No More Learning

Every rat had two eyes to look out of. Sleek slimy
coats, little little feet tucked up to jump, black slimy eyes to look
out of. They could understand how to jump. But the minds of rats could
not understand trigonometry. When they were dead they lay on their
sides. Their coats dried then. They were only dead things.

The prefect was there again and it was his voice that was saying that
he was to get up, that Father Minister had said he was to get up and
dress and go to the infirmary. And while he was dressing himself as
quickly as he could the prefect said:

--We must pack off to Brother Michael because we have the
collywobbles!

He was very decent to say that. That was all to make him laugh. But he
could not laugh because his cheeks and lips were all shivery: and then
the prefect had to laugh by himself.

The prefect cried:

--Quick march! Hayfoot! Strawfoot!

They went together down the staircase and along the corridor and past
the bath. As he passed the door he remembered with a vague fear the
warm turf-coloured bogwater, the warm moist air, the noise of plunges,
the smell of the towels, like medicine.

Brother Michael was standing at the door of the infirmary and from the
door of the dark cabinet on his right came a smell like medicine. That
came from the bottles on the shelves. The prefect spoke to Brother
Michael and Brother Michael answered and called the prefect sir. He had
reddish hair mixed with grey and a queer look. It was queer that he
would always be a brother. It was queer too that you could not call him
sir because he was a brother and had a different kind of look. Was he
not holy enough or why could he not catch up on the others?

There were two beds in the room and in one bed there was a fellow: and
when they went in he called out:

--Hello! It's young Dedalus! What's up?

--The sky is up, Brother Michael said.

He was a fellow out of the third of grammar and, while Stephen was
undressing, he asked Brother Michael to bring him a round of buttered
toast.

--Ah, do! he said.

--Butter you up! said Brother Michael. You'll get your walking papers
in the morning when the doctor comes.

--Will I? the fellow said. I'm not well yet.

Brother Michael repeated:

--You'll get your walking papers. I tell you.

He bent down to rake the fire. He had a long back like the long back of
a tramhorse. He shook the poker gravely and nodded his head at the
fellow out of third of grammar.

Then Brother Michael went away and after a while the fellow out of
third of grammar turned in towards the wall and fell asleep.

That was the infirmary. He was sick then. Had they written home to tell
his mother and father? But it would be quicker for one of the priests
to go himself to tell them. Or he would write a letter for the priest
to bring.


Dear Mother,

I am sick. I want to go home. Please come and take me home.
I am in the infirmary.

Your fond son,
Stephen


How far away they were! There was cold sunlight outside the window. He
wondered if he would die. You could die just the same on a sunny day.
He might die before his mother came. Then he would have a dead mass in
the chapel like the way the fellows had told him it was when Little had
died. All the fellows would be at the mass, dressed in black, all with
sad faces. Wells too would be there but no fellow would look at him.
The rector would be there in a cope of black and gold and there would
be tall yellow candles on the altar and round the catafalque. And they
would carry the coffin out of the chapel slowly and he would be buried
in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes.
And Wells would be sorry then for what he had done. And the bell would
toll slowly.

He could hear the tolling. He said over to himself the song that Brigid
had taught him.


Dingdong! The castle bell!
Farewell, my mother!
Bury me in the old churchyard
Beside my eldest brother.
My coffin shall be black,
Six angels at my back,
Two to sing and two to pray
And two to carry my soul away.


How beautiful and sad that was! How beautiful the words were where they
said BURY ME IN THE OLD CHURCHYARD! A tremor passed over his body. How
sad and how beautiful! He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself:
for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. The bell! The bell!
Farewell! O farewell!

The cold sunlight was weaker and Brother Michael was standing at his
bedside with a bowl of beef-tea. He was glad for his mouth was hot and
dry. He could hear them playing in the playgrounds. And the day was
going on in the college just as if he were there.

Then Brother Michael was going away and the fellow out of the third of
grammar told him to be sure and come back and tell him all the news in
the paper. He told Stephen that his name was Athy and that his father
kept a lot of racehorses that were spiffing jumpers and that his father
would give a good tip to Brother Michael any time he wanted it because
Brother Michael was very decent and always told him the news out of the
paper they got every day up in the castle. There was every kind of news
in the paper: accidents, shipwrecks, sports, and politics.

--Now it is all about politics in the papers, he said. Do your people
talk about that too?

--Yes, Stephen said.

--Mine too, he said.

Then he thought for a moment and said:

--You have a queer name, Dedalus, and I have a queer name too, Athy.
My name is the name of a town. Your name is like Latin.

Then he asked:

--Are you good at riddles?

Stephen answered:

--Not very good.

Then he said:

--Can you answer me this one? Why is the county of Kildare like the
leg of a fellow's breeches?

Stephen thought what could be the answer and then said:

--I give it up.

--Because there is a thigh in it, he said. Do you see the joke? Athy
is the town in the county Kildare and a thigh is the other thigh.

--Oh, I see, Stephen said.

--That's an old riddle, he said.

After a moment he said:

--I say!

--What? asked Stephen.

--You know, he said, you can ask that riddle another way.

--Can you? said Stephen.

--The same riddle, he said. Do you know the other way to ask it?

--No, said Stephen.

--Can you not think of the other way? he said.

He looked at Stephen over the bedclothes as he spoke. Then he lay back
on the pillow and said:

--There is another way but I won't tell you what it is.

Why did he not tell it? His father, who kept the racehorses, must be a
magistrate too like Saurin's father and Nasty Roche's father. He
thought of his own father, of how he sang songs while his mother played
and of how he always gave him a shilling when he asked for sixpence and
he felt sorry for him that he was not a magistrate like the other boys'
fathers. Then why was he sent to that place with them? But
his father had told him that he would be no stranger there because his
granduncle had presented an address to the liberator there fifty years
before. You could know the people of that time by their old dress. It
seemed to him a solemn time: and he wondered if that was the time when
the fellows in Clongowes wore blue coats with brass buttons and yellow
waistcoats and caps of rabbitskin and drank beer like grown-up people
and kept greyhounds of their own to course the hares with.

He looked at the window and saw that the daylight had grown weaker.
There would be cloudy grey light over the playgrounds. There was no
noise on the playgrounds. The class must be doing the themes or perhaps
Father Arnall was reading out of the book.

It was queer that they had not given him any medicine. Perhaps Brother
Michael would bring it back when he came. They said you got stinking
stuff to drink when you were in the infirmary. But he felt better now
than before. It would be nice getting better slowly. You could get a
book then. There was a book in the library about Holland. There were
lovely foreign names in it and pictures of strange looking cities and
ships. It made you feel so happy.

How pale the light was at the window! But that was nice. The fire rose
and fell on the wall. It was like waves. Someone had put coal on and he
heard voices. They were talking. It was the noise of the waves. Or the
waves were talking among themselves as they rose and fell.

He saw the sea of waves, long dark waves rising and falling, dark under
the moonless night. A tiny light twinkled at the pierhead where the
ship was entering: and he saw a multitude of people gathered by the
waters' edge to see the ship that was entering their harbour. A tall
man stood on the deck, looking out towards the flat dark land: and by
the light at the pierhead he saw his face, the sorrowful face of
Brother Michael.

He saw him lift his hand towards the people and heard him say in a loud
voice of sorrow over the waters:

--He is dead. We saw him lying upon the catafalque. A wail of sorrow
went up from the people.

--Parnell! Parnell! He is dead!

They fell upon their knees, moaning in sorrow.

And he saw Dante in a maroon velvet dress and with a green velvet
mantle hanging from her shoulders walking proudly and silently past the
people who knelt by the water's edge.


* * * * *


A great fire, banked high and red, flamed in the grate and under the
ivy-twined branches of the chandelier the Christmas table was spread.
They had come home a little late and still dinner was not ready: but it
would be ready in a jiffy his mother had said. They were waiting for
the door to open and for the servants to come in, holding the big
dishes covered with their heavy metal covers.

All were waiting: uncle Charles, who sat far away in the shadow of the
window, Dante and Mr Casey, who sat in the easy-chairs at either side
of the hearth, Stephen, seated on a chair between them, his feet
resting on the toasted boss. Mr Dedalus looked at himself in the
pierglass above the mantelpiece, waxed out his moustache ends and then,
parting his coat-tails, stood with his back to the glowing fire: and
still from time to time he withdrew a hand from his coat-tail to wax
out one of his moustache ends. Mr Casey leaned his head to one side
and, smiling, tapped the gland of his neck with his fingers. And
Stephen smiled too for he knew now that it was not true that Mr Casey
had a purse of silver in his throat. He smiled to think how the silvery
noise which Mr Casey used to make had deceived him. And when he had
tried to open Mr Casey's hand to see if the purse of silver was hidden
there he had seen that the fingers could not be straightened out: and
Mr Casey had told him that he had got those three cramped fingers
making a birthday present for Queen Victoria. Mr Casey tapped the gland
of his neck and smiled at Stephen with sleepy eyes: and Mr Dedalus said
to him:

--Yes. Well now, that's all right. O, we had a good walk, hadn't we,
John? Yes. . . I wonder if there's any likelihood of dinner this evening.
Yes. . . O, well now, we got a good breath of ozone round the Head today. Ay,
bedad.

He turned to Dante and said:

--You didn't stir out at all, Mrs Riordan?

Dante frowned and said shortly:

--No.

Mr Dedalus dropped his coat-tails and went over to the sideboard. He
brought forth a great stone jar of whisky from the locker and filled
the decanter slowly, bending now and then to see how much he had poured
in. Then replacing the jar in the locker he poured a little of the
whisky into two glasses, added a little water and came back with them
to the fireplace.

--A thimbleful, John, he said, just to whet your appetite.

Mr Casey took the glass, drank, and placed it near him on the
mantelpiece. Then he said:

--Well, I can't help thinking of our friend Christopher manufacturing. . .

He broke into a fit of laughter and coughing and added:

--. . . manufacturing that champagne for those fellows.

Mr Dedalus laughed loudly.

--Is it Christy? he said. There's more cunning in one of those warts
on his bald head than in a pack of jack foxes.

He inclined his head, closed his eyes, and, licking his lips profusely,
began to speak with the voice of the hotel keeper.

--And he has such a soft mouth when he's speaking to you, don't you
know. He's very moist and watery about the dewlaps, God bless him.

Mr Casey was still struggling through his fit of coughing and laughter.
Stephen, seeing and hearing the hotel keeper through his father's face
and voice, laughed.
Mr Dedalus put up his eyeglass and, staring down at him, said quietly
and kindly:

--What are you laughing at, you little puppy, you?

The servants entered and placed the dishes on the table. Mrs Dedalus
followed and the places were arranged.

--Sit over, she said.

Mr Dedalus went to the end of the table and said:

--Now, Mrs Riordan, sit over. John, sit you down, my hearty.

He looked round to where uncle Charles sat and said:

--Now then, sir, there's a bird here waiting for you.

When all had taken their seats he laid his hand on the cover and then
said quickly, withdrawing it:

--Now, Stephen.

Stephen stood up in his place to say the grace before meals:


Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which through
Thy bounty we are about to receive through Christ our
Lord. Amen.


All blessed themselves and Mr Dedalus with a sigh of pleasure lifted
from the dish the heavy cover pearled around the edge with glistening
drops.

Stephen looked at the plump turkey which had lain, trussed and
skewered, on the kitchen table. He knew that his father had paid a
guinea for it in Dunn's of D'Olier Street and that the man had prodded
it often at the breastbone to show how good it was: and he remembered
the man's voice when he had said:

--Take that one, sir. That's the real Ally Daly.

Why did Mr Barrett in Clongowes call his pandybat a turkey? But
Clongowes was far away: and the warm heavy smell of turkey and ham and
celery rose from the plates and dishes and the great fire was banked
high and red in the grate and the green ivy and red holly made you feel
so happy and when dinner was ended the big plum pudding would be
carried in, studded with peeled almonds and sprigs of holly, with
bluish fire running around it and a little green flag flying from the
top.

It was his first Christmas dinner and he thought of his little brothers
and sisters who were waiting in the nursery, as he had often waited,
till the pudding came. The deep low collar and the Eton jacket made him
feel queer and oldish: and that morning when his mother had brought him
down to the parlour, dressed for mass, his father had cried. That was
because he was thinking of his own father. And uncle Charles had said
so too.

Mr Dedalus covered the dish and began to eat hungrily. Then he said:

--Poor old Christy, he's nearly lopsided now with roguery.

--Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you haven't given Mrs Riordan any sauce.

Mr Dedalus seized the sauceboat.

--Haven't I? he cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind. Dante covered
her plate with her hands and said:

--No, thanks.

Mr Dedalus turned to uncle Charles.

--How are you off, sir?

--Right as the mail, Simon.

--You, John?

--I'm all right. Go on yourself.

--Mary? Here, Stephen, here's something to make your hair curl.

He poured sauce freely over Stephen's plate and set the boat again on
the table. Then he asked uncle Charles was it tender. Uncle Charles
could not speak because his mouth was full; but he nodded that it was.

--That was a good answer our friend made to the canon. What? said Mr
Dedalus.

--I didn't think he had that much in him, said Mr Casey.

--I'LL PAY YOUR DUES, FATHER, WHEN YOU CEASE TURNING THE HOUSE OF GOD
INTO A POLLING-BOOTH.

--A nice answer, said Dante, for any man calling himself a catholic to
give to his priest.

--They have only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus suavely. If they
took a fool's advice they would confine their attention to religion.

--It is religion, Dante said. They are doing their duty in warning the
people.

--We go to the house of God, Mr Casey said, in all humility to pray to
our Maker and not to hear election addresses.

--It is religion, Dante said again. They are right. They must direct
their flocks.

--And preach politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus.

--Certainly, said Dante. It is a question of public morality. A priest
would not be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is right and
what is wrong.

Mrs Dedalus laid down her knife and fork, saying:

--For pity sake and for pity sake let us have no political discussion
on this day of all days in the year.

--Quite right, ma'am, said uncle Charles. Now, Simon, that's quite
enough now. Not another word now.

--Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus quickly.

He uncovered the dish boldly and said:

--Now then, who's for more turkey?

Nobody answered. Dante said:

--Nice language for any catholic to use!

--Mrs Riordan, I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the matter
drop now.

Dante turned on her and said:

--And am I to sit here and listen to the pastors of my church being
flouted?

--Nobody is saying a word against them, said Mr Dedalus, so long as
they don't meddle in politics.

--The bishops and priests of Ireland have spoken, said Dante, and they
must be obeyed.

--Let them leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, or the people may
leave their church alone.

--You hear? said Dante, turning to Mrs Dedalus.

--Mr Casey! Simon! said Mrs Dedalus, let it end now.

--Too bad! Too bad! said uncle Charles.

--What? cried Mr Dedalus. Were we to desert him at the bidding of the
English people?

--He was no longer worthy to lead, said Dante. He was a public sinner.

--We are all sinners and black sinners, said Mr Casey coldly.

--WOE BE TO THE MAN BY WHOM THE SCANDAL COMETH! said Mrs Riordan. IT
WOULD BE BETTER FOR HIM THAT A MILLSTONE WERE TIED ABOUT HIS NECK AND
THAT HE WERE CAST INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA RATHER THAN THAT HE SHOULD
SCANDALIZE ONE OF THESE, MY LEAST LITTLE ONES. That is the language of
the Holy Ghost.

--And very bad language if you ask me, said Mr Dedalus coolly.

--Simon! Simon! said uncle Charles. The boy.

--Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus. I meant about the. . . I was thinking about the
bad language of the railway porter. Well now, that's all right. Here,
Stephen, show me your plate, old chap. Eat away now. Here.

He heaped up the food on Stephen's plate and served uncle Charles and
Mr Casey to large pieces of turkey and splashes of sauce. Mrs Dedalus
was eating little and Dante sat with her hands in her lap. She was red
in the face. Mr Dedalus rooted with the carvers at the end of the dish
and said:

--There's a tasty bit here we call the pope's nose. If any lady or
gentleman. . .

He held a piece of fowl up on the prong of the carving fork. Nobody
spoke. He put it on his own plate, saying:

--Well, you can't say but you were asked. I think I had better eat it
myself because I'm not well in my health lately.

He winked at Stephen and, replacing the dish-cover, began to eat again.

There was a silence while he ate. Then he said:

--Well now, the day kept up fine after all. There were plenty of
strangers down too.

Nobody spoke. He said again:

--I think there were more strangers down than last Christmas.

He looked round at the others whose faces were bent towards their
plates and, receiving no reply, waited for a moment and said bitterly:

--Well, my Christmas dinner has been spoiled anyhow.

--There could be neither luck nor grace, Dante said, in a house where
there is no respect for the pastors of the church.

Mr Dedalus threw his knife and fork noisily on his plate.

--Respect! he said. Is it for Billy with the lip or for the tub of
guts up in Armagh? Respect!

--Princes of the church, said Mr Casey with slow scorn.

--Lord Leitrim's coachman, yes, said Mr Dedalus.

--They are the Lord's anointed, Dante said. They are an honour to their
country.

--Tub of guts, said Mr Dedalus coarsely. He has a handsome face, mind
you, in repose. You should see that fellow lapping up his bacon and
cabbage of a cold winter's day. O Johnny!

He twisted his features into a grimace of heavy bestiality and made a
lapping noise with his lips.

--Really, Simon, you should not speak that way before Stephen. It's
not right.

--O, he'll remember all this when he grows up, said Dante hotly--the
language he heard against God and religion and priests in his own home.

--Let him remember too, cried Mr Casey to her from across the table,
the language with which the priests and the priests' pawns broke
Parnell's heart and hounded him into his grave. Let him remember that
too when he grows up.

--Sons of bitches! cried Mr Dedalus. When he was down they turned on
him to betray him and rend him like rats in a sewer. Low-lived dogs!
And they look it! By Christ, they look it!

--They behaved rightly, cried Dante. They obeyed their bishops and
their priests. Honour to them!

--Well, it is perfectly dreadful to say that not even for one day in
the year, said Mrs Dedalus, can we be free from these dreadful
disputes!

Uncle Charles raised his hands mildly and said:

--Come now, come now, come now! Can we not have our opinions whatever
they are without this bad temper and this bad language? It is too bad
surely.

Mrs Dedalus spoke to Dante in a low voice but Dante said loudly:

--I will not say nothing. I will defend my church and my religion when
it is insulted and spit on by renegade catholics.

Mr Casey pushed his plate rudely into the middle of the table and,
resting his elbows before him, said in a hoarse voice to his host:

--Tell me, did I tell you that story about a very famous spit?

--You did not, John, said Mr Dedalus.

--Why then, said Mr Casey, it is a most instructive story. It happened
not long ago in the county Wicklow where we are now.

He broke off and, turning towards Dante, said with quiet indignation:

--And I may tell you, ma'am, that I, if you mean me, am no renegade
catholic. I am a catholic as my father was and his father before him
and his father before him again, when we gave up our lives rather than
sell our faith.

--The more shame to you now, Dante said, to speak as you do.

--The story, John, said Mr Dedalus smiling. Let us have the story
anyhow.

--Catholic indeed! repeated Dante ironically. The blackest protestant
in the land would not speak the language I have heard this evening.

Mr Dedalus began to sway his head to and fro, crooning like a country
singer.

--I am no protestant, I tell you again, said Mr Casey, flushing.

Mr Dedalus, still crooning and swaying his head, began to sing in a
grunting nasal tone:


O, come all you Roman catholics
That never went to mass.


He took up his knife and fork again in good humour and set to eating,
saying to Mr Casey:

--Let us have the story, John. It will help us to digest.

Stephen looked with affection at Mr Casey's face which stared across
the table over his joined hands. He liked to sit near him at the fire,
looking up at his dark fierce face. But his dark eyes were never fierce
and his slow voice was good to listen to. But why was he then against
the priests? Because Dante must be right then. But he had heard his
father say that she was a spoiled nun and that she had come out of the
convent in the Alleghanies when her brother had got the money from the
savages for the trinkets and the chainies. Perhaps that made her severe
against Parnell. And she did not like him to play with Eileen because
Eileen was a protestant and when she was young she knew children that
used to play with protestants and the protestants used to make fun of
the litany of the Blessed Virgin. TOWER OF IVORY, they used to say,
HOUSE OF GOLD! How could a woman be a tower of ivory or a house of
gold? Who was right then? And he remembered the evening in the
infirmary in Clongowes, the dark waters, the light at the pierhead and
the moan of sorrow from the people when they had heard.

Eileen had long white hands. One evening when playing tig she had put
her hands over his eyes: long and white and thin and cold and soft.
That was ivory: a cold white thing. That was the meaning of TOWER OF
IVORY.

--The story is very short and sweet, Mr Casey said. It was one day
down in Arklow, a cold bitter day, not long before the chief died. May
God have mercy on him!

He closed his eyes wearily and paused. Mr Dedalus took a bone from his
plate and tore some meat from it with his teeth, saying:

--Before he was killed, you mean.

Mr Casey opened his eyes, sighed and went on:

--It was down in Arklow one day. We were down there at a meeting and
after the meeting was over we had to make our way to the railway
station through the crowd. Such booing and baaing, man, you never
heard. They called us all the names in the world. Well there was one
old lady, and a drunken old harridan she was surely, that paid all her
attention to me. She kept dancing along beside me in the mud bawling
and screaming into my face: PRIEST-HUNTER! THE PARIS FUNDS!