Ulysses by James Joyce

-- 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.