Ulysses_NT.pdf

Ulysses

James Joyce

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Ulysses

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.

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—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

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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.

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—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.

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