tately, 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:
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the
—Back to barracks! he said sternly.
—Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off
the current, will you?
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.
Athens. Will you come if I can get the
Ceasing, he began to shave with care.
—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.
He shaved warily over his chin.
—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.
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
—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
—Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.
He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's
—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant
smile curled his lips.
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 himStephen's recently deceased mother appears to Stephen in his dreams 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 wellfedMulligan has given Stephen some of his old clothing and shoes. 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.
—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
He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the
—That fellow I was with in the Shipa tavern
last night, said Buck Mulligan,
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
—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.
Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.
Drawing 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
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!
—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.
—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
—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 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 dying.
. 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 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:
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
His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of
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 5)
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.
And no 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 omnipotent
He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of
tune with a Cockney accent:
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
: 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 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.
—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?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
—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
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
—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 his
—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 petticoats...
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.
—How much, sir? asked the old woman.
—A 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 Ireland
, 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 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.
—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
—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 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
She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant:
—Heart of 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 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.
—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
—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.
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
—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
—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.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 Stephen.
Stephen, taking his ashplanta walking-stick
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!
—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 asked Stephen.
He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his
—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
—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:
—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.
—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
. That 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
Buck Mulligan 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 voice:
—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 Calvary.
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
—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
—There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.
Haines 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.
—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 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
—After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your
own master, it seems to me.
—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
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 book.
clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph of their brazen bells: et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam:"The one, holy, universal and apostolic Church"
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 8).
, 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.
surely 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
host, who 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.
The 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 you, Malachi?
—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
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
—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 Mulligan said.
—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
—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
—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
—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
—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 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
—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 never trust..
—Good, Stephen said.
He walked along the upwardcurving path.
A voiceMulligan's ("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.