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.