-- I --
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan
came
from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a
razor lay
crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind
him on
the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and
intoned:
--Introibo ad altare
Dei.
Halted, he peered down the
dark
winding stairs and called out coarsely:
--Come up, Kinch! Come up,
you
fearful jesuit!
Solemnly he came forward and
mounted
the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower,
the
surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of
Stephen
Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air,
gurgling in his
throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy,
leaned his
arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking
gurgling face
that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured
hair,
grained and hued like pale oak.
Buck Mulligan peeped an
instant
under the mirror and then covered the bowl
smartly.
--Back to barracks! he said
sternly.
He added in a preacher's
tone:
--For this, O dearly
beloved, is the
genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music,
please. Shut
your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white
corpuscles.
Silence, all.
He peered sideways up and
gave a long
slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even
white
teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two
strong
shrill whistles answered through the calm.
--Thanks, old chap, he cried
briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?
He skipped off the gunrest
and
looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds
of his
gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate,
patron
of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his
lips.
--The mockery of it! he said
gaily.
Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!
He pointed his finger in
friendly
jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus
stepped
up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the
gunrest,
watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the
brush in
the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.
Buck Mulligan's gay voice
went on.
--My name is absurd too:
Malachi
Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping
and
sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I
can get
the aunt to fork out twenty quid?
He laid the brush aside and,
laughing with delight, cried:
--Will he come? The jejune
jesuit!
Ceasing, he began to shave
with
care.
--Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen
said
quietly.
--Yes, my love?
--How long is Haines going
to stay
in this tower?
Buck Mulligan showed a
shaven cheek
over his right shoulder.
--God, isn't he dreadful? he
said
frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. God,
these bloody
English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from
Oxford. You
know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out.
O, my
name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.
He shaved warily over his
chin.
--He was raving all night
about a
black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase?
--A woful lunatic! Mulligan
said.
Were you in a funk?
--I was, Stephen said with
energy
and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving
and
moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from
drowning.
I'm not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am
off.
Buck Mulligan frowned at the
lather
on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his
trouser pockets hastily.
--Scutter! he cried
thickly.
He came over to the gunrest
and,
thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket,
said:
--Lend us a loan of your
noserag to
wipe my razor.
Stephen suffered him to pull
out and
hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck
Mulligan
wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he
said:
--The bard's noserag! A new
art
colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't
you?
He mounted to the parapet
again and
gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring
slightly.
--God!
he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet
mother? The
snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton.
Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I
must
teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She
is our
great sweet mother. Come and look.
Source: Text provided by Dr.
Forés.