ULYSSES (The Original 1922 Edition). James Joyce

to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all.

      He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.

      Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his 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 she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.

      Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.

      — Ah, poor dogsbody, he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?

      — They fit well enough, Stephen answered.

      Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.

      — The mockery of it, he said contentedly, secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You’ll look spiffing in them. I’m not joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you’re dressed.

      — Thanks, Stephen said. I can’t wear them if they are grey.

      — He can’t wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear grey trousers.

      He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.

      Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.

      — That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan says you have g. p. i. He’s up in Dottyville with Conolly Norman. Genera paralysis of the insane.

      He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.

      — Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard.

      Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack, hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.

      — I pinched it out of the skivvy’s room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.

      Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen’s peering eyes.

      — The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you.

      Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness :

      — It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked lookingglass of a servant.

      Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen’s and walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.

      — It’s not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them.

      Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steel pen.

      — Cracked lookingglass of a servant. Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He’s stinking with money and thinks you’re not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.

      Cranly’s arm. His arm.

      — And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I’m the only one that knows what you are. Why don’t you trust me more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I’ll bring down Seymour and we’ll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.

      Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe’s rooms. Palefaces : they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another, O, I shall expire ! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey ! I shall die ! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor’s shears. A scared calf’s face gilded with marmalade. I don’t want to be debagged ! Don’t you play the giddy ox with me !

      Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold’s face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.

      To ourselves… new paganism… omphalos.

      — Let him stay, Stephen said. There’s nothing wrong with him except at night.

      — Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I’m quite frank with you. What have you against me now?

      They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.

      — Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.

      — Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don’t remember anything.

      He looked in Stephen’s face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes.

      Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said :

      — Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother’s death?

      Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said :

      — What? Where? I can’t remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?

      — You were making tea, Stephen said, and I went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawing room. She asked you who was in your room.

      — Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.

      — You said, Stephen answered, O, it’s only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.

      A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan’s cheek.

      — Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?

      He shook his constraint from him nervously.

      — And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissecting room. It’s a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t kneel down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it’s injected the wrong way. To me it’s all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She calls the doctor Sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it’s over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don’t whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette’s. Absurd ! I suppose I did say it. I didn’t mean to offend the memory of your mother.

      He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly : — I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.

      — Of what, then? Buck Mulligan asked.

      — Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.

      Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.

      —