Category Archives: 01 Telemachus

A guide to chapter one

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Having left the tower, Mulligan, Haines, and Stephen walk towards the sea.

Mulligan is beating the grass with his towel, seeming playful, but when Haines asks about the rent, he quickly inserts himself into the conversation. In an early version of this drawing, we had attributed the statement about the rent to Stephen–it seems like a logical thing for him to say, since he makes that following comment about paying the rent to the Secretary of State for War. But Joyce clearly puts those words in Mulligan’s mouth. What this does is to remind us of Mulligan’s interest in money, particularly in making some money off of their gentleman houseguest. He needs to make sure that Haines knows what the rent is–perhaps in order to set up an “ask” later on–and doesn’t want Stephen to step in the opportunity again.

Richard Ellmann’s biography of Joyce has a surprising amount to say about Joyce’s life in the actual Martello tower. It also has a great image of the original lease from the government, which was signed by Oliver St. John Gogarty, and was for 8 pounds, not 12. Ellmann describes Gogarty as wanting the tower to seem a a “haven of unrespectability in ‘priestridden godforsaken’ Ireland” a “temple of neo-paganism” where “Nietzsche was the principal prophet, Swinburne the poet laureate” (172).

Skipping back to Ulysses for a moment–Mulligan also has these dreams of the tower being an “omphalos,” a kind of center of bohemian and free thought.  But his credibility depends on Stephen, who’s the real artist.  But Stephen doesn’t look like he’s going to want to play this part.

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Mulligan’s friendly condescension in the first part of this chapter has now turned into something a little darker. “You have eaten all we left, I suppose,” a comment directed at Stephen, is basically insulting. Stephen is the last to leave the tower, and he has the key. He’s being treated like the help, like unreliable help, the “server of a servant” again.

For the sake of clarity we left a line out here — after the “You have eaten” line, Mulligan says “And going forth he met Butterly.” It’s yet another instance of Mulligan using scripture for a (rather elliptical) joke. It’s based on a passage in the passion of the Gospel of Matthew where the apostle Peter realizes that he has betrayed Jesus three times over the course of one night, as Jesus had predicted he would. The original passage is: “And going forth he wept bitterly.” Mulligan’s quote puts him, curiously, in the place of Peter, whereas before he was Jesus. There is no other mention of a Butterly in the book, by the way.

Finally, keep an eye on the key. It’s a symbol of ownership, property, and power.

Oh and one more thing — Rob, is it time to say something about the “Latin Quarter Hat”?

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Mulligan’s regret over his obsequious behavior to Haines is quickly forgotten.  A minute ago, he said he would join Stephen in surly revolt against their guest’s acquisitive interest in all things Irish, but now he dons a “rebellious” collar, tie, and watch chain, and goes out to join his guest. [The backwards text is meant to suggest Mulligan muttering as he rummages through his clothes.]

Mulligan’s line “do I contradict myself?” is a quotation from Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself.”  Whitman was a highly controversial figure in the English-speaking world at the turn of the century.   None other than Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, spoke out as an undergraduate at Trinity College, Dublin, on the virtue of Whitman’s work.  Whitman was a very important figure to Stoker, though whether or not Whitman is a presence in Stoker’s most famous work is a matter for conjecture.

Oscar Wilde knew Stoker as well… Stoker occasionally attended salons at Sir William Wilde’s house, where he met his future wife, Florence Balcombe. Ms. Balcombe was Oscar Wilde’s first love.. he never quite got over her. But I mention Oscar only because Mulligan’s reference to “puce gloves and green boots” evokes Wilde’s aesthetic tastes.

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By pushing Haines about how much he might be paid for his clever sayings, Stephen has apparently screwed up the deal.  Mulligan is annoyed, and asks Stephen why he can’t just play along for the sake of making a little money.

Stephen explains that they have to get money from somewhere, and given the options of getting money from the milkwoman or from Haines, the Englishman seems to be the more likely source.

Mulligan’s response–“From me, Kinch” — is one of those moments in the book that I had not really given much thought to until seeing Rob’s interpretation.  And now, it seems to be the turning point in Mulligan’s and Stephen’s relationship.   What I now think Mulligan means is that he’s figured out that in Stephen’s mind, he is the real source of any money, and that Stephen has basically torpedoed a perfectly good grift of Haines out of petulance and the underlying belief that Mulligan’s own money will come through.  While he doesn’t come out and say it, this does seem to be the moment where Mulligan is officially done with Stephen, and vice versa.

There’s a lot that could be said here about Joyce’s own relationship to money and the means of literary production.  Joyce struggled for much of his life to realize any income from his writings, partly because he was always unwilling to compromise his artistic integrity for the sake of getting things printed, partly because he never had great business sense.  Over time, however, he became the beneficiary of very generous patrons and friends, and by the end of his life had managed to earn a small fortune through his benefactors and publishers. He also managed to spend pretty much everything he earned…

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Having just come to the realization that he is never going to be able to cash in on Stephen’s talent, as well as, arguably, that Stephen has caught on to him, Mulligan backs away from his scolding and attempts a half-hearted rapprochement.

Something has snapped between them, however, as the handing-back of the snotrag suggests. Mulligan’s complete insincerity about what he is saying to Stephen is also underlined by his immediate contradiction of it. He agrees that Haines isn’t worth trying to squeeze money or support out of, but still continues courting him.

Mulligan’s line about being stripped of his garments refers to the Stations of the Cross, or the “Way of the Cross,” a devotional practice used by Christians, particularly Catholics. This gives you another example of Mulligan’s wiseassery, but also one that points to his sense that he is the innocent victim of Stephen’s role as Artist.

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Haines suggests that he might publish a collection of Stephen’s sayings, but Stephen impertinently suggests he’ll participate if he stands to make any money by it.  He thinks to himself how Mulligan’s and Haines’ habit of bathing is an attempt to cleanse themselves of more than just dirt.

In the first panel of this page, there’s a kind of exchange between Haines’ dialogue and Stephen’s internal monologue.  Of course, what Stephen is thinking to himself (in the dark boxes) is harder to understand than what Haines is saying out loud.  “They wash and tub and scrub” refers back to Mulligan’s teasing about Stephen’s infrequent bathing (check the last page), which Stephen also associates with Lady Macbeth’s scrubbing.

“Agenbite of Inwit” is a little more obscure.  It’s a Middle English phrase that means (again according to Professor Gifford) “remorse of conscience.”    When you think about it, it makes wonderful sense.  Your inner wits bite  you.  again.

The kick under the table is Mulligan kicking Stephen, so as to get him to perform his Shakespeare theory and close the deal on Haines’ support. Or at least to get Haines to buy a few round of drinks.  But Stephen does not want to play–apparently he’s in no mood, and since he’s getting paid today he doesn’t need Haines’ help. So he does a decidedly un-English thing and puts his desire to be paid for his work out in plain view.

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Mulligan boldly tells Stephen to go to his job and earn money so they can all go out drinking later.  Haines shares his plan for the day — a trip to the National Library — and Stephen shares his unusual approach to personal hygiene.

Thanks to Professor Gifford, I’m reminded that Mulligan’s line “Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty” is lifted from Admiral Horatio Nelson.

Specifically, it is one of the final communications he made to the English fleet before the Battle of Trafalgar, where he was killed.  And yes, he said “England” instead of Ireland on that occasion.  We’ll be hearing  more about “Nelson’s Pillar,” a monument erected to him  in the middle of Dublin, but for now it’s interesting to note that the tower the gentlemen are living in is a souvenir of the Napoleonic wars in which Nelson was so instrumental.  The design is copied from one that his navy found in the Mediterranean. And Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar is what made the tower largely superfluous.

So what are we to make of Stephen’s dislike of bathing?  In Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Stephen experiments with mortification, and this could be seen as a revisiting of that experience.  It also goes along with his mourning, and with what certainly looks like a diagnosable depression.  It will also set a sharper contrast with Leopold Bloom, who we will see bathing later in the day.

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Haines has basically ordered Mulligan and Stephen to pay their milk tab, which otherwise they would probably have been happy to delay for several months. Mulligan reluctantly scrounges up money to pay her, and recites some Swinburne to make it classy.

Rob has taken pains to show us a detail from the narration of this moment–Mulligan comes up with the coin from his trousers, but it’s Stephen who actually hands the coin to the milkwoman.  It’s a concrete illustration of the difference in caste between Stephen and Mulligan, but also Stephen’s role as the “server of  a servant.”

Looking back over the last few pages, what does the milkwoman get from each of the men in the tower, and what might each of those gifts say about them?  From Haines the Englishman?  A speech in Irish that she can’t understand.   From Mulligan the aristocrat with family money?  A poem about how poor he is. From Stephen? A coin that isn’t really his.  Is this any way to treat Athena in disguise?

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We’ve talked some over the last few pages about why Joyce’s milkwoman doesn’t speak Irish–click back to see (and maybe even to participate in!) this discussion.

In reading this page, I was struck by the oddness of Haines telling Mulligan to pay the milkwoman.  If we read between the lines, we might infer that Haines has been there for three days, because they’ve had more milk for the last three days. Perhaps Haines is scandalized that they keep getting this milk and not paying for it.  It’s been a while since she’s last been paid.

We’ve made up a quiz about money that we’ll post in the next day or so.  Ulysses has a lot of money in it, as it should, given that it’s a record of a day in the life in the twentieth century.  Joyce tells us how much meals and tram fares are, not to mention daily milk delivery.  The milkwoman’s tally of what the men owe is conspicuously long and complicated.  I’ve made a bookmark for my copy of Ulysses that has the old British money system on it: 12 pence to the shilling, 20 shillings to the pound, etc.  It gives you a very important dimension to the book.  Here’s an important benchmark (and an answer on the quiz)–a pint of beer costs 2 pence. This is the same amount the milkwoman was charging for a pint of milk. The accumulated cost of cost of the milk is 2 shillings, 2 pence, or enough money for a good drunk for two.  Mulligan is clearly not happy about having to pay up.

But what difference does it make to Haines?  In the next chapter we’ll hear that an Englishman’s proudest boast is “I paid my way,” a completely alien thought to Stephen and Mulligan.  Keep an eye on debts and payments in Ulysses, financial and otherwise, and you’ll learn a great deal.

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Haines tries out his Irish on the old milkwoman, but she has no idea what he’s saying.  She asks if he’s from the west of Ireland (where Irish is more commonly spoken), but as we know, he’s English.  Stephen thinks about how impressed the woman is with the Englishman and the Doctor, while he goes unnoticed.

The irony of the  Englishman being the only one who knows Irish is pretty straightforward.  Historically, there’s a basis for it–the use of Irish dropped during the 19th century thanks to the Great Famine and the ban on teaching Irish in the National Schools.  It survived in the West and in more remote parts of the island, but in “The Pale,” the area around Dublin that had the strongest British influence, Irish was largely unknown at this time.  It was revived by the writers and scholars of the Celtic Revival, which was just gaining momentum in 1904.  Because language nearly became extinct, the new Irish republic made it a required subject in schools–for a while it was a requirement to pass an Irish exam in order to get a government job.  Every Irish student now learns it, but they don’t tend to use it, and the language is again gravely threatened.  Joyce famously tried to learn Irish, but gave up after a few lessons.

Perhaps for this reason, whatever it is that Haines says in Irish is not in the text of Ulysses.  Rob has come up with a clever solution–if you roll over the Irish text, you’ll get a translation.  (This is true wherever you see foreign words in Ulysses Seen.)

You might be confused by the milkwoman’s question to Haines, “Are you from West, sir?”  This is how the question appears in the first edition, the 1922 edition, of Ulysses, so that’s what we’re using.  In later editions it would be corrected to “Are you from *the* West, Sir?,” but you get the idea either way.

Extra Credit: Whom do you think Rob has Haines is modeled after? Who does he look like?

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