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.rnrnStephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. BuckrnMulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:rnrn—He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spakernZarathustra.rnrnHis plump body plunged.rnrn—We’ll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up thernpath and smiling at wild Irish.rnrnHorn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.rnrn—The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.rnrn—Good, Stephen said.rnrnHe walked along the upwardcurving path.rnrn     Liliata rutilantium.     Turma circumdet.     Iubilantium te virginum.rnrnThe priest’s grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I willrnnot sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.rnrnA voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turningrnthe curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, arnseal’s, far out on the water, round.rnrnUsurper.