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—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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