This eBook is designed and published by Planet pdf. For more free

Ulysses 

146 

of

 1305 

last time. Sweny’s in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. 

Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. 

Hamilton Long’s, founded in the year of the flood. 

Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day. 

He walked southward along Westland row. But the 

recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that 

latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, 

it’s not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait. I 

changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it 

must have been or the second. O, he can look it up in the 

prescriptions book. 

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy 

shrivelled smell he seems to have. Shrunken skull. And 

old. Quest for the philosopher’s stone. The alchemists. 

Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. 

Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes 

your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments, 

disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. 

Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you like 

the dentist’s doorbell. Doctor Whack. He ought to physic 

himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that 

picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. 

Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. 

Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose 

---

Ulysses 

147 

of

 1305 

of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric 

poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. 

Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. 

Clever of nature. 

—About a fortnight ago, sir? 

—Yes, Mr Bloom said. 

He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen 

reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. 

Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains. 

—Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr 

Bloom said, and then orangeflower water ... 

It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like 

wax. 

—And white wax also, he said. 

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the 

sheet up to her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was 

fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are 

often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles and 

rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. 

Skinfood. One of the old queen’s sons, duke of Albany 

was it? had only one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. 

Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you 

want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau 

d’Espagne. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell 

---

Ulysses 

148 

of

 1305 

these soaps have. Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath 

round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets 

rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I 

think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water 

to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time 

for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather 

glum. 

—Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. 

Have you brought a bottle? 

—No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I’ll call later 

in the day and I’ll take one of these soaps. How much are 

they? 

—Fourpence, sir. 

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony 

wax. 

—I’ll take this one, he said. That makes three and a 

penny. 

—Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, 

sir, when you come back. 

—Good, Mr Bloom said. 

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under 

his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand. 

At his armpit Bantam Lyons’ voice and hand said: 

---

Ulysses 

149 

of

 1305 

—Hello, Bloom. What’s the best news? Is that today’s? 

Show us a minute. 

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold 

upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy. 

Younger than I am. 

Bantam Lyons’s yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the 

baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good 

morning, have you used Pears’ soap? Dandruff on his 

shoulders. Scalp wants oiling. 

—I want to see about that French horse that’s running 

today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the bugger is it? 

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his 

high collar. Barber’s itch. Tight collar he’ll lose his hair. 

Better leave him the paper and get shut of him. 

—You can keep it, Mr Bloom said. 

—Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. 

Half a mo. Maximum the second. 

—I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said. 

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered 

weakly. 

—What’s that? his sharp voice said. 

—I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was 

going to throw it away that moment. 

---

Ulysses 

150 

of

 1305 

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust 

the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom’s arms. 

—I’ll risk it, he said. Here, thanks. 

He sped off towards Conway’s corner. God speed scut. 

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and 

lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. 

Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys 

stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey. 

Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming 

embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. 

Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of 

Egypt. 

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. 

Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. 

College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster 

over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod 

in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round 

like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and 

the hub big: college. Something to catch the eye. 

There’s Hornblower standing at the porter’s lodge. 

Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the 

nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, 

sir? 

---