No More Learning

Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?

--M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that his
name?

He moved away, looking about him.

--No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!

Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all
the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good
Lord, what became of him?

A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.

--O, excuse me!

He stepped aside nimbly.

Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over.
A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their
spades. All uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped
his wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The
gravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards
the barrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One bent
to pluck from the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates,
walked slowly on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing.
Silently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. His navelcord.
The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand.
Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I know that. For
yourselves just.

The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at
whiles to read a name on a tomb.

--Let us go round by the chief's grave, Hynes said. We have time.

--Let us, Mr Power said.

They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr
Power's blank voice spoke:

--Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled
with stones. That one day he will come again.

Hynes shook his head.

--Parnell will never come again, he said. He's there, all that was
mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.

Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses,
broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes,
old Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some
charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody
really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot. Then
lump them together to save time. All souls' day. Twentyseventh I'll be
at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds.
Old man himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near death's
door. Who passed away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of
their own accord. Got the shove, all of them. Who kicked the
bucket. More interesting if they told you what they were. So and So,
wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings in the
pound. Or a woman's with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew.
Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is it
Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest the protestants put it.
Old Dr Murren's. The great physician called him home. Well it's God's
acre for them. Nice country residence. Newly plastered and painted.
Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the _Church Times. _ Marriage
ads they never try to beautify. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of
bronzefoil. Better value that for the money. Still, the flowers are more
poetical. The other gets rather tiresome, never withering. Expresses
nothing. Immortelles.

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the
wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not a budge out of him.
Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even sadder.
Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a
daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.

The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve. Ought to be
sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart. Ireland was
dedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why this
infliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket
of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the
boy. Apollo that was.

How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful departed. As
you are now so once were we.

Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the
voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in
the house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather.
Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain
hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph
reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after
fifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow that died
when I was in Wisdom Hely's.

Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop!

He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he
goes.

An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the
pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey
alive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it.
Good hidingplace for treasure.

Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert Emmet was
buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Making his rounds.

Tail gone now.

One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones
clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is meat
gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that
_Voyages in China_ that the Chinese say a white man smells like a
corpse. Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the
other firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the
plague. Quicklime feverpits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes.
Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds.
Earth, fire, water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your whole
life in a flash. But being brought back to life no. Can't bury in the
air however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder does the news go about
whenever a fresh one is let down. Underground communication. We learned
that from them. Wouldn't be surprised. Regular square feed for them.
Flies come before he's well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't care
about the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste
like raw white turnips.

The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again.
Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I
was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills.
And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case
I read of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running
gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after
death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after
death. There is another world after death named hell. I do not like that
other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel
yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty
beds. They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warm
fullblooded life.

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.

Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John Henry, solicitor,
commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be in his office.
Mat Dillon's long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings.
Cold fowl, cigars,
the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his rag out
that evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke
of mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate
at first sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree,
laughing. Fellow always like that, mortified if women are by.

Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.

--Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.

They stopped.

--Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing.

John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.

--There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. John Henry Menton took
off his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his
coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.

--It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said.

John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.

--Thank you, he said shortly.

They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind
a few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin
could wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger, without his
seeing it.

Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him.
Get the pull over him that way.

Thank you. How grand we are this morning!


IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS


Before Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started
for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure,
Palmerston Park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Rathmines,
Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. The hoarse Dublin United
Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off:

--Rathgar and Terenure!

--Come on, Sandymount Green!

Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a singledeck
moved from their railheads, swerved to the down line, glided parallel.

--Start, Palmerston Park!


THE WEARER OF THE CROWN


Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called and
polished. Parked in North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion
mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R. , received
loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured
and paid, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS


Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores
and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped
dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's
stores.

--There it is, Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.

--Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to
the _Telegraph_ office.

The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in a
large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with
a roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier.

Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper
in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.

--I'll go through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut
square.

--Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind
his ear, we can do him one.

--Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in.

We.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT


Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:

--Brayden.

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a
stately figure entered between the newsboards of the _Weekly Freeman
and National Press_ and the _Freeman's Journal and National Press_.
Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. It passed statelily up the staircase,
steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back
ascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck,
Simon Dedalus says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck,
fat, neck, fat, neck.

--Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.

The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. They always build
one door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out.

Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk. Mary, Martha.
Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor.

--Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.

--Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our
Saviour.

Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his
heart. In _Martha. _

_Co-ome thou lost one,
Co-ome thou dear one! _

THE CROZIER AND THE PEN


--His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and
stepped off posthaste with a word:

_--Freeman! _

Mr Bloom said slowly:

--Well, he is one of our saviours also.

A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed
in through a sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage,
along the now reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation?
Thumping. Thumping.

He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn
packing paper. Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards
Nannetti's reading closet.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS WE ANNOUNCE THE DISSOLUTION OF A MOST
RESPECTED DUBLIN BURGESS


Hynes here too: account of the funeral probably. Thumping. Thump. This
morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a man
to atoms if they got him caught. Rule the world today. His machineries
are pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand: fermenting. Working
away, tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in.

HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT


Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's spare body, admiring a glossy
crown.

Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland my country. Member for
College green. He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was worth.
It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale news in the
official gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in the year
one thousand and. Demesne situate in the townland of Rosenallis, barony
of Tinnahinch. To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute
showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina.
Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Uncle
Toby's page for tiny tots. Country bumpkin's queries. Dear Mr Editor,
what is a good cure for flatulence? I'd like that part. Learn a lot
teaching others. The personal note. M. A. P. Mainly all pictures.
Shapely bathers on golden strand. World's biggest balloon. Double
marriage of sisters celebrated. Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at
each other. Cuprani too, printer. More Irish than the Irish.

The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. Now if he
got paralysed there and no-one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and
on the same, print it over and over and up and back. Monkeydoodle the
whole thing. Want a cool head.

--Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.

Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him, they say.

The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet
and made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the
dirty glass screen.

--Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.

Mr Bloom stood in his way.

--If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said,
pointing backward with his thumb.

--Did you? Hynes asked.

--Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you'll catch him.

--Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll tap him too.

He hurried on eagerly towards the _Freeman's Journal_.

Three bob I lent him in Meagher's. Three weeks. Third hint.

WE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORK


Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.

--Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. Keyes, you remember?

Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded.

--He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.

The foreman moved his pencil towards it.

--But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He wants
two keys at the top.

Hell of a racket they make. He doesn't hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves.
Maybe he understands what I.

The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began
to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.

--Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top.

Let him take that in first.

Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the
foreman's sallow face, think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the
obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles
of it unreeled. What becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels:
various uses, thousand and one things.

Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew
swiftly on the scarred woodwork.

HOUSE OF KEY(E)S


--Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name.
Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.

Better not teach him his own business.

--You know yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the top
in leaded: the house of keys. You see? Do you think that's a good idea?

The foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched
there quietly.

--The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor,
the Manx parliament. Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from the
isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that?

I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that _voglio. _ But then
if he didn't know only make it awkward for him. Better not.

--We can do that, the foreman said.