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.
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
Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.
back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:
. 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
hisStephen, the unhygienic, is superstitiously fearful of modern medicine (he is also afraid
of thunder--ironic, given his apostasy-- and dogs). Mulligan fears Stephen's superior wit, and thus
keeps his jealousy and dislike hidden.. The cold steelpen.
—And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the
only one that knows what you areMulligan, for all his willingness to do anything for gain, is
one of the few people who recognize that Stephen is intelligent and not insane or useless. However,
Stephen cannot reconcile himself with Mulligan's willingness to serve up Ireland to make a dollar,
and Mulligan knows Stephen sees this side of him and is angered.. 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
KempthorpeStephen imagines a schoolboy being humiliated by his fellow classmates, a story he
has probably heard from Mulligan before..
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 MagdalenMagdalen College, part of the University of Oxford
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!
—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.
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
—Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's
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?
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.
Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.
—You said, Stephen answered, O,
it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.
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
—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 Richmondhospitals
and cut up into tripes in the dissecting
room. 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 wayStephen retains the Jesuit
love of logic and reason without the accompanying religion or affection
. To me it's all a
mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioningMulligan imagines an
old woman gradually losing her mental abilities, trying to show Stephen that one should humor the
. 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
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
Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.
—O, an impossible person!
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:
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 twoThe lines of the song are built of pairs of unstressed-stressed
syllables.. 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'the Yeats song Mulligan was singing, called "Who Goes With Fergus?" (Blamires
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?Stephen, who no longer is certain of an afterlife, wonders what has
become of his dead mother.
Her secretsStephen moves from
images of the trifles May left behind (e.g. dancecards hinting at a life before she was a mother) to
imagined memories from May's childhood.: 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:
I am the boy
That can enjoy
Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.
more turn aside and brood.
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 liceStephen transitions from imagining May's
pleasant childhood memories to the hardships she faced as a mother of many children living in
poverty (Stephen's father, while charismatic and popular, is a drinker and not a consistent
breadwinner) 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!Stephen revolts
against the image of his reproachful mother, whose guilt threatens Stephen's sense of independence
from the stultifying confines of religion and Irish tradition. Let me be and let me live.
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
artMulligan has offered up the "cracked looking glass of a servant" image Stephen created
earlier to Haines in hope of cadging a few coins for a drink; he is willing to sell off Stephen's
art (and by extension, all Ireland) to the English for gain, if Stephen won't do it himself, but
feigns shock when Stephen later facetiously asks Haines if he can make any money off his wit
. He says it's very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.
—I get paidStephen has regular work teaching at a boy's school, as will be seen
in Episode 2 (Nestor); Mulligan, a medical student, seems to get his money from his aunt
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
He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney
O, won't we have a merry time,
Drinking whisky, beer and wine!
O, won't we have a merry time
On coronation day!
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?
servant too. A server of a servantBy serving Mulligan in
bringing his shaving bowl, since Mulligan is himself a servant to society's demands.
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 barbicanscastle
towers. Image from http://img.tfd.com/wn/F1/62079-barbican.gif
: 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?
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 keyThe tower has only one key, which Stephen has kept so far (with his regular
teaching job, he has been the one to pay the rent). He senses now the Mulligan will ask for the key,
effectively usurping his home.? a voice asked.
—Dedalus has it, Buck
Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked!
He howled, without looking up from the fire:
—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.
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?Mulligan is peeved that the milkwoman has not
appeared at the appointed time. 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.
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:
—By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.
Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:
—So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Begob, ma'am, says Mrs Cahill, God
send you don't make them in the one pot.
He lunged towards his messmates in turn a
thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.
—That's folkHaines is apparently in Ireland to collect folk tales
or culture for a book., 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
—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:
—For old Mary Ann
She doesn't care a damn.
But, hising up her
He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.
The doorway was darkened by an
—The milk, sir!
—Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch,
get the jug.
An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.
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.
—How much, sir? asked the old woman.
quart, Stephen said.
He watched her pourStephen
sees the uncivilized milkwoman as personifying the Irish spirit, her very oldness and lack of
breeding suggesting she is a "messenger" or otherwise supernatural
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 womanepithets for
, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an
immortalStephen further fleshes out the idea of Ireland as a poor old woman by imagining her
as a Goddess in disguise (just as Ireland's culture and beauty is disguised). One of Ireland's
mythic figures is Kathleen Ni Houlihan, sometimes referred to as the Poor Old Woman (as in the
Yeats/Gregory play of that name), who calls for the young men of the country to fight for Ireland's
freedom (Thornton 20).
serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common
cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraidSeeing the
milkwoman as a mythic Kathleen-Ni-Houlihan figure protecting Ireland, Stephen wonders whether she is
there to help him in his fight against British tyranny, or to chasten him for failing Ireland.
Though initially soothed by the the site of a "real" (i.e. not Anglicized) Irish milkwoman, he
quickly sees in her the faults he sees in all the modern Irish: ignorance of national history (she
doesn't speak or even recognize Gaelic) and quickness to be impressed with foreign learning and
cultivation (e.g. Mulligan's status as a medical student).
, 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
—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.
—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,
—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.
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:
He passed it along the table towards the old
—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.
curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant:
my heart, were it more,
More would be laid at your feet.
He turned to Stephen and said:
—That reminds me, Haines said, rising,
that I have to visit your national library today.
—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan
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
—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.
—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,
who is poor but feels that his art is above being traded for money from the English, voices what
Mulligan is probably thinking (Mulligan sees his abilities -- and by extension, the abilities of the
Irish -- as fungible goods to be traded for benefits form the English) 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.
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.
Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the doorway:
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.Mulligan plays with sound, mimicking the description of Peter after he betrays Jesus
three times ("And going forth, he wept bitterly".) Notice how this sets up Mulligan to betray
At the foot of the ladder Buck
—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!
—Do you pay rent for this tower?
—Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.
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
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?
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
—What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?
Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said to Stephen's
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.
—I mean to say, Haines
explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of ElsinoreThe name of the Danish castle where Hamlet is set
beetles o'er his base into the sea,
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.
—I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused. The
Father and the SonAn interpretation of Hamlet in which Hamlet and the murdered king correspond
to Jesus and the Father image of God; both Hamlet and God's Father/Son relationship are paralleled
in this book idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father.
at once put on a blithe broadly smilingMulligan hints at his bad side by mocking a
serious theme of the book (the father/Son relationship will be paralleled in
Bloom/Stephen) 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
—I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.
My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.Jesus's mother Mary; the dove form of
the Holy Spirit
With Joseph the joinerMary's
husband Joseph, a carpenter I cannot agree.
So here's to disciples and
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:
Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said:
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
—The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.
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.
stopped to take out a smooth silver casea little metaphor: Haines, the Englishman,
offers Stephen an image of Ireland (the emerald) as a decoration in England's pocket in
which twinkled a green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.
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
—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 meStephen's displeasure may be caused both by memory of his
refusal to pray with his dying mother, and by the failure of his free-willed self to be as
successful as those who serve other masters, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a
horrible example of free thought. They will walk on it tonightHaines and
Mulligan on their way home
, 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 keyThe tower has only one
key, which Stephen has kept so far (with his regular teaching job, he has been the one to pay the
rent). He senses now the Mulligan will ask for the key, effectively usurping his home.
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
—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.
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.
The proud potent titlesStephen begins musing on
growth and power of the Catholic church. The heretics named all challenged "the status of the Son
and his relationship to the Father" (Blamires 8), underlining the motif of father-son relationships
that parallels the Odyssean father-son relationship between Stephen and Bloom later in the
clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph of their brazen bells: et
unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam:"The one, holy, universal and apostolic
the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a
chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended,
singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant
disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the
brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was onePhotius, in addition to being a heretic,
usurped the Patriarchate of Constantinople (like Mulligan, as we shall see, an usurper; Blamires
, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the
Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terreneearthly
body, and the
subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan
had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void
awaitsHell awaits all who try to bend religion's truth with strange logic.
all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of
the church, Michael'san archangel often depicted as militant. Image from http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com/images/michael_by_raphael.jpg
defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.
—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 menTwo men are watching the water, looking for the body of a man who
drowned about nine days ago. stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman,
boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.
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
—Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young
thingBannon's female find happens to be the young Milly Bloom, daughter of not-yet-introduced
protagonist Leopold Bloom, who is working as a photographer's assistant (and who, like her mother,
might be having affairs at a young age) 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'sa friend of Mulligan's, mentioned earlier when Mulligan offered to
rag Haines for bothering Stephen 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
—Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?
—Spooning with him last night on the pier.
The father is rottorich
—Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.
He nodded to
himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely:
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.
—I'm going, Mulligan, he said.
—Give us that keyMulligan succeeds in getting the key from Stephen, effectively shutting him out of
his home., 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:
His plump body plunged.
—We'll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at wild IrishStephen imagines that Haines condescends to him because he is an Irishman
-- more of a curious freak than a genius. The text, though, shows nothing of Haines to suggest he is
not sincere in his offer of friendship..
Horn of a bull, hoof of a
horse, smile of a SaxonStephen makes his own version of saying for what things a person should
—Good, Stephen said.
He walked along the upwardcurving path.
("sweettoned": Mulligan is able to be "golden-mouthed" or honey-tongued when he wishes),
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.