No More Learning

. Still. . .

BELLO: _(Ruthlessly)_ No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by woman's will
since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of twenty years.
Return and see.

_(Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the wold. )_

SLEEPY HOLLOW: Rip van Wink! Rip van Winkle!

BLOOM: _(In tattered mocassins with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing,
fingertipping, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the diamond
panes, cries out)_ I see her! It's she! The first night at Mat Dillon's!
But that dress, the green! And her hair is dyed gold and he. . .

BELLO: _(Laughs mockingly)_ That's your daughter, you owl, with a
Mullingar student.

_(Milly Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her blue scarf
in the seawind simply swirling, breaks from the arms of her lover and
calls, her young eyes wonderwide. )_

MILLY: My! It's Papli! But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

BELLO: Changed, eh? Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote,
aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old masters. A man and
his menfriends are living there in clover. The _Cuckoos' Rest! _ Why not?
How many women had you, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot,
exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you male prostitute?
Blameless dames with parcels of groceries. Turn about. Sauce for the
goose, my gander O.

BLOOM: They. . . I. . .

BELLO: _(Cuttingly)_ Their heelmarks will stamp the Brusselette carpet
you bought at Wren's auction. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to
find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue
you carried home in the rain for art for art' sake. They will violate
the secrets of your bottom drawer. Pages will be torn from your handbook
of astronomy to make them pipespills. And they will spit in your ten
shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's.

BLOOM: Ten and six. The act of low scoundrels. Let me go. I will return.
I will prove. . .

A VOICE: Swear!

_(Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, a bowieknife between his
teeth. )_

BELLO: As a paying guest or a kept man? Too late. You have made your
secondbest bed and others must lie in it. Your epitaph is written. You
are down and out and don't you forget it, old bean.

BLOOM: Justice! All Ireland versus one! Has nobody. . . ? _(He bites his
thumb)_

BELLO: Die and be damned to you if you have any sense of decency
or grace about you. I can give you a rare old wine that'll send you
skipping to hell and back. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have!
If you have none see you damn well get it, steal it, rob it! We'll bury
you in our shrubbery jakes where you'll be dead and dirty with old Cuck
Cohen, my stepnephew I married, the bloody old gouty procurator and
sodomite with a crick in his neck, and my other ten or eleven husbands,
whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the one cesspool. _(He
explodes in a loud phlegmy laugh)_ We'll manure you, Mr Flower! _(He
pipes scoffingly)_ Byby, Poldy! Byby, Papli!

BLOOM: _(Clasps his head)_ My willpower! Memory! I have sinned! I have
suff. . .

_(He weeps tearlessly)_

BELLO: _(Sneers)_ Crybabby! Crocodile tears!

_(Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the sacrifice, sobs, his face to
the earth. The passing bell is heard. Darkshawled figures of the
circumcised, in sackcloth and ashes, stand by the wailing wall. M.
Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M.
Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Reverend Leopold
Abramovitz, Chazen. With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the
recreant Bloom. )_

THE CIRCUMCISED: _(In dark guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit
upon him, no flowers) Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad. _

VOICES: _(Sighing)_ So he's gone. Ah yes. Yes, indeed. Bloom? Never
heard of him. No? Queer kind of chap. There's the widow. That so? Ah,
yes.

_(From the suttee pyre the flame of gum camphire ascends. The pall of
incense smoke screens and disperses. Out of her oakframe a nymph with
hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from her
grotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom. )_

THE YEWS: _(Their leaves whispering)_ Sister. Our sister. Ssh!

THE NYMPH: _(Softly)_ Mortal! _(Kindly)_ Nay, dost not weepest!

BLOOM: _(Crawls jellily forward under the boughs, streaked by sunlight,
with dignity)_ This position. I felt it was expected of me. Force of
habit.

THE NYMPH: Mortal! You found me in evil company, highkickers, coster
picnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoral panto boys in
fleshtights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical
act, the hit of the century. I was hidden in cheap pink paper that smelt
of rock oil. I was surrounded by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to
disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice and bustpads,
proprietary articles and why wear a truss with testimonial from ruptured
gentleman. Useful hints to the married.

BLOOM: _(Lifts a turtle head towards her lap)_ We have met before. On
another star.

THE NYMPH: _(Sadly)_ Rubber goods. Neverrip brand as supplied to the
aristocracy. Corsets for men. I cure fits or money refunded. Unsolicited
testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber. My bust
developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo.

BLOOM: You mean _Photo Bits? _

THE NYMPH: I do. You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me
above your marriage couch. Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in
four places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my
shame.

BLOOM: _(Humbly kisses her long hair)_ Your classic curves, beautiful
immortal, I was glad to look on you, to praise you, a thing of beauty,
almost to pray.

THE NYMPH: During dark nights I heard your praise.

BLOOM: _(Quickly)_ Yes, yes. You mean that I. . . Sleep reveals the worst
side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I know I fell out of bed
or rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the rest
there is that English invention, pamphlet of which I received some days
ago, incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive
vent. _(He sighs)_ 'Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is marriage.

THE NYMPH: _(Her fingers in her ears)_ And words. They are not in my
dictionary.

BLOOM: You understood them?

THE YEWS: Ssh!

THE NYMPH: _(Covers her face with her hands)_ What have I not seen in
that chamber? What must my eyes look down on?

BLOOM: _(Apologetically)_ I know. Soiled personal linen, wrong side up
with care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar by long sea long ago.

THE NYMPH: _(Bends her head)_ Worse, worse!

BLOOM: _(Reflects precautiously)_ That antiquated commode. It wasn't her
weight. She scaled just eleven stone nine. She put on nine pounds
after weaning. It was a crack and want of glue. Eh? And that absurd
orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle.

_(The sound of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade. )_

THE WATERFALL:

Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.

THE YEWS: _(Mingling their boughs)_ Listen. Whisper. She is right, our
sister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave shade on languorous
summer days.


JOHN WYSE NOLAN: _(In the background, in Irish National Forester's
uniform, doffs his plumed hat)_ Prosper! Give shade on languorous days,
trees of Ireland!

THE YEWS: _(Murmuring)_ Who came to Poulaphouca with the High School
excursion? Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?

BLOOM: _(Scared)_ High School of Poula? Mnemo? Not in full possession of
faculties. Concussion. Run over by tram.

THE ECHO: Sham!

BLOOM: _(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in nondescript
juvenile grey and black striped suit, too small for him, white tennis
shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a red schoolcap with
badge)_ I was in my teens, a growing boy. A little then sufficed, a
jolting car, the mingling odours of the ladies' cloakroom and lavatory,
the throng penned tight on the old Royal stairs (for they love crushes,
instinct of the herd, and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles
vice), even a pricelist of their hosiery. And then the heat. There were
sunspots that summer. End of school. And tipsycake. Halcyon days.

_(Halcyon days, high school boys in blue and white football jerseys and
shorts, Master Donald Turnbull, Master Abraham Chatterton, Master Owen
Goldberg, Master Jack Meredith, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a clearing
of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. )_

THE HALCYON DAYS: Mackerel! Live us again. Hurray! _(They cheer)_

BLOOM: _(Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent
snowballs, struggles to rise)_ Again! I feel sixteen! What a lark! Let's
ring all the bells in Montague street. _(He cheers feebly)_ Hurray for
the High School!

THE ECHO: Fool!

THE YEWS: _(Rustling)_ She is right, our sister. Whisper. _(Whispered
kisses are heard in all the wood. Faces of hamadryads peep out from
the boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom. )_ Who
profaned our silent shade?

THE NYMPH: _(Coyly, through parting fingers)_ There? In the open air?

THE YEWS: _(Sweeping downward)_ Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.
THE WATERFALL:

Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.

THE NYMPH: _(With wide fingers)_ O, infamy!

BLOOM: I was precocious. Youth. The fauna. I sacrificed to the god of
the forest. The flowers that bloom in the spring. It was pairing
time. Capillary attraction is a natural phenomenon. Lotty Clarke,
flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains
with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. She rolled
downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits.
She climbed their crooked tree and I. . . A saint couldn't resist it. The
demon possessed me. Besides, who saw?

_(Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with
humid nostrils through the foliage. )_

STAGGERING BOB: (LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES,
SNIVELS) Me. Me see.

BLOOM: Simply satisfying a need I. . . _(With pathos)_ No girl would when
I went girling. Too ugly. They wouldn't play. . .

_(High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes,
plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants. )_

THE NANNYGOAT: _(Bleats)_ Megeggaggegg! Nannannanny!

BLOOM: _(Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and
gorsespine)_ Regularly engaged. Circumstances alter cases. _(He gazes
intently downwards on the water)_ Thirtytwo head over heels per second.
Press nightmare. Giddy Elijah. Fall from cliff. Sad end of government
printer's clerk. _(Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom,
rolled in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the Lion's Head cliff into the
purple waiting waters. )_

THE DUMMYMUMMY: Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!

_(Far out in the bay between bailey and kish lights the_ Erin's King
_sails, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her funnel towards
the land. )_

COUNCILLOR NANNETII: _(Alone on deck, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced,
his hand in his waistcoat opening, declaims)_ When my country takes her
place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my
epitaph be written. I have. . .

BLOOM: Done. Prff!

THE NYMPH: _(Loftily)_ We immortals, as you saw today, have not such
a place and no hair there either. We are stonecold and pure. We eat
electric light. _(She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing
her forefinger in her mouth)_ Spoke to me. Heard from behind. How then
could you. . . ?

BLOOM: _(Pawing the heather abjectly)_ O, I have been a perfect pig.
Enemas too I have administered. One third of a pint of quassia to which
add a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Up the fundament. With Hamilton Long's
syringe, the ladies' friend.

THE NYMPH: In my presence. The powderpuff. _(She blushes and makes a
knee)_ And the rest!

BLOOM: _(Dejected)_ Yes. _Peccavi! _ I have paid homage on that living
altar where the back changes name. _(With sudden fervour)_ For why
should the dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand that rules. . . ?

_(Figures wind serpenting in slow woodland pattern around the treestems,
cooeeing)_

THE VOICE OF KITTY: _(In the thicket)_ Show us one of them cushions.

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Here.

_(A grouse wings clumsily through the underwood. )_

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: _(In the thicket)_ Whew! Piping hot!

THE VOICE OF ZOE: _(From the thicket)_ Came from a hot place.

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: _(A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war
panoply with his assegai, striding through a crackling canebrake over
beechmast and acorns)_ Hot! Hot! Ware Sitting Bull!

BLOOM: It overpowers me. The warm impress of her warm form. Even to sit
where a woman has sat, especially with divaricated thighs, as though to
grant the last favours, most especially with previously well uplifted
white sateen coatpans. So womanly, full. It fills me full.

THE WATERFALL:

_Phillaphulla Poulaphouca
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. _

THE YEWS: Ssh! Sister, speak!

THE NYMPH: _(Eyeless, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple,
softly, with remote eyes)_ Tranquilla convent. Sister Agatha. Mount
Carmel. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. No more desire. _(She
reclines her head, sighing)_ Only the ethereal. Where dreamy creamy gull
waves o'er the waters dull.

_(Bloom half rises. His back trouserbutton snaps. )_

THE BUTTON: Bip!

_(Two sluts of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly. )_

THE SLUTS:

O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers
He didn't know what to do,
To keep it up,
To keep it up.

BLOOM: _(Coldly)_ You have broken the spell. The last straw. If there
were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? Shy
but willing like an ass pissing.

THE YEWS: _(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their skinny arms
aging and swaying)_ Deciduously!

THE NYMPH: _(Her features hardening, gropes in the folds of her habit)_
Sacrilege! To attempt my virtue! _(A large moist stain appears on her
robe)_ Sully my innocence! You are not fit to touch the garment of a
pure woman. _(She clutches again in her robe)_ Wait. Satan, you'll sing
no more lovesongs. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. _(She draws a poniard and,
clad in the sheathmail of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his
loins)_ Nekum!

BLOOM: _(Starts up, seizes her hand)_ Hoy! Nebrakada! Cat o' nine lives!
Fair play, madam. No pruningknife. The fox and the grapes, is it? What
do you lack with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thick enough? _(He
clutches her veil)_ A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the lame gardener,
or the spoutless statue of the watercarrier, or good mother Alphonsus,
eh Reynard?

THE NYMPH: _(With a cry flees from him unveiled, her plaster cast
cracking, a cloud of stench escaping from the cracks)_ Poli. . . !

BLOOM: _(Calls after her)_ As if you didn't get it on the double
yourselves. No jerks and multiple mucosities all over you. I tried it.
Your strength our weakness. What's our studfee? What will you pay on
the nail? You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I read. _(The fleeing nymph
raises a keen)_ Eh? I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind
me. And would a jury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh? Fool
someone else, not me. _(He sniffs)_ Rut. Onions. Stale. Sulphur. Grease.

_(The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him. )_

BELLA: You'll know me the next time.

BLOOM: _(Composed, regards her) Passee. _ Mutton dressed as lamb. Long
in the tooth and superfluous hair. A raw onion the last thing at night
would benefit your complexion. And take some double chin drill. Your
eyes are as vapid as the glasseyes of your stuffed fox. They have the
dimensions of your other features, that's all. I'm not a triple screw
propeller.

BELLA: _(Contemptuously)_ You're not game, in fact. _(Her sowcunt
barks)_ Fbhracht!

BLOOM: _(Contemptuously)_ Clean your nailless middle finger first, your
bully's cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb. Take a handful of
hay and wipe yourself.

BELLA: I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!

BLOOM: I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleet vendor!

BELLA: _(Turns to the piano)_ Which of you was playing the dead march
from _Saul? _

ZOE: Me. Mind your cornflowers. _(She darts to the piano and bangs
chords on it with crossed arms)_ The cat's ramble through the slag.
_(She glances back)_ Eh? Who's making love to my sweeties? _(She darts
back to the table)_ What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.

_(Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth with the silver paper. Bloom
approaches Zoe. )_

BLOOM: _(Gently)_ Give me back that potato, will you?

ZOE: Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfine thing.

BLOOM: _(With feeling)_ It is nothing, but still, a relic of poor mamma.

ZOE:

Give a thing and take it back
God'll ask you where is that
You'll say you don't know
God'll send you down below.

BLOOM: There is a memory attached to it. I should like to have it.

STEPHEN: To have or not to have that is the question.

ZOE: Here. _(She hauls up a reef of her slip, revealing her bare thigh,
and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking)_ Those that hides
knows where to find.

BELLA: _(Frowns)_ Here. This isn't a musical peepshow. And don't you
smash that piano. Who's paying here?

_(She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles in his pocket and, taking out
a banknote by its corner, hands it to her. )_

STEPHEN: _(With exaggerated politeness)_ This silken purse I made out
of the sow's ear of the public. Madam, excuse me. If you allow me. _(He
indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom)_ We are all in the same sweepstake,
Kinch and Lynch. _Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre etat_.

LYNCH: _(Calls from the hearth)_ Dedalus! Give her your blessing for me.

STEPHEN: _(Hands Bella a coin)_ Gold. She has it.

BELLA: _(Looks at the money, then at Stephen, then at Zoe, Florry and
Kitty)_ Do you want three girls? It's ten shillings here.

STEPHEN: _(Delightedly)_ A hundred thousand apologies. _(He fumbles
again and takes out and hands her two crowns)_ Permit, _brevi manu_, my
sight is somewhat troubled.

_(Bella goes to the table to count the money while Stephen talks to
himself in monosyllables.