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Ulysses 

26 

of

 1305 

—Heart of my heart, were it more, 

 More would be laid at your feet. 

He turned to Stephen and said: 

—Seriously, Dedalus. I’m stony. Hurry out to your 

school kip and bring us back some money. Today the 

bards 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 blandly: 

—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 trickle 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. 

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—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 any 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 vigour: 

—You put your hoof 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 jibes. 

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

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Buck Mulligan sighed tragically 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 rebellious tie he 

spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling 

watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his 

trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. 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. Mercurial 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? 

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—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: 

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—Rather bleak 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 out to prop it up. Wait till I have a few pints in me 

first. 

He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly 

the peaks of his primrose 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 pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it 

some paradox? 

—Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of 

Wilde and paradoxes. It’s quite simple. He proves by 

algebra 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? 

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