No More Learning

Then you'd
sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.

Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedy
served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired,
admired. But Bloom sang dumb.

Admiring.

Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembered
one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang _'Twas rank and
fame_: in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never heard in all his life a
note like that he never did _then false one we had better part_ so clear
so God he never heard _since love lives not_ a clinking voice lives not
ask Lambert he can tell you too.

Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the
night, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus house, sang _'Twas rank and fame. _

He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom, of
the night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND FAME in
his, Ned Lambert's, house.

Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the
lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more.
The night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful,
more than all others.

That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence after you
feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.

Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked the
slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged. While
Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan,
harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listening
Father Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While
big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he
smoked, who smoked.

Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his
string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on.
Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat.
Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave.
_Corpus paradisum. _ Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup. Gone.
They sing. Forgotten. I too; And one day she with. Leave her: get
tired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Her
wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:'d.

Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in
your? Twang. It snapped.

Jingle into Dorset street.

Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.

--Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.

George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.

First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. And
second tankard told her so. That that was so.

Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy, Mina, did not
believe: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first, the first:
gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell:
the tank.

Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.

Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A
pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut line. It certainly is.
Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who
is this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,
envelope: unconcerned. It's so characteristic.

--Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said.

--It is, Bloom said.

Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two
divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two
plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always
find out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. He doesn't
see my mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you
think you're listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it like:
Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite
flat. It's on account of the sounds it is.

Instance he's playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, till you
hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then hear
chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over barrels,
through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune. Question of mood
you're in. Still always nice to hear. Except scales up and down, girls
learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to invent dummy pianos
for that. _Blumenlied_ I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow,
a girl, night I came home, the girl. Door of the stables near Cecilia
street. Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I mean.

Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite
flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.

It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a
boy in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles.
Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in the
moonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, such
music, Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.

Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed a
moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.

Down the edge of his _Freeman_ baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye,
scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick.
Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking. . .

Hope he's not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his _Freeman. _
Can't see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear
sir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did I
put? Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline _imposs. _ To write
today.

Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am just reflecting
fingers on flat pad Pat brought.

On. Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accep my poor litt pres
enclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the
gulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight about. Say half a
crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do you
despise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?
You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes,
yes, will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other
world she wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You must
believe. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True.
Folly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's marriage does, their wives.
Because I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young. If she
found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless pain. If
they don't see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.

A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James
of number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young
gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by George
Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and wearing
a straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one Great
Brunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and
jingled. By Dlugacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a
gallantbuttocked mare.

--Answering an ad? keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.

Bloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You
know how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he
playing now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How will
you pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want
to. Know. O. Course if I didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails off
there sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad tail at end. P.
P. S. La la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee.

He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address. Just copy out of paper.
Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote:

Miss Martha Clifford c/o P. O. Dolphin's Barn Lane Dublin

Blot over the other so he can't read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit.
Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea
per col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U.
P: up.

Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms.
Shakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. To be or not to be.
Wisdom while you wait.

In Gerard's rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn. One life is
all. One body. Do. But do.

Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk now.
Enough. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet them. Dislike that job.

House of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear. Deaf beetle he is.

Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling those napkins.
Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint face behind on him then
he'd be two. Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off.

Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of his
hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He
waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He waits
while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait.
Hee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.

Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.

She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely shell
she brought.

To the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding
seahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.

--Listen! she bade him.

Under Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.
Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husband
took him by the throat. _Scoundrel,_ said he, _You'll sing no more
lovesongs. _ He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom.
Cowley lay back.

Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard.

Wonderful. She held it to her own. And through the sifted light pale
gold in contrast glided. To hear.

Tap.

Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard more
faintly that that they heard, each for herself alone, then each for
other, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar.

Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened.

Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside.
Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on coldcream
first make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn't forget.
Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell with
seaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks the
mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave.
No admittance except on business.

The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood it is. Souse in
the ear sometimes. Well, it's a sea. Corpuscle islands.

Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur,
hearing: then laid it by, gently.

--What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled.

Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.

Tap.

By Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and Boylan
turned.

From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting. No,
she was not so lonely archly miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know.
Walks in the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? She nobly
answered: with a gentleman friend.

Bob Cowley's twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The landlord
has the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he played a
light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling,
and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one, one:
two, one, three, four.

Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket,
cocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. There's music everywhere.
Ruttledge's door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of _Don
Giovanni_ he's playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle
chambers dancing.