A Goddess of Two Sorts

            Stephen Dedalus is the author-savior of Ireland. At least, he hopes to become so as he sets out to complete his great work that will heal the Irish people. However, the journey towards a completed and published volume is a fraught one, and this quest of Stephen’s in Ulysses mimics that of Telemachus in the Odyssey. Before any epic voyage, in the classical sense, can be taken, rites must be performed and deities must be invoked. This is true of all voyages, sailing over the Aegean, walking across Dublin, and crucially, telling a story. At the start of a performance of epic poetry, the poet must begin by invoking the Muses just as the sailor must call upon Zeus or Poseidon before shoving off. Aeschylus showed us the certain tragedy caused by improper or insufficient invocation in Agamemnon.

Because Stephen is both protagonist and self-insert for Joyce himself, he must be considered as both poet and warrior, Homer and Telemachus. In the first chapter of Ulysses, subtitled Telemachus, Stephen encounters an old milkmaid. Every word spoken to, from, and about her is crammed full of allusion and symbolism. In the first book of the Odyssey, there are two divine feminine presences: the Muses invoked at the outset, and Athena arriving at Ithaca to spur Telemachus into action. The relationships for each category of goddess are clear and distinct, the artistic collective of the Muses are summoned by the speaker as Athena summons herself to mentor Telemachus. But the line between author and subject are blurrier in Ulysses. Just as Joyce establishes the parallel with Homer at the outset of this Irish epic, he also immediately throws the reader into uncertainty about the depths of that parallel by establishing these two feminine presences. The milkmaid is filled with symbolic and creative weight, but her interaction with Stephen evokes both Athena and the Muses. This forces the reader to question the closeness of the parallel between this work and the ancient one, and drives home the dual roles, blurrily delineated, that Stephen Dedalus plays as he goes through his day. As Homer wrote, “Tell me about a complicated man. Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost… how he worked to save his life and bring his men back home” (Wilson, 1. 1-8).

At the start of Stephen’s day, the milkmaid arrives as he, Buck Mulligan, and Haines are setting the table for breakfast. “The doorway was darkened by an entering form” (Ulysses 14). The old woman, as she’s referred to multiple times, declares it “a lovely morning”, “Glory be to God” (U 14). Buck Mulligan immediately disregards her prayer, first asking “To whom?” before making a snide remark to Haines about the “islanders” who “speak frequently of the collector of prepuces” (U 14). This insult to her is disregarded. Stephen places their order of milk and watches her pour it out. He sees her poetically, “old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger” (U. 14). She has come to serve them and perhaps carries a message. Perhaps this is the response to his invocation? He imagines her out in the fields with the cattle as kindred spirits, them the “silk of the kine”, a translated epithet from the song “Druimin Donn Dílis” and her as “the poor old woman” from the ballad “The Shan Van Vocht” (U. 15, Gifford 21). These “names given… in old times” are ancient musical references, once again a call to the Muses that also interweaves her Irishness (U. 15). She is not just the inspirer of all music, she is an inspiration of Irish songs. She is not merely a Greek Muse but also an Irish one, just as Stephen is not merely Telemachus, but his Irish descendant.

Yet Stephen cannot discern whether the old woman has come to “serve or to upbraid” him (U. 15). If she is in fact his Muse, is she here to inspire his work, or condemn it? Regardless, he “scorned to beg her favour”, one of our first insights into the character of Stephen as an author himself (U. 15). If the milkmaid is the Muse he needs to bless his work, why would he scorn her favor? At first blush, this seems to show a degree of confidence in his abilities that is hardly seen elsewhere in Stephen in this introductory chapter.

Immediately thereafter, though, his scorn is justified when the woman bows her head to Buck Mulligan after learning that he is a medical student. She gives honor to the “bonesetter”, but slights Stephen, the writer, this insult is further expanded by their respective national identities (U. 15). Buck is of course an Englishman, while Stephen and the milkmaid are both Irish. To make matters worse, she not only prefers the Englishman over the Irishman, she also does not understand when Irish is spoken to her. In fact, she confesses “I’m ashamed I don’t speak the language myself” (U. 15). The milkmaid is a symbol of Ireland, and this commentary on Joyce’s views of his nation is clear. If this woman is Ireland, she is Ireland corrupted by British imperialism. She is deferent to her masters, even as they insult her directly (recall Buck’s dismissive comment about the “islanders”) and ignorant of her own heritage. Further than that, if she is the Irish Muse, disconnected from her native tongue and incapable of recognizing the Irish writer, then Irish art and culture is in a state of utter devastation.

The sundering of Ireland and Irish culture by the English is once more emphasized as the transaction between her and her customers is completed. Buck is incapable of paying her the amount she is owed, though he makes a great spectacle of completing the insufficient payment himself, withdrawing a florin and passing it “along the table towards the old woman” with the declaration “Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give” (U. 16). She takes payment for six days of the week and as she exits, she is followed by Buck’s continued “tender chant : Heart of my heart, were it more, more would be laid at your feet” (U. 16). Buck quotes a poem, The Oblation by Algernon Swinburne, and in doing so this interaction between the Irish Muse and the English bonesetter (ignoring the Irish writer) becomes even more insulting. For the Englishman, after making a show of short-changing the milkmaid with money he has taken from Stephen yet dramatically demonstrates as his own, sends her out the door with a poem by an Oxford-educated Englishman (Poetry Foundation). After largely ignoring the writer in the room, kowtowing to Buck by accepting his insults and inadequate pay, the Irish muse leaves to the words of an English writer.

            What of the alternate deific presence? In the Odyssey, Athena arrives in disguise, “she looked like Mentes now… a guest-friend. There she found the lordly suitors... Telemachus was sitting with them, feeling dejected” (Homer 1.104-115). The parallel is blatant, Buck Mulligan and his English friend Haines have taken over Stephen’s tower as though it were their own, taking his money and keys without resistance, they are the degenerate suitors abusing the palace and its riches. If the milkmaid is Athena, then she must be disguised, and just so, Stephen recognizes her as a “wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal…  a messenger from the secret morning” (U. 15).

But the relationship diverges here. In the Odyssey, Telemachus complains about the squatting suitors, telling the goddess that “these men are only interested in music, a life of ease. They make no contribution”, and Athena herself observes that “they look so arrogant and self-indulgent, making themselves at home. A wise observer would surely disapprove of how they act” (Homer 1.158, 1.226). In Joyce’s telling, the goddess-milkmaid only pays attention to Buck and secondarily, Haines. The only direct interacts she has with Stephen are transactional: she takes their milk order from him, and then, when he apologizes for the money that his household still owes her, she downplays the debt. “Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin” (U. 16). The original Athena is very specific, both in her criticisms and her directives. She bids the son of Odysseus to go off in search, first to Pylos, “from there, to Sparta” and if he learns Odysseus is alive, hold out hope for a year; otherwise, “go home, and build a tomb for him” (Homer 1.282). Her visitation is the impetus for his journey, the story begins because of her. Can this be said of the milkmaid? The closest the scene within Ulysses gets to plot-movement is the financial aspect: Buck’s demand that Stephen “bring us back some money”, as well as his own financial needs, do certainly compel Stephen to return to his teaching job in the next chapter, but to compare Stephen’s (and Joyce’s) financial obligations with Telemachus’ circumstances is not remotely fair (U. 16).

The Joycean Athena does not push Stephen out the door or condemn his freeloading housemate. She instead takes his money (via Buck) and focuses her attention on honoring the dishonorable Englishmen. The digression from narrative parallel is intentional, certainly, and calls us to examine the larger relationship between society and deity. On Ithaca and throughout the Aegean, Athena is revered, wise, and she is the only god willing to do something even remotely kind for a mortal. She is Greek wisdom personified, and the Greek wisdom carries a cruel justice. Recall the end of Odysseus’ journey, when he and Telemachus (with her blessing and help) will slaughter the suitors, then force the house-slaves who have betrayed them to clean up the mess, and then slaughter them. All-seeing, divine wisdom finds the fairest end for all parties, cruel though it may be. By contrast, the Irish Athena seems blind to those she ought to be guiding, she is unhelpful to Stephen and obedient to the Englishmen, “to the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her” (U. 15). Joyce seems to say that the wisdom of Ireland has been misguided by colonization and an unwillingness to maintain an internal sense of justice. When an Irishman needs the wisdom of his patron, of society’s wisdom incarnate, he is not guided, motivated or even greeted with the respect he deserves as a chosen follower of wisdom. Though the form of the goddess is present, the function seems almost entirely missing, and what good is a god who cannot adequately answer prayers? No wonder, then, that Stephen cannot discern whether she is here “to serve or to upbraid”, and no wonder he scorns “to beg her favour” (U. 15). When faced with someone he clearly identifies as an immortal who does not provide him with any actionable thing yet takes his tithe, it is not a surprise that he is so disgruntled by her.

The only potential form of wisdom or inspiration (whether the milkmaid is Athena or a Muse) that might arrive in the tower is the milk. On the first thinking, this seems intuitive. If a goddess arrives in the form of a milkmaid, surely her milk is a divine gift. However, if the milk is ambrosia, and it certainly is “good food” according to Buck Mulligan, who “drank at her bidding”, what does it do for Stephen (U. 15)? He never drinks the milk, instead serving as cupbearer for Buck and Haines. He fills three cups and pours three times, but the only consumption of the ambrosia explicitly recorded by Joyce is Buck’s first sip. Stephen observes that the milk is “thick” and “rich” multiple times but never describes its taste, and that combination of provided and omitted details that seems clear (U. 16). There are two possibilities.

If Stephen did not drink the milk, this could be a subtle continuation of his scorning the goddess. Just as gods must receive sacrifices, they also must be thanked and honored for their gifts, and by his disregard for the milk, Stephen is flouting that rule. Or, if he did drink the milk, then it was not an experience worth commenting on. When so many aspects of this scene that seem practically irrelevant are included in Stephen’s observation, including the milkmaid’s “slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm”, to omit his thoughts and experiences of tasting her product must mean that the taste and substance were entirely unworthy of note. A beverage that Buck declares would cure the country “of rotten teeth and rotten guts” is not positive or negative to Stephen (U. 15). It does not matter which divine aspect the milkmaid embodies here, because whether it should be wisdom or artistic inspiration, the Irishman finds the provided substance to be lacking in all regards, to a degree so severely middling that it is irrelevant to the narration. Absence, like digression, must be considered as an intentional choice by the author.

Why does Buck rave about the milk when Stephen disregards it? His praise could be over-wrought for sarcastic effect, but he drains his cup multiple times, an act that lends a bit of truthful weight to his words. Perhaps, like the Irish Gaelic Haines speaks as a quirk of academic fascination, this product of the Irish countryside is romanticized to him so deeply that he does not see its hollow nature. They are both Englishmen dwelling in Ireland for a bit of a laugh, denigrating the people gleefully and constantly, yet they remain in Dublin. This is not contradiction without meaning, it is the embodiment of English hypocrisy. Even as he praises the milk, Buck calls the country it comes from “a bogswamp” (U. 15). On a metaphysical level, the milk is either Irish art or Irish wisdom. Regardless, in its present state, this divine gift lacks value so thoroughly that an actual Irishman like Stephen finds nothing remarkable, yet the ignorant and culturally touristic Englishman finds it fascinating and powerful, seeing a vapid message as a cure for everything that ails the island. If Dublin society is so thoroughly compromised by the English influence that the Irish do not speak their own language, yet they believe the current, compromised state of their greatest ancestral treasures (whether wisdom or art, it matters not) is sufficient, then Stephen Dedalus has his work cut out for him.

Stephen’s instinct to scorn the milkmaid is entirely understandable by the end of this interaction. Compare his divine relationship with the ones in the original Odyssey. In the earliest lines of Book One, Pallas Athena advocates for Odysseus’ absolution, then takes the initiative to guide Telemachus on his journey and protect him from harm. Meanwhile, the Athenian milkmaid provides nothing for Stephen, instead deferring to the Englishmen-suitors. The motivation to go forth from his Ithaca and dispel Buck Mulligan from his life and home does not come from the milkmaid, it is sourced in internal motivation. The protection is nowhere to be found. What little potential wisdom the goddess-crone does offer in her milk is worthless to Stephen, unremarkable in the most literal sense. What good is she to him?

If the milkmaid is instead the Muse to Joyce’s avatar, then the comparison becomes more complicated. Homer’s invocation to the Muses was certainly a successful prayer, the Iliad and Odyssey have transcended literature to sit at the heart of all story in the Western canon. Of course, Joyce was perfectly aware of the weight of his predecessors, the parodic nature of the entire work is evidence of that. Additionally, Joyce is a writer uniquely aware of the importance of the writer’s relationship with their society, his admiration of Dante as an artist willing to criticize his own society and portrayal of Stephen and thus himself as inheritor to that role. So when he declares his work to be a successor to the Odyssey and himself to be the successor to Homer, it is a claim certainly in need of divine blessing. Does Stephen find it? If the milk is the Muse’s inspiration, and quality of the milk can be taken as an indicator, then he does find a blessing, but finds it to be lacking. Perhaps this is a statement of bold confidence on Joyce’s part, a claim that he needs no blessing to power his work and can reach the heights once summited by Homer on his own, but I think it is more likely setting the stage for his larger criticism of Ireland. The gods of ancient Greece were often savage, heartless and inhumane, but the people of ancient Greece developed law, art, and morality. Their society rose from the sum of those parts, and the Homeric epics were the hallmark of that great era’s beginning. As they heralded the start of the first Western empire and the rise of philosophy to put chaos into manageable order, so Joyce claims that Ulysses will herald the redemption of a fallen Ireland. In that fallen state, there is no god, no Muse that could aid him. Those impotent gods must be reborn from the society Joyce hopes to rebuild.

The parodic nature of Ulysses creates ample opportunity for interpretation on countless levels. One of the crucial dimensions of Joyce’s work to watch closely is the distance between his work and the original. Though there are many parallels between the Odyssey and Ulysses, they are not geometrically parallel, running on identical paths without intersection. The deviations between the two are always intentional, and their implications are crucial to understanding at least a fraction of Joyce’s intentions. Where Telemachus’ path is laid out before him, Stephen wanders. Where Athena sees the Ithacan suitors as the freeloaders they are, the milkmaid bows in colonized ignorance. The lessons here and throughout Ulysses show the true skill in Joyce’s writing. Anybody can write a surface level parody, but he turns the form into artwork.