ULYSSES - James Joyce

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did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.

      — It’s a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.

      Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. 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 tacking by the Muglins.

      — I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father.

      Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety.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 disciples and Calvary.

      He held up a forefinger 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 tugged swiftly at Stephen’s ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins 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 Harry I rose from the dead.

      What’s bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly

      And Olivet’s breezy… Goodbye, now, goodbye.

      He capered 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 blasphemous. 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 ballad 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 spunk 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 behold 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, squealing at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling Steeeeeeeeeeeephen. 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 potent 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 rite 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 vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry : 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, spurning 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 disarming 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, Haine’s 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 verge of the cliff, watching : businessman, boatman.

      — She’s making for Bullock harbour.

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

      — There’s five fathoms 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 veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen 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 creek. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling 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.

      — Shapshot, 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 scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling

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