Ulysses
By James JoyceSparknotes
Copyright © 2003 James Joyce
All right reserved.ISBN: 9781586634940
Chapter One
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl oflather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown,ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He heldthe bowl aloft and intoned:
? Introibo ad altare Dei.
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely:
? Come up. Kinch. Come up, you fearful Jesuit.
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He facedabout and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding country and theawaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towardshim and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking hishead. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of thestaircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equinein its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered thebowl smartly.
? Back to barracks, he said sternly.
He added in a preacher's tone:
? For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul andblood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. Alittle trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.
He peered sideways up and gave a long low whistle of call then pausedawhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there withgold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered throughthe calm.
? Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch offthe current, will you?
He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gatheringabout his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face andsullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasantsmile broke quietly over his lips.
? The mockery of it, he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancientGreek.
He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet,laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfwayand sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he proppedhis mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeksand neck.
Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.
? My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has aHellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We mustgo to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?
He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:
? Will he come? The jejune jesuit.
Ceasing, he began to shave with care.
? Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
? Yes, my love?
? How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.
? God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinksyou're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English. Bursting with moneyand indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know. Dedalus, youhave the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for youis the best: Kinch, the knifeblade.
He shaved warily over his chin.
? He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Whereis his guncase?
? A woful lunatic, Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?
? I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in thedark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shootinga black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. Ithe stays on here I am off.
Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razor blade. He hopped downfrom 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 upperpocket, said:
? Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.
Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner adirty 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 fairoakpale hair stirring slightly.
? God, he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweetmother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton.Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks. I must teach you. You must read them in theoriginal. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.
Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked downon the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbour mouth of Kingstown.
? Our mighty mother, Buck Mulligan said.
He turned abruptly his great searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face.
? The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why shewon't let me have anything to do with you.
? Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
? You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying motherasked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But tothink of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and prayfor her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you ...
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerantsmile curled his lips.
? But a lovely mummer, he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliestmummer of them all.
He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.
Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm againsthis brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coatsleeve. Pain,that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream shehad come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose browngraveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that hadbent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across thethreadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfedvoice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass ofliquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the greensluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loudgroaning vomiting.
Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.
? Ah, poor dogsbody, he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirtand a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?
? They fit well enough, Stephen answered.
Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow...
