STATELY, PLUMP BUCK¹ MULLIGAN CAME FROM THE STAIRHEAD, bearing a bowl of lather² on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressing³ gown, ungirdled, was sustained gently-behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
-- Introibo ad altare Dei.

Halted, he peered down the dark winding⁴ stairs and called up 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 country and the awaking mountains. Then, catching⁵ sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent⁶ towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased⁷ 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 hued⁸ 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 low whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening⁹ here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill¹⁰ 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, gathering¹¹ about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen¹² 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 gaily¹³. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek.

He pointed¹⁴ his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily half way and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped¹⁶ his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered¹⁷ 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 jejune¹⁸ 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 frankly¹⁹. A ponderous²⁰ Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody²¹ English. Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford²². 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 warily²³ over his chin.

-- He was raving²⁴ 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 hopped²⁵ down from his perch²⁶ 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 crumpled²⁷ handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly²⁸. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:

-- The bard²⁹'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 grey 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.

Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbour mouth of Kingstown.

-- Our mighty³⁰ mother, Buck Mulligan said.

He turned abruptly³¹ his great searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face.

-- The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you.

-- Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.

-- You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister³² in you.

He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.

-- But a lovely mummer, he murmured 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 granite³³, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying³⁴ edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted³⁵ his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown grave-clothes 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 well-fed 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 sluggish³⁶ bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning³⁷ vomiting³⁸.

Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.

-- Ah, poor dogsbody, he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and 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 contentedly³⁹, 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. Etiquette⁴⁰ 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. General paralysis⁴¹ 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, cleft⁴² by a crooked⁴³ 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 plain-looking 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 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 kindly⁴⁴. 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 steelpen.

-- Cracked lookingglass of a servant. Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking⁴⁵ 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 ribs⁴⁷ with laughter, one clasping another, O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit⁴⁸ ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops⁴⁹ and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears⁵⁰. A scared calf's face gilded⁵¹ 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 mower⁵² on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes⁵³ 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 cape⁵⁴ of Bray⁵⁵ 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 spoke⁵⁶. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes.

Stephen, depressed⁵⁷ 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 drawingroom. 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 constraint⁵⁸ from him nervously⁵⁹.

-- 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 dissecting⁶⁰ 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 cerebral⁶¹ lobes⁶² 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 gaping⁶³ 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.

-- O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.

He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks.

A voice within the tower called loudly:

-- Are you up there, Mulligan?

-- I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered.

He turned towards Stephen and said:

-- Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof.

-- Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the moody⁶⁴ brooding.

His head vanished but the drone of his descending⁶⁵ voice boomed out of the stairhead:

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery
For Fergus rules the brazen⁶⁶ cars.
Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned⁶⁷ by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings merging⁶⁸ their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded⁶⁹ words shimmering⁷⁰ on the dim tide.
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay behind him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe⁷¹ and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery.

Where now?

Her secrets: old feather fans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk⁷², a gaud of amber⁷³ beads⁷⁴ in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the pantomime of Turko the terrible and laughed with others when he sang:

I am the boy
That can enjoy
Invisibility.
Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.
And no more turn aside and brood
Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset⁷⁵ his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.
In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

Her glazing⁷⁶ eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse⁷⁷ loud breath rattling⁷⁸ in horror, while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.

Ghoul! Chewer of corpses⁷⁹!

No mother. Let me be and let me live.

-- Kinch ahoy!

Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul's cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.

-- Dedalus, comedown, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is apologizing for waking us last night. It's all right.

-- I'm coming, Stephen said, turning.

-- Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes.

His head disappeared and reappeared.

-- I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.

-- I get paid this morning, Stephen said.

-- The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.

-- If you want it, Stephen said.

-- Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent⁸⁰ sovereigns.

He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune⁸² with a Cockney accent:

O, won't we have a merry time
Drinking whisky, beer and wine,
On coronation,
Coronation day?
O, won't we have a merry time
On coronation day?
Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shaving-bowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there all day, forgotten friendship?
He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck. So I carried the boat of incense⁸³ then at Clongowes. I am another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.

In the gloomy domed⁸⁴ livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form moved briskly about the hearth⁸⁵ to and fro, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Two shafts⁸⁶ of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbicans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes⁸⁷ of fried grease floated, turning.

-- We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?

Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker⁸⁸. A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway⁸⁹ and pulled open the inner doors.

-- Have you the key? a voice asked.

-- Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked. He howled without looking up from the fire:

-- Kinch!

-- It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.

The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief.

-- I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when .

But hush⁹⁰. Not a word more on that subject. Kinch, wake up. Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. Where's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk.

Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.

-- What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.

-- We can drink it black, Stephen said. There's a lemon in the locker.

-- O, damn you and your Paris fads⁹¹, Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk.

Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly:

-- That woman is coming up with the milk.

-- The blessings⁹² of God on you, Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can't go fumbling⁹³ at the damned eggs. He hacked⁹⁴ through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying:

-- In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

Haines sat down to pour out the tea.

-- I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don't you?

Buck Mulligan, hewing⁹⁵ thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's wheedling⁹⁶ voice:

-- When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.

-- By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.

Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:

-- So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Begob, ma'am, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don't make them in the one pot.

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled⁹⁷ on his knife.

-- That's folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum. Printed by the weird⁹⁸ sisters in the year of the big wind.

He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his brows:

-- Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?

-- I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.

-- Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?

-- I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.

Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight.

-- Charming, he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming.

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled⁹⁹ in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed¹⁰⁰ again vigorously at the loaf:

-- For old Mary Ann
She doesn't care a damn,
But, hising up her petticoats...
He crammed¹⁰¹ his mouth with fry and munched¹⁰² and droned.
The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

-- The milk, sir.

-- Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug¹⁰³.

An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.

-- That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.

-- To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure. Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.

-- The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually¹⁰⁴, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces.

-- How much, sir? asked the old woman.

-- A quart, Stephen said.

He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching¹⁰⁵ by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal¹⁰⁶ serving her conqueror¹⁰⁷ and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid¹⁰⁸, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

-- It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.

-- Taste it, sir, she said.

He drank at her bidding.

-- If we could only live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts¹⁰⁹. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits.

-- Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.

-- I am, ma'am, Buck Mulligan answered.

Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman; me she slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness¹¹⁰, the serpent's prey¹¹¹. And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

-- Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.

-- Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.

Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.

-- Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?

-- I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from west, sir?

-- I am an Englishman, Haines answered.

-- He's English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish in Ireland.

-- Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I don't speak the language myself. I'm told it's a grand language by them that knows.

-- Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely¹¹². Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma'am?

-- No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go.

Haines said to her:

-- Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn't we?

Stephen filled the three cups.

-- Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint¹¹³ at twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling and one and two is two and two, sir.

Buck Mulligan sighed and having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth¹¹⁴ his legs and began to search his trouser pockets.

-- Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him smiling.

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried:

-- A miracle!

He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:

-- Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give. Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.

-- We'll owe twopence, he said.

-- Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning, sir.

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant:

-- Heart of my heart, were it more,
More would be laid at your feet.
He turned to Stephen and said:
-- Seriously, Dedalus. I'm stony¹¹⁵. Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money. Today the bards¹¹⁶ must drink and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty.

-- That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your national library today.

-- Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.

He turned to Stephen and asked blandly¹¹⁷:

-- Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?

Then he said to Haines:

-- The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

-- All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle¹¹⁸ over a slice of the loaf.

Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:

-- I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.

Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here's a spot.

-- That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good.

Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with warmth of tone:

-- Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.

-- Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.

-- Would I make money by it? Stephen asked.

Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said:

-- I don't know, I'm sure.

He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour¹¹⁹:

-- You put your hoof¹²⁰ in it now. What did you say that for?

-- Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think.

I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes¹²¹.

-- I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.

Buck Mulligan sighed tragically¹²² and laid his hand on Stephen's arm.

-- From me, Kinch, he said.

In a suddenly changed tone he added:

-- To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all else they are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them all. Let us get out of the kip.

He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying resignedly:

-- Mulligan is stripped of his garments.

He emptied his pockets on to the table.

-- There's your snotrag, he said.

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious¹²³ tie, he spoke to them, chiding¹²⁴ them, and to his dangling¹²⁵ watchchain. His hands plunged¹²⁶ and rummaged¹²⁷ in his trunk while he called for - a clean handkerchief. Agenbite of inwit. God, we'll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial¹²⁸ Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands.

-- And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said.

Stephen picked it up and put it on: Haines called to them from the doorway:

-- Are you coming, you fellows?

-- I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:

-- And going forth he met Butterly.

Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.

At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked:

-- Did you bring the key?

-- I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.

He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.

-- Down, sir. How dare you, sir? Haines asked:

-- Do you pay rent for this tower?

-- Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.

-- To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last:

-- Rather bleak¹²⁹ in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?

-- Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on the sea. But ours is the omphalos.

-- What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.

-- No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fiftyfive reasons he has made to prop¹⁵ it up. Wait till I have a few pints¹³⁰ in me first.

He turned to Stephen, saying as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his primrose¹³¹ waistcoat:

-- You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?

-- It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.

-- You pique¹³² my curiosity, Haines said amiably¹³³. Is it some paradox¹³⁴?

-- Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes¹³⁵. It's quite simple. He proves by algebra¹³⁶ that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father.

-- What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?

Buck Mulligan slung¹³⁷ his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said to Stephen's ear:

-- O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!

-- We're always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is rather long to tell.

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.

-- The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.

-- I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. That beetles¹³⁸ o'er his base into the sea, isn't it?

Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires¹³⁹.

-- It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.

Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent¹⁴⁰. The seas' ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the smokeplume of the mailboat, vague on the bright skyline, and a sail tacking¹⁴¹ by the Muglins.

-- I read a theological interpretation¹⁴² of it somewhere, he said bemused. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned¹⁴³ with the Father.

Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe¹⁴⁴ broadly smiling face. He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn¹⁴⁵ all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He moved a doll's head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and began to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice:

-- I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.
My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.
With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree,
So here's to disciples¹⁴⁶ and Calvary.
He held up a forefinger¹⁴⁷ of warning.
-- If anyone thinks that I amn't divine
He'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine
But have to drink water and wish it were plain
That I make when the wine becomes water again.
He tugged¹⁴⁸ swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins¹⁴⁹ or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:
-- Goodbye, now, goodbye. Write down all I said
And tell Tom, Dick and Harry¹⁵¹ I rose from the dead.
What's bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly
And Olivet's breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye.
He capered¹⁵² before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdlike cries.
Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said:

-- We oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous¹⁵³. I'm not a believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?

-- The ballad¹⁵⁴ of Joking Jesus, Stephen answered.

-- O, Haines said, you have heard it before?

-- Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.

-- You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God.

-- There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.

Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.

-- Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.

Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk¹⁵⁵ towards Stephen in the shell of his hands.

-- Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or you don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of a personal God. You don't stand for that, I suppose?

-- You behold¹⁵⁶ in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.

He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing¹⁵⁷ at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling Steeeeeeeeeephen. A wavering line along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants that key. It is mine, I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes.

-- After all, Haines began...

Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind.

-- After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your own master, it seems to me.

-- I am the servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an Italian.

-- Italian? Haines said.

A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.

-- And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.

-- Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?

-- The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.

-- I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame.

The proud potent⁸¹ titles clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph of their brazen bells: et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam: the slow growth and change of rite¹⁵⁰ and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant¹⁵⁸ angel of the church militant¹⁵⁹ disarmed¹⁶⁰ and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde¹⁶¹ of heresies¹⁶² fleeing with mitres awry¹⁶³: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning¹⁶⁴ Christ's terrene body, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming¹⁶⁵ and a worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.

Hear, hear. Prolonged applause. Zut! Nom de Dieu!

-- Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines' voice said, and I feel as one. I don't want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either. That's our national problem, I'm afraid, just now.

Two men stood at the verge¹⁶⁶ of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman.

-- She's making for Bullock harbour.

The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain¹⁶⁷.

-- There's five fathoms¹⁶⁸ out there, he said. It'll be swept up that way when the tide comes in about one. It's nine days today.

The man that was drowned. A sail veering¹⁶⁹ about the blank bay waiting for a swollen¹⁷⁰ bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face, salt white. Here I am.

They followed the winding path down to the creek¹⁷¹. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling¹⁷² over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.

-- Is the brother with you, Malachi?

-- Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.

-- Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.

-- Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.

Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled¹⁷⁴ up by the stones, water glistening on his pate¹⁷⁵ and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging¹⁷⁶ loincloth.

Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble¹⁷³ past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously¹⁷⁷ with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone.

-- Seymour's back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.

-- Ah, go to God, Buck Mulligan said.

-- Going over next week to stew¹⁷⁸. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?

-- Yes.

-- Spooning with him last night on the pier¹⁷⁹. The father is rotto with money.

-- Is she up the pole?

-- Better ask Seymour that.

-- Seymour a bleeding officer, Buck Mulligan said.

He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely¹⁸⁰:

-- Redheaded women buck like goats.

He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.

-- My twelfth rib⁴⁶ is gone, he cried. I'm the Uebermensch. Toothless Kinch and I, the supermen.

He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his clothes lay.

-- Are you going in here, Malachi?

-- Yes. Make room in !he bed.

The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone, smoking.

-- Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked.

-- Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast. Stephen turned away.

-- I'm going, Mulligan, he said.

-- Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.

Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.

-- And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.

Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan erect¹⁸¹, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:

-- He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake Zarathustra.

His plump body plunged.

-- We'll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at wild Irish.

Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.

-- The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.

-- Good, Stephen said.

He walked along the upwardcurving path.

Liliata rutilantium.
Turnia circumdet.
Iubilantium te virginum
The priest's grey nimbus in a niche¹⁸² where he dressed discreetly¹⁸³. I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.
A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek¹⁸⁴ brown head, a seal's, far out on the water, round.

Usurper¹⁸⁵.

体态丰满而有风度的勃克·穆利根[1]从楼梯口出现。他手里托着一钵肥皂沫，上面交叉放了一面镜子和一把剃胡刀。他没系腰带，淡黄色浴衣被习习晨风吹得稍微向后蓬着[2]。他把那只钵高高举起，吟诵道：

我要走向上主的祭台。

他停下脚步，朝那昏暗的螺旋状楼梯下边瞥了一眼，粗声粗气地嚷道：

“上来，金赤[3]。上来，你这敬畏天主的耶酥会士[4]。”

他庄严地向前走去，登上圆形的炮座。他朝四下里望望，肃穆地对这座塔[5]和周围的田野以及逐渐苏醒着的群山祝福了三遍。然后，他一瞧见斯蒂芬·迪达勒斯就朝他弯下身去，望空中迅速地画了好几个十字，喉咙里还发出咯咯声，摇看头。斯蒂芬·迪达勒斯气恼而昏昏欲睡，双臂倚在楼梯栏杆上，冷冰冰地瞅着一边摇头一边发出咯咯声向他祝福的那张马脸，以及那顶上并未剃光[6]、色泽和纹理都像是浅色橡木的淡黄头发。

勃克·穆利根朝镜下瞅了一眼，赶快阖上钵。

“回到营房去，”他厉声说。

接着又用布道人的腔调说：

“啊，亲爱的人们，这是真正的克里斯廷[7]：肉体和灵魂，血和伤痕。请把音乐放慢一点儿。闭上眼睛，先生们。等一下。这些白血球有点儿不消停。请大家肃静。”

他朝上方斜睨，悠长地低声吹了下呼唤的口哨，随后停下来，全神贯注地倾听着。他那口洁白齐整的牙齿有些地方闪射着金光。克里索斯托[8]。两声尖锐有力的口哨划破寂静回应了他。

“谢谢啦，老伙计，”他精神抖擞地大声说。“蛮好。请你关上电门，好吗?”

他从炮座上跳下来，神色庄重地望着那个观看他的人，并将浴衣那宽松的下摆拢在小腿上。他那郁郁寡欢的胖脸和阴沉的椭圆形下颚令人联想到中世纪作为艺术保护者的高僧。他的唇边徐徐地绽出了榆快的笑意。

“多可笑。”他快活地说。“你这姓名太荒唐了，一个古希腊人[9]。”

他友善而打趣地指了一下，一面暗自笑着，走到胸墙那儿。斯蒂芬·迪达勒斯爬上塔顶，无精打采地跟着他走到半途，就在炮座边上坐下来，静静地望着他怎样把镜子靠在胸墙上，将刷子在钵里浸了浸，往面颊和脖颈上涂起皂沫。

勃克·穆利根用愉快的声调继续讲下去。

“我的姓名也荒唐，玛拉基·穆利根，两个扬抑抑格。可它带些古希腊味道，对不?轻盈快活得正像只公鹿[10]。咱们总得去趟雅典。我要是能从姑妈身上挤出二十镑，你肯一道去吗?”

他把刷子撂在一边，开心地大声笑着说：

“他去吗，那位枯燥乏味的耶酥会士?”

他闭上嘴，仔细地刮起脸来。

“告诉我，穆利根，”斯蒂芬轻声说。

“嗯?乖乖。”

“海恩斯还要在这座塔里住上多久?”

勃克·穆利根从右肩侧过他那半边刮好的脸。

“老天啊，那小子多么讨人嫌!”他坦率地说。“这种笨头笨脑的撒克逊人，他就没把你看作一位有身份的人。天哪，那帮混账的英国人。腰缠万贯，脑满肠肥。因为他是牛津出身呗。喏，迪达勒斯，你才真正有牛津派头呢。他捉摸不透你。哦，我给你起的名字再好不过啦：利刃金赤。”

他小心翼翼地刮着下巴。

“他整宵都在说着关于一只什么黑豹的梦话，”斯蒂芬说，“他的猎枪套在哪儿?”

“一个可悯可悲的疯子!”穆利根说。“你害怕了吧?”

“是啊，”斯蒂芬越来越感到恐怖，热切地说，“黑咕隆咚地在郊外，跟一个满口胡话、哼哼卿卿要射杀一只黑豹的陌生人呆在一块儿。你曾救过快要淹死的人。可我不是英雄。要是他继续呆在这儿，那我就走。”

勃克·穆利根朝着剃胡刀上的肥皂沫皱了皱眉，从坐着的地方跳了下来，慌忙地在裤兜里摸索。

“糟啦，”他瓮声瓮气地嚷道。

他来到炮座跟前，把手伸进斯蒂芬的胸兜，说：

“把你那块鼻涕布借咱使一下。擦擦剃胡刀。”

斯蒂芬听任他拽出那条皱巴巴的脏手绢，捏着一角，把它抖落开来。勃克·穆利根干净利索地揩完剃胡刀，望着手绢说：

“‘大诗人’[11]的鼻涕布。属于咱们爱尔兰诗人的一种新的艺术色彩，鼻涕绿。简直可以尝得出它的滋味，对吗?”

他又跨上胸墙，眺望着都柏林湾。他那浅橡木色的黄头发微微飘动着。

“喏!”他安详地说。“这海不就是阿尔杰所说的吗：一位伟大可爱的母亲[12]?鼻涕绿的海。使人的睾丸紧缩的海。到葡萄紫的大海上去[13]。喂，迪达勒斯，那些希腊人啊。我得教给你。你非用原文来读不可。海!海[14]!她是我们的伟大可爱的母亲。过来瞧瞧。”

斯蒂芬站起来，走到胸墙跟前。他倚着胸墙，俯瞰水面和正在驶出国王镇[15]港口的邮轮。

“我们的强有力的母亲[16]，”勃克·穆利根说。

他那双目光锐利的灰色眼睛猛地从海洋移到斯蒂芬的脸上。

“姑妈认为你母亲死在你手里，”他说。“所以她不计我跟你有任何往来。”

“是有人害的她，”斯蒂芬神色阴郁地说。

“该死，金赤，当你那位奄奄一息的母亲央求你跪下来的时候，你总应该照办呀，”勃克·穆利根说。“我跟你一样是个冷心肠人。可你想想看，你那位快咽气的母亲恳求你跪下来为她祷告。而你拒绝了。你身上有股邪气……”

他忽然打住，又往另一边面颊上轻轻涂起肥皂沫来。一味宽厚的笑容使他撇起了嘴唇。

“然而是个可爱的哑剧演员，”他自言自语着。“金赤，所有的哑剧演员当中最可爱的一个。”

他仔细地把脸刮得挺匀净，默默地，专心致专地。

斯蒂芬一只肘支在坑洼不平的花岗石上，手心扶额头，凝视着自己发亮的黑上衣袖子那磨破了的袖口。痛苦——还说不上是爱的痛苦——煎熬着他的心。她去世之后，曾在梦中悄悄地来找过他，她那枯槁的身躯裹在宽松的褐色衣衾里，散发出蜡和黄檀的气味;当她带着微嗔一声不响地朝他俯下身来时，依稀闻到一股淡淡的湿灰气味。隔着槛褛的袖口，他瞥见被身旁那个吃得很好的人的嗓门称作伟大可爱的母亲的海洋。海湾与天际构成环形，盛着大量的暗绿色液体。母亲弥留之际，床畔曾放着一只白瓷钵，里边盛着粘糊糊的绿色胆汁，那是伴着她一阵阵的高声呻吟，撕裂她那腐烂了的肝脏吐出来的。

勃克·穆利根又揩了揩剃刀刃。

“啊，可怜的小狗[17]!”他柔声说，“我得给你件衬衫，几块鼻涕布。那条二手货的裤子怎么样?”

“挺合身，”斯蒂芬回答说。

勃克·穆利根开始刮下唇底下凹陷的部位。

“不是什么正经玩艺儿，”他沾沾自喜地说，“应该叫作二腿货。天晓得是哪个患了梅毒的酒疯子丢下的。我有一条好看的细条纹裤子，灰色的。你穿上一定蛮帅。金赤，我不是在开玩笑。你打扮起来，真他妈的帅。”

“谢谢，”斯蒂芬说，“要是灰色的，我可不能穿。”

“他不能穿，”勃克·穆利根对着镜中自己的脸说，“礼数终归是礼数。他害死了自己的母亲，可是不能穿灰裤子。”

他利利索索地折上剃胡刀，用手指的触须抚摩着光滑的皮肤。

斯蒂芬将视线从海面移向那张有着一双灵活的烟蓝色眼睛的胖脸。

“昨儿晚上跟我一道在‘船记’[18]的那个人，”勃克·穆利根说，“说是你患了痴麻症。他是康内利·诺曼的同事，在痴呆镇工作[19]。痴呆性全身麻痹症。”

他用镜子在空中划了半个圈子，以便把这消息散发到正灿烂地照耀着海面的阳光中去。他撇着剃得干干净净的嘴唇笑了，露出发着白光的齿尖。笑声攫住了他那整个结实强壮的身子。

“瞧瞧你自己，”他说，“你这丑陋的‘大诗人’。”

斯蒂芬弯下身去照了照举在跟前的镜子。镜面上有一道弯曲的裂纹，映在镜中的脸被劈成两半，头发倒竖着。他和旁人眼里的我就是这样的。是谁为我挑选了这么一张脸？这只要把寄生虫除掉的小狗。它也在这么问我。

“是我从老妈子屋里抄来的，”勃克·穆利根说。“对她就该当如此。姑妈总是派没啥姿色的仆人去伺候玛拉基。不叫他受到诱惑[20]。而她的名字叫乌水苏拉[21]。”

他又笑着，把斯蒂芬直勾勾地望着的镜子挪开了。

“凯列班在镜中照不见自己的脸时所感到的愤怒，”[22]他说。“要是王尔德还在世，瞧见你这副尊容，该有多妙。”

斯蒂芬后退了几步，指着镜子沉痛地说：

“这就是爱尔兰艺术的象征。仆人的一面有裂纹的镜子[23]。”

勃克·穆利根突然挽住斯蒂芬的一只胳膊，同他一道在塔顶上转悠。揣在兜里的剃胡刀和镜子发出相互碰撞的丁当声。

“像这样拿你取笑是不公道的，金赤，对吗?”他亲切地说。“老天晓得，你比他们当中的任何人都有骨气。”

又把话题岔开了。他惧怕我的艺术尖刀，正如我害怕他的冷酷无情的钢笔。

“仆人用的有裂纹的镜子。把这话讲给楼下那个牛津家伙[24]听，向他挤出一基尼[25]。他浑身发散着铜臭气，没把你看成有身份的人。他老子要么是把药喇叭[26]根做成的泻药卖给了祖鲁人[27]，要么就是靠干下了什么鬼骗局发的家。喂，金赤，要是咱俩通力合作，兴许倒能为本岛干出点名堂来。把它希腊化了[28]。”

克兰利的胳膊[29]。他的胳膊。

“想想看，你竟然得向那些猪猡告帮!我是唯一赏识你的人。你为什么不更多地信任我呢?你凭什么对我鼻子朝天呢?是海恩斯吗?要是他在这儿稍微一闹腾，我就把西摩[30]带来，我们会狠狠地收拾他一顿，比他们收拾克莱夫·肯普索普的那次还要厉害。”

从克莱夫·肯普索普的房间里传出阔少们的喊叫声。一张张苍白的面孔，他们抱在一起，捧腹大笑。唉呀。我快断气啦!要委婉地向她透露这消息，奥布里[31]!我这就要死啦!他围着桌子一瘸一拐地跑，衬衫被撕成一条条的，像缎带一般在空中呼扇着，裤子脱落到脚后跟上[32]，被麦达伦学院那个手里拿着裁缝大剪刀的埃德斯追赶着。糊满了桔子酱的脸惊惶得像头小牛犊。别扒下我的裤子!你们别拿我当呆牛耍着玩!

从敞开着的窗户传出的喧嚷声，惊动了方院的暮色。耳聋的花匠系着围裙，有着一张像煞马修·阿诺德[33]的脸，沿着幽幽的草坪推着割草机，仔细地盯着草茎屑末的飞舞。

我们自己……新异教教义……中心[34]。

“让他呆下去吧，”斯蒂芬说。“他只不过是夜间不对头罢了。”

“那么，是怎么回事?”勃克·穆利根不耐烦地问道。“干脆说吧。我对你是直言不讳的。现在你有什么跟我过不去的呢？”

他们停下脚步，眺望着布莱岬角[35]那钝角形的海岬——它就像一条酣睡中的鲸的鼻尖，浮在水面上。斯蒂芬轻轻地抽出胳膊。

“你要我告诉你吗?”他问。

“嗯，是怎么回事?”勃克·穆利根回答说。“我一点儿也记不起来啦。”

他边说边端详斯蒂芬的脸。微风掠过他的额头，轻拂着他那未经梳理的淡黄头发，使焦灼不安的银光在他的眼睛里晃动。

斯蒂芬边说边被自己的声音弄得很沮丧：

“你记得我母亲去世后，我头一次去你家那天的事吗?”

勃克·穆利根马上皱起眉头，说：

“什么?哪儿？我什么也记不住。我只记得住观念和感觉[36]。你为什么问这个?天哪，到底发生了什么事？”

“你在沏茶，”斯蒂芬说，“我穿过楼梯平台去添开水。你母亲和一位客人从客厅里走出来。她问你，谁在你的房间里。”

“咦?”勃克·穆利根说。“我说什么来看?我可忘啦。”

“你是这么说的，”斯蒂芬回答道，“哦，只不过是迪达勒斯呗，他母亲死得像头畜生。”

勃克·穆利根的两颊骤然泛红了，使他显得更年轻而有魅力。

“我是这么说的吗?”他问道。“啊？那又碍什么事?”

他神经质地晃了晃身子，摆脱了自己的狼狈心情。

“死亡又是什么呢?”他问道，“你母亲也罢，你也罢，我自己也罢。你只瞧见了你母亲的死。我在圣母和里奇蒙[37]那里，每天都看见他们突然咽气，在解剖室里被开膛破肚。这是畜生也会有的那种事情，仅此而已。你母亲弥留之际，要你跪下来为她祷告，你却拒绝了。为什么？因为你身上有可诅咒的耶稣会士的气质，只不过到了你身上就拧啦。对我来说，这完全是个嘲讽，畜生也会有的事儿。她的脑叶失灵了。她管大夫叫彼得·蒂亚泽爵士[38]，还把被子上的毛莨饰花拽下来。哄着她，直到她咽气为止呗。你拒绝满足她生前最后的一个愿望，却又跟我怄气，因为我不肯像拉鲁哀特殡仪馆花钱雇来的送葬人那样号丧。荒唐!我想必曾这么说过吧。可我无意损害你母亲死后的名声。”

他越说越理直气壮了。斯蒂芬遮掩着这些话语在他心坎上留下的创伤，极其冷漠地说：

“我想的不是你对我母亲的损害。”

“那么你想的是什么呢?”勃克·穆利根问。

“是对我的损害，”斯蒂芬回答说。

勃克·穆利根用脚后跟转了个圈儿。

“哎呀，你这家伙可真难缠!”他嚷道。

他沿着胸墙疾步走开。斯蒂芬依然站在原地，目光越过风平浪静的海洋，朝那岬角望去。此刻，海面和岬角朦朦胧胧地混为一片了。他两眼的脉搏在跳动，视线模糊了，感到双颊在发热。

从塔里传来朗声喊叫：

“穆利根，你在上边吗？”

“我这就来，”勃克·穆利根回答说。

他朝斯蒂芬转过身来，并说：

“瞧瞧这片大海。它哪里在乎什么损害?跟罗耀拉[39]断绝关系，金赤，下来吧。那个撒克逊征服者[40]早餐要吃煎火腿片。”

他的脑袋在最高一级梯磴那儿又停了一下，这样就刚好同塔顶一般齐了。

“不要成天为这档子事闷闷不乐。我这个人就是有一搭无一搭的。别再那么苦思冥想啦。”

他的头消失了，然而楼梯口传来他往下走时的低吟声：

莫再扭过脸儿去忧虑，

沉浸在爱情那苦涩的奥秘里，

因黄铜车由弗格斯驾驭[41]。

树林的阴影穿过清晨的寂静，从楼梯口悄然无声地飘向他正在眺望着的大海。岸边和海面上，明镜般的海水正泛起一片白色，好像是被登着轻盈的鞋疾跑着的脚踹起来的一般。朦胧的海洋那雪白的胸脯。重音节成双地交融在一起。一只手拨弄着竖琴，琴弦交错，发出谐音。一对对的浪白色歌词闪烁在幽暗的潮水上。

一片云彩开始徐徐地把太阳整个儿遮住，海湾在阴影下变得越发浓绿了。这钵苦水就躺在他脚下。弗格斯之歌，我独自在家里吟唱，抑制着那悠长、阴郁的和音。她的门敞开着，她巴望听到我的歌声。怀着畏惧与怜悯，我悄悄地走近她床头。她在那张简陋的床上哭泣着。为了这一句，斯蒂芬，爱情那苦涩的奥秘。

而今在何处？

她的秘藏：她那上了锁的抽屉里有几把陈旧的羽毛扇、麝香熏过的带穗子的舞会请帖和一串廉价的琥珀珠子。少女时代，她家那浴满阳光的窗户上挂着一只鸟笼。她曾听过老罗伊斯在童话剧《可怕的土耳克》[42]中演唱，而当他这么唱的时候，她就跟旁人一起笑了：

我就是那男孩

能够领略随心所欲地

隐身的愉快。

幻影般的欢乐被贮存起来了，用麝香熏过的。

莫再扭过脸儿去忧虑……

随着她那些小玩艺儿，被贮存在大自然的记忆中了[43]。往事如烟，袭上他那郁闷的心头。当她将领圣体[44]时，她那一玻璃杯从厨房的水管里接来的凉水。在昏暗的秋日傍晚，炉架上为她焙着的一个去了核、填满红糖的苹果。由于替孩子们掐衬衫上的虱子，她那秀丽的指甲被血染红了。

在一个梦中，她悄悄地来到他身旁。她那枯稿的身躯裹在宽松的衣衾里，散发出蜡和黄檀的气味。她朝他俯下身去，向他诉说着无声的密语，她的呼吸有着一股淡淡的湿灰气味。

为了震撼并制伏我的灵魂，她那双呆滞无神的眼睛，从死亡中直勾勾地盯着我。只盯着我一人。那只避邪蜡烛照着她弥留之际的痛苦。幽灵般的光投射在她那备受折磨的脸上。当大家跪下来祷告时，她那嗄哑响亮的呼吸发出恐怖的呼噜呼噜声。她两眼盯着我，想迫使我下跪。饰以百合的光明的司铎群来伴尔，极乐圣童贞之群高唱赞歌来迎尔[45]。

食尸鬼[46]!啖尸肉者!

不，妈妈!由着我，让我活下去吧。

“喂，金赤!”

圆塔里响起勃克·穆利根的嗓音。它沿着楼梯上来，靠近了，又喊了一声。斯蒂芬依然由于灵魂的呼唤而浑身发颤，听到了倾泻而下的温煦阳光以及背后的空气中那友善的话语。

“迪达勒斯，下来吧，乖乖地快点儿挪窝吧。早点做好了。海恩斯为夜里把咱们吵醒的事宜表示歉意。一切都好啦。”

“我这就来，”斯蒂芬转过身来说。

“看在耶稣的面上，来吧，”勃克·穆利根说。“为了我，也为了咱们大家。”

他的头消失了，接着又露了出来。

“我同他谈起你那爱尔兰艺术的象征。他说，非常聪明。向他讨一镑好不好?我是说，一个基尼。”

“今儿早晨我就领薪水了，”斯蒂芬说。

“学校那份儿吗?”勃克·穆利根说。“多少呀?四镑？借给咱一镑。”

“如果你要的话，”斯蒂芬说。

“四枚闪闪发光的金镑，”勃克·穆利根兴高采烈地嚷道。“咱们要豪饮一通，把那些正宗的德鲁伊特[47]吓一跳。四枚万能的金镑。”

他抡起双臂，咚咚地走下石梯，用东伦敦口音荒腔走调地喝道：

啊，咱们快乐一番好吗?

喝威士忌、啤酒和葡萄酒，

为了加冕，

加冕日。

啊，咱们快乐一番好吗?

为了加冕日[48]。

暖洋洋的日光在海面上嬉戏着。镍质肥皂钵在胸墙上发着亮光，被遗忘了。我何必非把它带去不可呢?要么就把它撂在那儿一整天吧，被遗忘的友谊?

他走过去，将它托在手里一会儿，触摸着那股凉劲儿，闻着里面戳着刷子的肥皂沫那粘液的气味。当年在克朗戈伍斯[49]我曾提过香炉[50]。如今我换了个人，可又是同一个人。依然是个奴仆。一个奴仆的奴仆[51]。

在塔内那间有着拱顶的幽暗起居室里，穿着浴衣的勃克·穆利根的身姿，在炉边敏捷地镀来镀去，淡黄色的火焰随之忽隐忽现。穿过高高的堞口，两束柔和的阳光落到石板地上。光线汇合处，一簇煤烟以及煎油脂的气味飘浮着，打着旋涡。

“咱们都快闷死啦，”勃克·穆利根说。“海恩斯，打开那扇门，好吗?”

斯蒂芬将那只刮胡子用的钵撂在橱柜上。坐在吊床上的高个子站起来，走向门道，拉开内侧的两扇门。

“你有钥匙吗?”一个声音问道。

“在迪达勒斯手里，”勃克·穆利根说。“老爷爷，我都给呛死啦。”

他两眼依热望着炉火，咆哮道：

“金赤!”

“它就在锁眼里哪，”斯蒂芬走过来说。

钥匙刺耳地转了两下，而当沉重的大门半开半掩时，怡人的阳光和清新的空气就进来了。海恩斯站在门口朝外面眺望。斯蒂芬把他那倒放着的旅行手提箱拽到桌前，坐下来等着。勃克·穆利根将煎蛋轻轻地甩到身旁的盘子里，然后端过盘子和一把大茶壶，使劲往桌上一放，舒了一口气。

“我都快融化了，”他说，“就像一枝蜡烛在……的时候所说过的。但是别声张。再也不提那事儿啦。金赤，振作起来。面包，黄油，蜂蜜。海恩斯，进来吧。开饭啦。‘天主降福我等，暨所将受于主，普施之惠。’[52]白糖呢?哦，老天，没有牛奶。”

斯蒂芬从橱柜里取出面包、一罐蜂蜜和盛在防融器中的黄油。勃克·穆利根突然气恼起来，一屁股坐下。

“这算是哪门子事呀?”他说。“我叫她八点以后来的。”

“咱们不兑牛奶也能喝嘛，”斯蒂芬说。“橱柜里有只柠檬。”

“呸，你和你那巴黎时尚统统见鬼去吧，”勃克·穆利根说。“我要沙湾牛奶。”

海恩斯从门道里镀了进来，安详地说：

“那个女人带着牛奶上来啦。”

“谢天谢地，”勃克·穆利根从椅子上跳起来，大声说，“坐下。茶在这儿，倒吧。糖在口袋里。诺，我应付不了这见鬼的鸡蛋。”

他在盘子里把煎蛋胡乱分开，然后甩在三个碟子里，口中念诵着：

因父及子及圣神之名[53]。

海恩斯坐下来倒茶。

“我给你们每人两块方糖，”他说。“可是，穆利根，你沏的茶可真酽，呃?”

勃克·穆利根边厚厚地切下好儿片面包，边用老妪哄娃娃的腔调说：

“葛罗甘老婆婆[54]说得好，我沏茶的时候就沏茶，撒尿的时候就撒尿。”

“天哪，这可是茶。”海恩斯说。

勃克·穆利根边沏边用哄娃娃的腔调说：

“我就是这样做的，卡希尔大娘，她说。可不是嘛，老太太，卡希尔大娘说，老天保佑，你别把两种都沏在一个壶里。”

他用刀尖戳起厚厚的面包片，分别递到共餐者面前。

“海恩斯，”他一本正经地说，“你倒可以把这些老乡写进你那本书里。关于登德鲁姆[55]的老乡和人鱼神[56]，五行正文和十页注释。在大风年由命运女神姐妹[57]印刷。”

他转向斯蒂芬，扬起眉毛，用迷惑不解的口吻柔声问道：

“你想得起来吗，兄弟，这个关于葛罗甘老婆婆的茶尿两用壶的故事是在《马比诺吉昂》[58]里，还是在《奥义书》[59]里?”

“恐怕都不在，”斯蒂芬严肃地说。

“你现在这么认为吗?”勃克·穆利根用同样的腔调说。“请问，理由何在?”

“我想，”斯蒂芬边吃边说，“《马比诺吉昂》里外都没有这个故事。可以设想，葛罗甘老婆婆跟玛丽·安[60]有血缘关系。”

勃克·穆利根的脸上泛起欣喜的微笑。

“说得有趣!”他嗲声嗲气地说，露出洁白的牙齿，愉快地眨着眼，“你认为她是这样的吗?太有趣啦。”

接着又骤然满脸戚容，一边重新使劲切面包，一边用嘶哑刺耳的声音吼着：

因为玛丽·安老妪，

她一点也不在乎。

可撩起她的衬裙……

他塞了一嘴煎蛋，一边大嚼一边用单调低沉的嗓音唱着。

一个身影闪进来，遮暗了门道。

“牛奶，先生。”

“请进，老太太，”穆利根说，“金赤，拿罐儿来。”

老妪走过来，在斯蒂芬身边停下脚步。“多么好的早晨啊，先生，”她说。“荣耀归于天主。”

“归于谁?”穆利根说着，瞅了她一眼。“哦，当然喽!”

斯蒂芬向后伸手，从橱柜里取出奶罐。

“这岛上的人们，”穆利根漫不经心地对海恩斯说，“经常提起包皮的搜集者[61]。”

“要多少，先生?”老妪问。

“一夸脱[62]，”斯蒂芬说。

他望着她先把并不是她的浓浓的白奶倾进量器，随后又倒入罐里。衰老干瘪的乳房。她又添了一量器的奶，还加了点饶头。她老迈而神秘，从清晨的世界踱了进来，兴许是位使者。她边往外倒，边夸耀牛奶好。拂晓时分，在绿油油的牧场里，她蹲在耐心的母牛旁边，一个坐在毒菌上的巫婆，她的皱巴巴的指头敏捷地挤那喷出奶汁的乳头。这些身上被露水打湿、毛皮像丝绸般的牛，跟她熟得很，它们围着她哞哞地叫。最漂亮的牛，贫穷的老妪[63]，这是往昔对她的称呼。一个到处流浪、满脸皱纹的老太婆，女神假借这个卑贱者的形象，伺候着她的征服者与她那快乐的叛徒[64]。她是受他们二者玩弄的母王八[65]。来自神秘的早晨的使者。他不晓得她究竟是来伺候的呢，还是来谴责的[66]。然而他不屑于向她讨好。

“的确好得很，老太太，”勃克·穆利根边往大家的杯子里斟牛奶边说。

“尝尝看，先生，”她说。

他按照她的话喝了。

“要是咱们能够靠这样的优质食品过活，”他略微提高嗓门对她说，“就不至于全国到处都是烂牙齿和烂肠子的了。咱们住在潮湿的沼泽地里，吃的是廉价食品，街上满是灰尘、马粪和肺病患者吐的痰。”

“先生，您是医科学生吗?”老妪问。

“我是，老太太，”勃克·穆利根回答说[67]。

斯蒂芬一声不吭地听着，满心的鄙夷。她朝那个对她大声说话的嗓门低下老迈低头，他是她的接骨师和药师; 她却不曾把我看在眼里。也朝那个听她忏悔，赦免她的罪愆，并且除了妇女那不洁净的腰部外，为她浑身涂油以便送她进坟墓的嗓门[68]低头，而妇女是从男人的身上取出来的[69]，却不是照神的形象造的[70]，她成了蛇的牺牲品[71]。她还朝那个现在使她眼中露着惊奇、茫然神色保持缄默的大嗓门低头。

“你听得懂他在说什么吗?”斯蒂芬问她。

“先生，您讲的是法国语吗?”老妪对海恩斯说。

海恩斯又对她说了一段更长的话，把握十足地。

“爱尔兰语，”勃克·穆利根说。“你有盖尔族[72]的气质吗?”

“我猜那一定是爱尔兰语，”她说，“就是那个腔调。您是从西边儿[73]来的吗，先生?”

“我是个英国人，”海恩斯回答说。

“他是一位英国人，”勃克，穆利根说，“他认为在爱尔兰，我们应该讲爱尔兰语。”

“当然喽，”老枢说，“我自己就不会讲，好惭愧啊。会这个语言的人告诉我说，那可是个了不起的语言哩。”

“岂止了不起，”勃克·穆利根说。“而且神奇无比。再给咱倒点茶，金赤。老太太，你也来一杯好吗？”

“不，谢谢您啦，先生，”老妪边说边把牛奶罐上的提环儿套在手腕上，准备离去。

海恩斯对她说：

“你把帐单带来了吗?穆利根，咱们最好给她吧，你看怎么样?”

斯蒂芬又把三只杯子斟满。

“帐单吗，先生?”她停下脚步说。“喏，一品脱[74]是两便士喽七个早晨二七就合一先令[75]二便士喽还有这三个早晨每夸脱合四个便士三夸脱就是一个先令喽一个先令加一先令二就是二先令二，先生。”

勃克·穆利根叹了口气，并把两面都厚厚地涂满黄油的一块面包皮塞进嘴里，两条腿往前一伸，开始掏起裤兜来。

“清了账，心舒畅，”海恩斯笑吟吟地对他说。

斯蒂芬倒了第三杯。一满匙茶把浓浓的牛奶微微添上点儿颜色。勃克·穆利根掏出一枚佛罗林[76]，用手指旋转着，大声嚷道：

“奇迹呀!”

他把它放在桌子面上，朝老妪推送过去，说着：

别再讨了，我亲爱的，

我能给的，全给你啦。[77]

斯蒂芬将银币放到老姻那不那么急切的手里。

“我们还欠你两便士，”他说。

“不着急，先生，”她边接银币边说。“不着急。早安，先生。”

她行了个屈膝礼，踱了出去。勃克·穆利根那温柔的歌声跟在后面：

心肝儿，倘若有多的，

统统献在你的脚前。

他转向斯蒂芬，说：

“说实在的，迪达勒斯，我已经一文不名啦。赶快到你们那家学校去，给咱们取点钱来。今天‘大诗人们’要设宴畅饮。爱尔兰期待每个人今天各尽自己的职责[78]。”

“这么一说我倒想起来了，”海恩斯边说边站起身来，“今天我得到你们的国立图书馆去一趟。”

“咱们先去游泳吧，”勃克·穆利根说。

他朝斯蒂芬转过身来，和蔼地问：

“这是你每月一次洗澡的日子吗，金赤？”

接着，他对海恩斯说：

“这位肮脏的‘大诗人’拿定主意每个月洗一次澡。”

“整个爱尔兰都在被湾流[79]冲洗着，”斯蒂芬边说边听任蜂蜜淌到一片面包上。

海恩斯在角落里正松垮垮地往他的网球衫那宽松领口上系领巾，他说：

“要是你容许的话，我倒想把你这些说词儿收集起来哩。”

他在说我哪。他们泡在澡缸里又洗又擦。内心的苛责。良心。可是这儿还有一点污迹[80]。

“关于仆人的一面有裂纹的镜子就是爱尔兰艺术的象征那番话，真是太妙啦。”

勃克·穆利根在桌子底下踢了斯蒂芬一脚，用热切的语气说：

“海恩斯，你等着听他议论哈姆莱特吧。”

“喏，我是有这个打算，”海恩斯继续对斯蒂芬说着。“我正在想这事儿的时候，那个可怜的老家伙进来啦。”

“我能从中赚点儿钱吗？”斯蒂芬问道。

海恩斯笑了笑。他一面从吊床的钩子上摘下自己那顶灰色呢帽，一面说道：

“这就很难说啦。”

他漫步朝门道踱了出去。勃克·穆利根向斯蒂芬弯过身去，粗声粗气地说：

“你这话说得太蠢了，为什么要这么说？”

“啊？”斯蒂芬说。“问题是要弄到钱。从谁身上弄？从送牛奶的老太婆或是从他那里。我看他们两个，碰上谁算谁。”

“我对他把你大吹了一通，”勃克·穆利根说，“可你却令人不快地斜眼瞟着，搬弄你那套耶酥会士的阴郁的嘲讽。”

“我看不出有什么指望，”斯蒂芬说，“老太婆也罢，那家伙也罢。”

勃克·穆利根凄惨地叹了口气，把手搭在斯蒂芬的胳膊上。

“我也罢，金赤，”他说。

他猛地改变了语调，加上一句：

“千真万确，我认为你说得对。除此之外，他们什么也不称。你为什么不像我这样作弄他们呢？让他们统统见鬼去吧。咱们从这窝里出去吧。”

他站起来，肃穆地解下腰带，脱掉浴衣，认头地说：

“穆利根被强剩下衣服[81]。”

他把兜儿都掏空了，东西放在桌上。

“你的鼻涕布就在这儿，”他说。

他一边安上硬领，系好那不听话的领带，一边对它们以及那东摇西晃的表链说着话，责骂它们。他把双手伸到箱子里去乱翻一气，并且嚷着要一块干净手绢。内心的苛责。天哪，咱们就得打扮得有点特色。我要戴深褐色的手套，穿绿色长统靴。矛盾。我自相矛盾吗？很好，那么我就是要自相矛盾[82]。能言善辩的[83]玛拉基。正说着的当儿，一个黑色软东西从他手里嗖地飞了出来。

“这是你的拉丁区[84]帽子，”他说。

斯蒂芬把它拾起来戴上了。海恩斯从门道那儿喊他们：

“你们来吗，伙计们？”

“我准备好了，”勃克·穆利根边回答边朝门口走去。“出来吧，金赤，你大概把我们剩的都吃光了吧。”

他认头了，一面迈着庄重的脚步踱了出去，一面几乎是怀着悲痛，严肃地说：

“于是他走出去，遇见了巴特里[85]。”

斯蒂芬把木手杖从它搭着的地方取了来，跟在他们后面走出去。当他们走下梯子时，他就拉上笨重的铁门，上了锁。他将很大的钥匙放在内兜里。

在梯子脚下，勃克·穆利根问道：

“你带上钥匙了吗？”

“我带着哪，”斯蒂芬边说边在他们头里走着。

他继续走着。他听见勃克·穆利根在背后用沉甸甸的浴巾抽打那长得最高的羊齿或草叶。

“趴下，老兄。放老实点儿，老兄。”

海恩斯问道，

“这座塔，你们交房租吗？”

“十二镑，”勃克，穆利根说。

“交给陆军大臣，”斯蒂芬回过头来补充一句。

他们停下步来，海恩斯朝那座塔望了望，最后说：

“啊，冬季可阴冷得够呛。你们管它叫作圆形炮塔吧?”

“这些是比利·皮特[86]叫人盖的，”勃克·穆利根说，“当时法国人在海上[87]。然而我们那座是中心。”

“你对哈姆莱特有何高见？”海恩斯向斯蒂芬问道。

“不，不，”勃克·穆利根烦闷地嚷了起来，“托巴斯·阿奎那[88]也罢，他用来支撑自己那一套的五十五个论点也罢，我都甘拜下风。等我先喝上几杯再说。”

他一边把淡黄色背心的两端拽拽整齐，一边转向斯蒂芬，说：

“金赤，起码得喝上三杯，不然你就应付不了，对吧？”

“既然都等这么久了，”斯蒂芬无精打采地说，“不妨再等一阵子。”

“你挑起了我的好奇心，”海恩斯和蔼可亲地说，“是什么似非而是的怪论吗？”

“瞎扯!”勃克·穆利根说。“我们早就摆脱了王尔德和他那些似非而是的怪论了。这十分简单。他用代数运算出，哈姆莱特的孙子是莎士比亚的祖父，而他本人是他亲爹的亡灵。”

“什么？”海恩斯说着，把指头伸向斯蒂芬。“他本人？”

勃克·穆利根将他的浴巾像祭带[89]般绕在脖子上，纵声笑得前仰后合，跟斯蒂芬咬起耳朵说：“噢，老金赤[90]的阴魂！雅弗在寻找一位父亲哪！[91]”

“每天早晨我们总是疲倦的，”斯蒂芬对海恩斯说，“更何况说也说不完呢。”

勃克·穆利根又朝前走了，并举起双手。

“只有神圣的杯中物才能使迪达勒斯打开话匣子，”他说。

“我想要说的是，”当他们跟在后面走的时候，海恩斯向斯蒂芬解释道，“此地的这座塔和这些悬崖不知怎地令我想到艾尔西诺。濒临大海的峻峭的悬崖之巅[92]——对吧？”

勃克·穆利根抽冷子回头瞅了斯蒂芬一眼，然而并没吱声。光天化日之下，在这沉默的一刹那间，斯蒂芬看到自己身穿廉价丧服，满是尘埃，夹在服装华丽的二人之间的这个形象。

“那是个精采的故事，”海恩斯这么一说，又使他们停下脚步。

他的眼睛淡蓝得像是被风净化了的海水，比海水还要淡蓝，坚毅而谨慎。他这个大海的统治者[93]，隔着海湾朝南方凝望，一片空旷，闪闪发光的天边，一艘邮船依稀冒着羽毛形的烟，还有一叶孤帆正在穆格林沙洲那儿抢风掉向航行。

“我在什么地方读过从神学上对这方面的诠释，”他若有所思地说，“圣父与圣子的概念。圣子竭力与圣父合为一体。”

勃克·穆利根的脸上立刻绽满欢快的笑容。他望着他们，高兴地张开那生得很俊的嘴唇，两眼那股精明洞察的神色顿然收敛，带着狂热欢快地眨巴着。他来回晃动着一个玩偶脑袋，巴拿马帽檐颤动着，用安详、欣悦而憨朴的嗓门吟咏起来：

我这小伙子，无比地古怪，

妈是犹太人，爹是只鸟儿[94]。

跟木匠约瑟，我可合不来，

为门徒[95]和各各他[96]干一杯。

他伸出食指表示警告：

倘有人认为，我不是神明，

我造出的酒，他休想白饮。

只好去喝水，但愿是淡的，

可别等那酒重新变成水[97]。

为了表示告别，他敏捷地拽了一下斯蒂芬的木手杖，跑到悬崖边沿，双手在两侧拍动着，像鱼鳍，又像是即将腾空飞去者的两翼，并吟咏道：

再会吧，再会，写下我说的一切，

告诉托姆、狄克和哈利，我已从死里复活[98]。

与生俱来的本事，准能使我腾飞，

橄榄山[99]和风吹——再会吧，再会！

他朝着前方的四十步潭[100]一溜烟儿地蹿下去，呼扇着翅膀般的双手，敏捷地跳跳蹦蹦。墨丘利[101]的帽子迎着清风摆动着，把他那鸟语般婉转而短促的叫声，吹回到他们的耳际。

海恩斯一直谨慎地笑着，他和斯蒂芬并肩而行，说：

“我认为咱们不该笑。他真够亵渎神明的。我本人并不是个信徒，可以这么说。然而他那欢快的腔调多少消除了话里的恶意，你看呢？他管这叫什么来看？《木匠约瑟》?”

“那是《滑稽的耶稣》[102]小调，”斯蒂芬回答说。

“哦，”海恩斯说，“你以前听过吗？”

“每天三遍，饭后，”斯蒂芬干巴巴地说。

“你不是信徒吧？”海恩斯问，“我指的是狭义上的信徒，相信从虚无中创造万物啦，神迹和人格神[103]啦。”

“依我看，信仰一词只有一种解释，”斯蒂芬说。

海恩斯停下脚步，掏出一只光滑的银质烟盒，上面闪烁着一颗绿宝石。他用拇指把它按开，递了过去。

“谢谢，”斯蒂芬说着，拿了一支香烟。

海恩斯自己也取了一文，啪的一声又把盒子关上，放回侧兜里，并从背心兜里掏出一只镍制打火匣，也把它按开，自己先点着了烟，随即双手像两扇贝壳似的拢着燃起的火绒，伸向斯蒂芬。

“是啊，当然喽，”他们重新向前走着，他说。“要么信，要么不信，你说对不？就我个人来说，我就容忍不了人格神这种概念。你也不赞成，对吧?”

“你在我身上看到的，”斯蒂芬闷闷不乐地说，“是一个可怕的自由思想的典型。”

他继续走着，等待对方开口，身边拖着那棍棒木手杖。手杖上的金属包头沿着小径轻快地跟随着他，在他的脚后跟吱吱作响。我的好搭档跟着我，叫着斯蒂依依依依依芬。一条波状道道，沿着小径。今晚他们摸着黑儿来到这里，就会踏看它了。他想要这把钥匙。那是我的。房租是我交的。而今我吃着他那苦涩的面包[104]。把钥匙也给他拉倒。一古脑儿。他会向我讨的。从他的眼神里也看得出来。

“总之，”海恩斯开口说……

斯蒂芬回过头去，只见那冷冷地打量着他的眼色并非完全缺乏善意。

“总之，我认为你是能够在思想上挣脱羁绊的。依我看，你是你自己的主人。”

“我是两个主人的奴仆，”斯蒂芬说，“一个英国人，一个意大利人。”

“意大利人?”海恩斯说。

一个疯狂的女王[l05]，年迈而且爱妒忌：给朕下跪。

“还有第三个[106]，”斯蒂芬说，“他要我给他打杂。”

“意大利人?”海恩斯又说，“你是什么意思?”

“大英帝国，”斯蒂芬回答说，他的脸涨红了，“还有神圣罗马使徒公教会[107]。”

海恩斯把沾在下唇上的一些烟叶屑抹掉后才说话。

“我很能理解这一点，”他心平气和地说。“我认为一个爱尔兰人一定会这么想的。我们英国人觉得我们对待你们不怎么公平。看来这要怪历史[108]。”

堂堂皇皇而威风凛凛的称号勾起了斯蒂芬对其铜钟那胜利的铿锵声的记忆，信奉独一至圣使徒公教会，礼拜仪式与教义像他本人那稀有着的思想一般缓慢地发展并起着变化，命星的神秘变化。《马尔塞鲁斯教皇[109]弥撒曲》[110]中的使徒象征[111]，大家的歌声汇在一起，嘹亮地唱着坚信之歌；在他们的颂歌后面，富于战斗性的教会那位时刻警惕着的使者[112]缴了异教祖师的械，并加以威胁。异教徒们成群结队地逃窜，主教冠歪歪斜斜；他们是佛提乌[112]以及包括穆利根在内的一群嘲弄者；还有为了证实圣子与圣父并非一体而毕生展开漫长斗争的阿里乌[114]，以及否认基督具有凡人肉身的瓦伦廷[115];再有就是深奥莫测的非洲异教始祖撒伯里乌[116]，他主张圣父本人就是他自己的圣子。刚才穆利根就曾用此活来嘲弄这位陌生人[117]。无谓的嘲弄。一切织风者最终必落得一场空[118]。他们受到威胁，被缴械，被击败；在冲突中，来自教会的那些摆好阵势的使者们，米迦勒的万军，用长矛和盾牌永远保卫教会。

听哪，听哪。经久不息的喝采。该死！以天主的名义![119]

“当然喽，我是个英国人，”海恩斯的嗓音说，“因此我在感觉上是个英国人。我也不愿意看到自已的国家落入德国犹太人的手里[120]。我认为当前，这恐怕是我们民族的问题。”

有两个人站在悬崖边上眺望着，一个是商人，另一个是船老大。

“她正向阉牛港[121]开呢。”

船老大略带轻蔑神情朝海湾北部点了点头。

“那一带有五[]深，”他说，“一点钟左右涨潮，它就会朝那边浮去了。今儿个已经是第九天[122]啦。”

淹死的人。一只帆船在空荡荡的海湾里顺风改变着航向，等待一团泡肿的玩艺儿突然浮上来，一张肿胀的脸，盐白色的，翻转向太阳。我在这儿哪。

他们沿着弯曲的小道下到了湾汊。勃克·穆利根站在石头上，他穿了件衬衫，没有别夹子的领带在肩上飘动。一个年轻人抓住他附近一块岩石的尖角，在颜色深得像果冻般的水里，宛若青蛙似地缓缓踹动着两条绿腿。

“弟弟跟你在一起吗，玛拉基？”

“他在韦斯特米思。跟班农[123]一家人在一起。”

“还在那儿吗？班农给我寄来一张明信片。说他在那儿遇见了一个可爱的小姐儿。他管她叫照相姑娘[124]。”

“是快照吧，呃？一拍就成。”

勃克·穆利根坐下来解他那高腰靴子的带子。离岩角不远处，抽冷子冒出一张上岁数的人那涨得通红的脸，喷着水。他攀住石头爬上来。水在他的脑袋以及花环般的一圈灰发[125]上闪烁着，沿着他的胸脯和肚子流淌下来，从他那松垂着的黑色缠腰市里往外冒。

勃克·穆利根闪过身子，让他爬过去，瞥了海恩斯和斯蒂芬一眼，用大拇指甲虔诚地在额头、嘴唇和胸骨上面了十字[126]。

“西摩回城里来啦，”年轻人重新抓住岩角说，“他想弃医从军呢。”

“啊，随他去吧！”勃克·穆利根说。

“下周就该受熬煎了。你认识卡莱尔家那个红毛丫头莉莉吗?”

“认得。”

“昨天晚上跟他在码头上调情来看。她爸爸阔得流油。”

“她够劲儿吗？”

“这，你最好去问西摩。”

“西摩，一个嗜血的军官，”勃克·穆利根说。

他若有所思地点点头，脱下长裤站起来，说了句老生常谈：

“红毛女人浪起来赛过山羊。”

他惊愕地住了口，并摸了摸随风呼扇着的衬衫里面的肋部。

“我的第十二根肋骨没有啦，”他大声说。“我是超人[127]。没有牙齿的金赤和我都是超人。”

他扭着身子脱下衬衫，把它甩在背后他堆衣服的地方。

“玛拉基，你在这儿下来吗？”

“嗯。在床上让开点儿地方吧。”

年轻人在水里猛地向后退去，伸长胳膊利利索索地划了两下，就游到湾汊中部。海恩斯坐在一块石头上抽着烟。

“你不下水吗？”勃克·穆利根问道。

“呆会儿再说，”海恩斯说，“刚吃完早饭可不行。”

斯蒂芬掉过身去。

“穆利根，我要走啦，”他说。

“金赤，给咱那把钥匙，”勃克·穆利根说，“好把我的内衣压压平。”

斯蒂芬递给了他钥匙。勃克·穆利根将它撂在自己那堆衣服上。

“还要两便士，”他说，“好喝上一品脱。就丢在那儿吧。”

斯蒂芬又在那软塌塌的堆儿上丢下两个便士。不是穿，就是脱。勃克·穆利根直直地站着，将双手在胸前握在一起，庄严地说：

“琐罗亚斯德如是说[128]：‘偷自贫穷的，就是借给耶和华……’[129]”

他那肥胖的身躯跳进水去。

“回头见，”海恩斯回头望着攀登小径的斯蒂芬说，爱尔兰人的粗扩使他露出笑容。

公牛的角，马的蹄子，撒克逊人的微笑[130]。

“在‘船记’酒馆，”勃克·穆利根嚷道。“十二点半。”

“好吧，”斯蒂芬说。

他沿着那婉蜒的坡道走去。

饰以百合的光明的

司铎群来伴尔，

极乐圣童贞之群……[131]

壁龛里是神父的一圈灰色光晕，他正在那儿细心地穿上衣服[132]。今晚我不在这儿过夜。家也归不得。

拖得长长的、甜甜的声音从海上呼唤着他。拐弯的时候，他摆了摆手，又呼唤了。一个柔滑、褐色的头，海豹的，远远地在水面上，滚圆的。

篡夺者[133]。

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