Disc 7 Science? The savage frowned. He knew the word, but what it exactly signified he could not say. Shakespeare and the old men of the Pueblo had never mentioned science, and from Linda he had only gathered the vaguest hints. Science was something you made helicopters with. something that caused you to laugh at the corn dances something that prevented you from being wrinkled and losing your teeth he made a desperate effort to take the controller's meaning yes mustapha mond was saying
That's another item in the cost of stability. It isn't only art that's incompatible with happiness. It's also science. Science is... dangerous. We have to keep it most carefully chained and muzzled.' "'What?' said Helmholtz in astonishment. "'But we're always saying that science is everything. It's a hypnopedic platitude.' three times a week between thirteen and seventeen put in bernard and all the science propaganda we do at the college yes but what sort of science
asked Mustafa Mond sarcastically. You've had no scientific training, so you can't judge. I was a pretty good physicist in my time. Too good. Good enough to realise that all our science is just a... cookery book, with an orthodox theory of cooking that nobody is allowed to question, and a list of recipes that mustn't be added to except by special permission from the head cook. I'm the head cook now.
But I was an inquisitive young scullion once. I started doing a bit of cooking on my own, unorthodox cooking, illicit cooking, a bit of real science, in fact. He was silent. What happened? asked Helmholtz Watson. The controller sighed. Very nearly what's going to happen to you, young men. "'I was on the point of being sent to an island.' The words galvanised Bernard into a violent and unseemly activity. "'Send me to an island?'
He jumped up, ran across the room, and stood gesticulating in front of the controller. You can't send me! I haven't done anything! It was the others! I swear, it was the others! He pointed accusingly to Helmholtz and the savage. Oh, please don't send me to Iceland. I promise I'll do what I ought to do. Give me another chance. Please give me another chance. The tears began to flow. I tell you it's their fault.
he sobbed not to iceland please your foreship please and in a paroxysm of abjection he threw himself on the knees before the controller mustapher mon tried to make him get up but bernard persisted in his grovelling the stream of words poured out inexhaustibly in the end the controller had to ring for his fourth secretary Bring three men, he ordered, and take Mr. Marks into a bedroom. Give him a good, after a little silence. Sometimes, he added, I rather regret the science.
Happiness is a hard master, particularly other people's happiness. A much harder master, if one isn't conditioned to accept it unquestioningly, than truth. He sighed, fell silent again, then continued in a brisker tone. Well, duty's duty. One can't consult one's own preferences. I'm interested in truth. I like science, but truth's a menace. Science is a public danger, as dangerous as it's been beneficent. It has given us the stablest equilibrium in history.
China's was hopelessly insecure by comparison. Even the primitive matriarchies weren't steadier than we are. Thanks, I repeat, to science. But we can't allow science to undo its own good work.
that's why we so carefully limit the scope of its researches that's why i almost got sent to an island we don't allow it to deal with any but the most immediate problems of the moment all other inquiries are most sedulously discouraged it's curious he went on after a little pause to read what people in the time of our ford used to write about scientific progress
They seemed to have imagined that it could be allowed to go on indefinitely, regardless of everything else. Knowledge was the highest good, truth the supreme value. all the rest was secondary and subordinate true ideas were beginning to change even then r ford himself did a great deal to shift the emphasis from truth and beauty to comfort and happiness. Mass production demanded the shift. Universal happiness keeps the wheels steadily turning. Truth and beauty count.
And, of course, whenever the masses seized political power, then it was happiness rather than truth and beauty that mattered. Still, in spite of everything— Unrestricted scientific research was still permitted. People still went on talking about truth and beauty as though they were the sovereign goods, right up to the time of the Nine Years' War.
That made them change their tune all right. What's the point of truth or beauty or knowledge when the anthrax bombs are popping all around you? That was when science first began to be controlled. after the Nine Years' War. People were ready to have even their appetites controlled then. Anything for a quiet life. We've gone on controlling ever since.
It hasn't been very good for truth, of course, but it's been very good for happiness. One can't have something for nothing. Happiness has got to be paid for. You're paying for it, Mr. Watson. Paying because you happened to be too much interested in beauty. I was too much interested in truth. I paid too. But you didn't go to an island, said the savage. breaking a long silence. The controller smiled. That's how I paid. By choosing to serve happiness. Other people's, not mine.
it's lucky he added after a pause that there are such a lot of islands in the world i don't know what we should do without them put you all in the lethal chamber i suppose by the way mr watson Would you like a tropical climate? The Marquesas, for example, or Samoa? Or something rather more bracing? Helmholtz rose from his pneumatic chair.
i should like a thoroughly bad climate he answered i believe one would write better if the climate were bad if there were a lot of wind and storms for example the controller nodded his approbation I like your spirit, Mr. Watson. I like it very much indeed, as much as I officially disapprove of it. He smiled. What about the Falkland Islands? Yes, I think that will do, Helmholtz answered. And now, if you don't mind, I'll go and see how poor Bernard's getting on. Chapter 17
Art? Science? You seem to have paid a fairly high price for your happiness, said the savage when they were alone. Anything else? Well, religion, of course, replied the controller. There used to be something called God before the Nine Years' War, but I was forgetting. You know all about God, I suppose. Well, the savage hesitated.
He would have liked to say something about solitude, about night, about the mesa lying pale under the moon, about the precipice, the plunge into shadowy darkness, about death. He would have liked to speak. But there were no words, not even in Shakespeare. The controller, meanwhile, had crossed to the other side of the room, and was unlocking a large safe let into the wall between the bookshelves. A heavy door swung open.
rummaging in the darkness within. It's a subject, he said, that has always had a great interest for me. He pulled out a thick black volume. You've never read this, for example. The savage took it. The Holy Bible containing the Old and New Testaments, he read aloud from the title page. Nor this. It was a small book and had lost its cover. the imitation of christ nor this he handed out another volume the varieties of religious experience by william james
And I've got plenty more, Mustafa Mond continued, resuming his seat. A whole collection of pornographic old books. God in the Safe and Ford on the Shelves.
he pointed with a laugh to his avowed library to the shelves of books the racks full of reading machine bobbins and soundtrack rolls but if you know about god why don't you tell them asked the savage indignantly why don't you give them these books about god for the same reason as we don't give them othello they're old they're about god hundreds of years ago not about god now
but god doesn't change men do though what difference does that make all the difference in the world said mustapha mond he got up again and walked to the safe There was a man called Cardinal Newman, he said. A cardinal, he exclaimed parenthetically, was a kind of arch-community songster. I, Pandolf of Fair Milan, Cardinal. I've read about them in Shakespeare. Of course you have. Well, as I was saying, there was a man called Cardinal Newman. Ah, here's the book. He pulled it out.
And while I'm about it, I'll take this one, too. It's by a man called Maine de Biron. He was a philosopher, if you know what that was. A man who dreams of fewer things than there are in heaven and earth. said the savage promptly. Quite so. I'll read you one of the things he did dream of in a moment. Meanwhile, listen to what this old arch-community songster said.
He opened the book at the place marked by a slip of paper and began to read. We are not our own any more than what we possess is our own. We did not make ourselves. We cannot be supreme over ourselves. We are not our own masters. We are God's property. Is it not our happiness thus to view the matter? Is it any happiness or any comfort to consider that we are our own?
It may be thought so by the young and prosperous. These may think it a great thing to have everything, as they suppose, their own way, to depend on no one. to have to think of nothing out of sight, to be without the irksomeness of continual acknowledgement, continual prayer, continual reference of what they do to the will of another. But as time goes on...
They, as all men, will find that independence was not made for man, that it is an unnatural state, will do for a while, but will not carry us on safely to the end. Mustapha Mon paused, put down the first book, and picking up the other, turned over the pages. Take this one, for example, he said, and in his deep voice once more began to read.
A man grows old. He feels in himself that radical sense of weakness, of listlessness, of discomfort, which accompanies the advance of age, and, feeling thus, imagines himself merely sick. lulling his fears with the notion that this distressing condition is due to some particular cause, from which, as from an illness, he hopes to recover. Vain imaginings. That sickness is old age, and a horrible disease it is. They say that it is the fear of death.
and of what comes after death that makes men turn to religion as they advance in years. But my own experience has given me the conviction that, quite apart from any such terrors or imaginings, The religious sentiment tends to develop as we grow older, to develop because as the passions grow calm, as the fancy and sensibilities are less excited and less excitable,
our reason becomes less troubled in its working, less obscured by the images, desires and distractions in which it used to be absorbed. whereupon god emerges as from behind a cloud our soul feels sees turns towards the source of all light turns naturally and inevitably For now that all that gave to the world of sensations its life and charm has begun to leak away from us, now that phenomenal existence is no more bolstered up by impressions from within or from without,
we feel the need to lean on something that abides, something that will never play us false, a reality, an absolute and everlasting truth. Yes. we inevitably turn to god For this religious sentiment is of its nature so pure, so delightful to the soul that experiences it that it makes up to us for all our other losses.
mustapha mont shut the book and leaned back in his chair one of the numerous things in heaven and earth that these philosophers didn't dream about was this he waved his hand us the modern world you can only be independent of God while you've got youth and prosperity independence won't take you safely to the end well we've now got youth and prosperity right up to the end What follows? Evidently that we can be independent of God. The religious sentiment will compensate us for all our losses.
But there aren't any losses for us to compensate. Religious sentiment is superfluous. And why should we go hunting for a substitute for youthful desires, when youthful desires never fail? A substitute for distractions when we go on enjoying all the old fooleries to the very last. What need we have of response when our minds and bodies continue to delight in activity? Of consolation, when we have soma. Of something immovable, when there is the social order. Then you think there is no God.
No, I think there quite probably is one. Then why— Mustaphamon checked him. But he manifests himself in different ways to different men. In pre-modern times, he manifested himself as the being that's described in these books. Now, how does he manifest himself now? asked the savage. Well... He manifests himself as an absence, as though he weren't there at all. That's your fault. Call it the fault of civilization.
God is incompatible with machinery and scientific medicine and universal happiness. You must make your choice. Our civilization has chosen machinery and medicine and happiness. That's why I have to keep these books locked up in the safe. They're smut. People would be shocked if—' The savage interrupted him. But isn't it natural to feel there's a god? You might as well ask if it's natural to do up one's trousers with zippers, said the controller sarcastically.
You remind me of another of those old fellows called Bradley. He defined philosophy as the finding of bad reason for what one believes by instinct, as if one believed anything by instinct. One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them. Finding bad reasons for what one believes for other bad reasons, that's philosophy.
People believe in God because they have been conditioned to believe in God. But all the same, insisted the savage, it is natural to believe in God when you are alone. quite alone in the night, thinking about death. But people never are alone now, said Mustapha Mond. We make them hate solitude, and we arrange their lives so that it's almost impossible for them ever to have it. The savage nodded gloomily.
At Malpais, he had suffered because they had shut him out from the communal activities of the Pueblo. In civilised London, he was suffering because he could never escape from those communal activities, never be quietly alone.
do you remember that bit in king lear said the savage at last the gods are just and of our pleasant voices make instruments to plague us the dark and vicious place where thee he got cost him his eyes and edmund answers you remember he's wounded he's dying thou hast spoken right tis true The wheel has come full circle. I am here. What about that now? Doesn't there seem to be a God managing things, punishing, rewarding? Well, does there?
Questioned the controller in his turn. You can indulge in any number of pleasant vices with a free Martin, and run no risks of having your eyes put out by your son's mistress. The wheel has come full circle. I am here. But where would Edmund be nowadays? Sitting in a pneumatic chair with his arm round a girl's waist, sucking away at his sex-hormone chewing gum, and looking at the feelies.
The gods are just, no doubt, but their code of law is dictated in the last resort by the people who organize society. Providence takes its cue from men. Are you sure? asked the savage. Are you quite sure that the Edmund in that pneumatic chair hasn't been just as heavily punished as the Edmund who's wounded and bleeding to death? The gods are just. Haven't they used his pleasant voices?
as an instrument to degrade him. Degrade him from what position? As a happy, hard-working, goods-consuming citizen, he's perfect. Of course, if you choose some other standard than ours, then perhaps you might say he was degraded. But you've got to stick to one set of postulates. You can't play electromagnetic golf according to the rules of centrifugal bumble-puppy. But value dwells not in particular will, said the savage.
"'It holds his estimate and dignity as well wherein tis precious of itself as in the prizer.' "'Come, come,' protested Mustapha Mond. "'That's going rather far, isn't it?' if you allowed yourself to think of god you wouldn't allow yourself to be degraded by pleasant voices you'd have a reason for bearing things patiently for doing things with courage i've seen it with the indians
I'm sure you have, said Mustafa Mann. But then we aren't Indians. There isn't any need for a civilized man to bear anything that's seriously unpleasant. And as for doing things... Ford forbid that he should get the idea into his head. It would upset the whole social order if men started doing things on their own. What about self-denial, then? If you had a guard...
you'd have a reason for self-denial. But industrial civilization is only possible when there's no self-denial. Self-indulgence up to the very limits imposed by hygiene and economics. "'Otherwise the wheels stop turning.' "'You'd have a reason for chastity,' said the savage, blushing a little as he spoke the words. But chastity means passion. Chastity means neurasthenia. And passion and neurasthenia mean instability. And instability means the end of civilization.
You can't have a lasting civilization without plenty of pleasant vices. But God's the reason for everything noble and fine and heroic. If you had a God... My dear young friend, said Mustafa Mon, civilization has absolutely no need of nobility or heroism. These things are symptoms of political inefficiency. In a properly organised society like ours, nobody has any opportunities for being noble or heroic. Conditions have got to be thoroughly unstable before the occasion can arise.
where there are wars where there are divided allegiances where there are temptations to be resisted objects of love to be fought for or defended there obviously nobility and heroism have some sense but there aren't any wars nowadays. The greatest care is taken to prevent you from loving anyone too much. There's no such thing as a divided allegiance. You're so conditioned that you can't help doing what you ought to do.
to do, and what you ought to do is on the whole so pleasant. So many of the natural impulses are allowed free play that there really aren't any temptations to resist. And if ever, by some unlucky chance, anything unpleasant should somehow happen, why, there's always Soma to give you a holiday from the facts. And there's always soma to calm your anger, to reconcile you to your enemies, to make you patient and long-suffering.
In the past, you could only accomplish these things by making a great effort, and after years of hard moral training. Now, you swallow two or three half-gram tablets, and there you are. Anybody can be virtuous now. you can carry at least half your morality about in a bottle christianity without tears that's what soma is but the tears are necessary don't you remember what othello said
If after every tempest came such calms, may the winds blow till they have wakened death. There's a story one of the old Indians used to tell us about the girl of Mataski. The young men who wanted to marry her had to do a morning's hoeing in her garden. It seemed easy, but there were flies and mosquitoes, magic ones. Most of the young men simply couldn't stand the biting and stinging, but the one that could...
"'He got the girl.' "'Charming! But in civilised countries,' said the Controller, "'you can have girls without hoeing for them.' And there aren't any flies or mosquitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago. The savage nodded, frowning. You got rid of them. Yes, that's just like you. Getting rid of... everything unpleasant instead of learning to put up with it whether tis better in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. But you don't do either.
Neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It's too easy. He was suddenly silent, thinking of his mother. In her room on the 37th floor... linda had floated in a sea of singing lights and perfumed caresses floated away out of space out of time out of the prison of her memories her habits her aged and bloated body And Tomakin, ex-director of hatcheries and conditioning, Tomakin was still on holiday.
on holiday from humiliation and pain in a world where he could not hear those words that derisive laughter could not see that hideous face feel those moist and flabby arms round his neck in a beautiful world What you need, the savage went on, is something with tears for a change. Nothing cost enough here. Twelve and a half million dollars, Henry Foster had protested when the savage told him that. Twelve and a half million. That's what the new conditioning centre cost, not a cent less.
exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an eggshell. Isn't there something in that? he asked, looking up at Mustapha Mond. "'Quite apart from God, though of course God would be a reason for it. Isn't there something in living dangerously?' "'There's a great deal in it,' the controller replied.
"'Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.' "'What?' questioned the savage, uncomprehending. "'It's one of the conditions of perfect health. "'That's why we've made the VPS treatments compulsory.' V.P.S. Violent passion surrogate. Regularly, once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenaline. It's the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the...
tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello without any of the inconveniences. But I like the inconveniences. We don't. said the controller. We prefer to do things comfortably. But I don't want comfort. I want God. I want poetry. I want real danger. I want freedom. I want goodness. I want sin.
"'In fact,' said Mustapha Mond, "'you're claiming the right to be unhappy.' "'All right then,' said the savage defiantly. "'I'm claiming the right to be unhappy.' Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent, the right to have syphilis and cancer, the right to have too little to eat, the right to be lousy. the right to live in constant apprehension of what might happen tomorrow, the right to catch typhoid, the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.
There was a long silence. I claim them all, said the savage at last. Mustafa Mon shrugged his shoulders. You're welcome, he said. chapter eighteen the door was ajar they entered john from the bathroom came an unpleasant and characteristic sound
Is there anything the matter? Helmholtz called. There was no answer. The unpleasant sound was repeated twice. There was silence. Then, with a click... the bathroom door opened and very pale the savage emerged i say helmholtz exclaimed solicitously you do look ill john did you eat something that didn't agree with you asked bernard the savage nodded i ate civilization what it poisoned me i was defiled and then he added in a lower tone
I ate my own wickedness. Yes, but what exactly? I mean, just now you were... Now I'm purified, said the savage. I drank some mustard and warm water. The others stared at him in astonishment. "'Do you mean to say that you were doing it on purpose?' asked Bernard. "'That's how the Indians always purify themselves.' He sat down, and, sighing, passed his hand across his forehead. I shall rest for a few minutes, he said. I'm rather tired. Well, I'm not surprised, said Helmholtz. After a silence,
We've come to say goodbye, he went on in another tone. We're off tomorrow morning. Yes, we're off tomorrow. said bernard on whose face the savage remarked a new expression of determined resignation and by the way john he continued leaning forward in his chair and laying a hand on the savage's knee I want to see how sorry I am about everything that happened yesterday. He blushed. How ashamed, he went on, in spite of the unsteadiness of his voice. How really?
The savage cut him short, and, taking his hand, affectionately pressed it. Helmholtz was wonderful to me, Bernard resumed after a little pause. If it hadn't been for him, I should— Now, now, Helmholtz protested. There was a silence, in spite of their sadness, because of it even, for their sadness was the symptom of their love for one another. The three young men were happy.
"'I went to see the controller this morning,' said the savage at last. "'What for?' "'To ask if I mightn't go to the islands with you.' "'And what did he say?' asked Helmholtz eagerly. The savage shook his head. He wouldn't let me. Why not? He said he wanted to go on with the experiment. But I'm damned! the savage added with sudden fury. I'm damned if I'll go on being experimented with, not for all the controllers in the world. I shall go away tomorrow too. But where? the others asked in unison.
The savage shrugged his shoulders. Anywhere, I don't care, so long as I can be alone. From Guildford, the down line followed the Way Valley to Godalming.
then over milford and whitley proceeded to hazelmere and on through petersfield towards portsmouth roughly parallel to it the up-line passed over warplesden tongham puttenham elstead and greyshot between the hogsback and hindhead there were points where the two lines were not more than six or seven kilometres apart the distance was too small for careless fliers particularly at night when they had taken half a gram too much
there had been accidents serious ones it had been decided to deflect the up line a few kilometres to the west between greyshot and tongham four abandoned air lighthouses marked the course of the old portsmouth to london road The skies above them were silent and deserted. It was over Selborne, Borden and Farnham that the helicopters now ceaselessly hummed and roared.
the savage had chosen as his hermitage the old lighthouse which stood on the crest of the hill between puttenham and elstead the building was of ferro-concrete and in excellent condition almost too comfortable the savage had thought when he first explored the place almost too civilizedly luxurious he pacified his conscience by promising himself a compensatingly harder self-discipline
purifications the more complete and thorough his first night in the hermitage was deliberately a sleepless one he spent the hours on his knees praying now to that heaven from which the guilty claudius had begged forgiveness now in zuni to awanewilona now to jesus and pukong now to his own guardian animal the eagle
From time to time he stretched out his arms as though he were on the cross, and held them thus through long minutes of an ache that gradually increased till it became a tremulous and excruciating agony. held them in voluntary crucifixion while he repeated through clenched teeth the sweat meanwhile pouring down his face oh forgive me oh make me pure oh help me to be good again and again till he was on the point of fainting from the pain
When morning came, he felt he had earned the right to inhabit the lighthouse. Yes, even though there still was glass in most of the windows, even though the view from the platform was so fine. for the very reason why he had chosen the lighthouse had become almost instantly a reason for going somewhere else he had decided to live there because the view was so beautiful
Because from his vantage point, he seemed to be looking out on the incarnation of a divine being. But who was he to be pampered with the daily and hourly sight of loveliness? Who was he to be living in the visible presence of God?
all he deserved to live in was some filthy sty some blind hole in the ground stiff and still aching after his long night of pain but for that very reason inwardly reassured he climbed up to the platform of his tower he looked out over the bright sunrise world which he had regained the right to inhabit on the north the view was bounded by the long chalk ridge of the hogsback
from behind whose eastern extremity rose the towers of the seven skyscrapers which constituted guildford seeing them the savage made a grimace but he was to become reconciled to them in course of time for at night they twinkled gaily with geometrical constellations or else flood-lighted pointed their luminous fingers with a gesture whose significance nobody in england but the savage now understood
solemnly towards the plumless mysteries of heaven in the valley which separated the hogsback from the sandy hill on which the lighthouse stood Puttenham was a modest little village nine stories high, with silos, a poultry farm, and a small vitamin D factory. on the other side of the lighthouse towards the south the ground fell away in long slopes of heather to a chain of ponds beyond them above the intervening woods rose the fourteen-storey tower of elstead
Dim in the hazy English air, Hindhead and Selborne invited the eye into a blue romantic distance. But it was not alone the distance that had attracted the savage to his lighthouse.
the near was as seductive as the far the woods the open stretches of heather and yellow gorse the clumps of scotch firs the shining ponds with their overhanging birch trees their water-lilies their beds of rushes these were beautiful and to an eye accustomed to the aridities of the american desert astonishing and then the solitude whole days passed during which he never saw a human being the lighthouse was only a quarter of an hour's flight from the charing tea tower but the hills of malpace
were hardly more deserted than this surrey heath the crowds that daily left london left it only to play electromagnetic golf or tennis puttenham possessed no links The nearest Riemann surfaces were at Guildford. Flowers and a landscape were the only attractions here. And so, as there was no good reason for coming, nobody came.
During the first days, the savage lived alone and undisturbed. Of the money which on his first arrival John had received for his personal expenses, most had been spent on his equipment. before leaving london he had bought four viscous woolen blankets rope and string nails glue a few tools matches though he intended in due course to make a fire drill some pots and pans
two dozen packets of seeds, and ten kilograms of wheat flour. No, not synthetic starch and cotton waste flour substitute, he had insisted, even though it is more nourishing. But when it came to panglandular biscuits and vitaminized beef surrogate, he had not been able to resist the shopman's persuasion. Looking at the tins now, he bitterly reproached himself for his weakness.
loathsome civilized stuff he had made up his mind that he would never eat it even if he was starving that'll teach them he thought vindictively it would also teach him he counted his money the little that remained would be enough he hoped to tide him over the winter by next spring his garden would be producing enough to make him independent of the outside world meanwhile
There would always be game. He had seen plenty of rabbits, and there were waterfowl on the ponds. He set to work at once to make a bow and arrows.
there were ash trees near the lighthouse and for arrow shafts a whole copse full of beautifully straight hazel saplings he began by felling a young ash cut out six feet of unbranched stem stripped off the bark and, paring by paring, shaved away the white wood, as old Midsima had taught him, until he had a stave of his own height, stiff at the thick and centre, lively and quick at the slender tips.
The work gave him an intense pleasure. After those weeks of idleness in London, with nothing to do, whenever he wanted anything but to press a switch or turn a handle, it was pure delight. to be doing something that demanded skill and patience. He had almost finished whittling the stave into shape when he realized with a start that he was singing. Singing!
It was as though, stumbling upon himself from the outside, he had suddenly caught himself out, taken himself flagrantly at fault. Guiltily he blushed. after all it was not to sing and enjoy himself that he had come here it was to escape further contamination by the filth of civilized life it was to be purified and made good it was actively to make amends he realized to his dismay that absorbed in the whittling of his bow he had forgotten what he had sworn to himself he would constantly remember
Poor Linda, and his own murderous unkindness to her, and those loathsome twins swarming like lice across the mystery of her death, insulting with their presence not merely his own grief and repentance, but the very gods themselves. He had sworn to remember. He had sworn unceasingly to make amends. And here he was, sitting happily over his bow stave, singing, actually singing. He went indoors.
opened the box of mustard and put some water to boil on the fire half an hour later Three Delta Minus land workers from one of the Putnam-Bokanofsky groups happened to be driving to Elstead and, at the top of the hill, were astonished to see a young man standing outside the abandoned lighthouse stripped to the waist and hitting himself with a whip of knotted cords his back was horizontally streaked with crimson
and from wheel to wheel ran thin trickles of blood the driver of the lorry pulled up at the side of the road and with his two companions stared open-mouthed at the extraordinary spectacle one two three they counted the strokes after the eighth the young man interrupted his self-punishment to run to the wood's edge and there be violently sick when he had finished
He picked up the whip and began hitting himself again. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Ford, whispered the driver, and his twins were of the same opinion. forty they said three days later like turkey buzzards settling on a corpse the reporters came dried and hardened over a slow fire of green wood The bow was ready. The savage was busy on his arrows. Thirty hazel sticks had been whittled and dried, tipped with sharp nails, carefully knocked. He had made a raid one night on the Puttenham poultry farm.
and now had feathers enough to equip a whole armory it was at work upon the feathering of his shafts that the first of the reporters found him noiseless on his pneumatic shoes the man came up behind him Good morning, Mr. Savage, he said. I'm the representative of the hourly radio. Startled, as though by the bite of a snake, the savage sprang to his feet, scattering arrows, feathers, glue-pot and brush in all directions.
"'I beg your pardon,' said the reporter with genuine compunction. "'I had no intention—' He touched his hat, the aluminium stove-pipe hat, in which he carried his wireless receiver and transmitter. "'Excuse me for not taking it off,' he said. "'It's a bit heavy. "'Well, as I was saying, I am the representative of the hourly—' "'What do you want?' asked the savage, scowling.
The reporter returned his most ingratiating smile. Well, of course our readers would be profoundly interested. He put his head on one side. His smile became almost coquettish. Just a few words from you, Mr. Savage. And rapidly, with a series of ritual gestures, he uncoiled two wires connected to the portable battery buckled round his waist.
plugged them simultaneously into the sides of his aluminium hat touched a spring on the crown an antenna shot up into the air touched another spring on the peak of the brim and like a jack-in-the-box out jumped a microphone and hung their quivering six inches in front of his nose, pulled down a pair of receivers over his ears, pressed a switch on the left side of the hat, and from within came a faint waspy buzzing.
"'turned a knob on the right, "'and the buzzing was interrupted by a stethoscopic wheeze and crackle, "'by hiccups and sudden squeaks. "'Hello!' he said to the microphone. "'Hello! Hello!' A bell suddenly rang inside his hat. Is that you, Edsel? Primo Mellon speaking. Yes, I've got hold of him. Mr Savage will now take the microphone and say a few words, won't you, Mr Savage?
he looked up at the savage with another of those winning smiles of his just tell our readers why you came here what made you leave london hold on edsel so very suddenly And, of course, that whip. The savage started. How did they know about the whip? We're all crazy to know about the whip. And something about civilization.
You know, the sort of stuff. What I think of the civilised girl. Just a few words, a very few. The savage obeyed with a disconcerting literalness. Five words, he uttered, and no more. Five words. the same as those he had said to bernard about the arch community songster of canterbury and seizing the reporter by the shoulder he spun him round the young man revealed himself invitingly well covered
Aimed, and with all the force and accuracy of a champion foot-and-mouth baller, delivered a most prodigious kick. Eight minutes later, a new edition of the hourly radio was on sale in the streets of London. Hourly radio reporter has coccyx kicked by mystery savage, ran the headlines on the front page. Sensation in Surrey. Sensation even in London.
thought the reporter when on his return he read the words and a very painful sensation what was more he sat down gingerly to his luncheon Undeterred by that cautionary bruise on their colleagues' coccyx, four other reporters, representing the New York Times, the Frankfurt Four-Dimensional Continuum, the Fordian Science Monitor and the Delta Mirror,
called that afternoon at the lighthouse and met with receptions of progressively increasing violence from a safe distance and still rubbing his buttocks benighted fool shouted the man from the Fordian science monitor. Why didn't you take some Soma? Get away! The savage shook his fist. The other retreated a few steps, then turned round again. Evils and unreality if you take a couple of grams. The tone was menacingly derisive. Pain's a delusion!
Oh, is it? said the savage, and picking up a thick hazel switch, strode forward. The man from the Fordian science monitor made a dash for his helicopter.
after that the savage was left for a time in peace a few helicopters came and hovered inquisitively round the tower he shot an arrow into the importunately nearest of them there was a shrill yell and the machine went rocketing up into the air with all the acceleration that its supercharger could give it the others in future kept their distance respectfully
ignoring their tiresome humming he likened himself in his imagination to one of the suitors of the maiden of matsaki unmoved and persistent among the winged vermin the savage dug at what was to be his garden after a time the vermin evidently became bored and flew away for hours at a stretch the sky above his head was empty and but for the larks silent
the weather was breathlessly hot there was thunder in the air he had dug all morning and was resting stretched out along the floor and suddenly the thought of lenina was a real presence, naked and tangible, saying, Sweet! and Put your arms round me, in shoes and socks, perfumed. Impudent strumpet! but oh oh her arms round his neck the lifting of her breasts her mouth eternity was in our lips and eyes lenina no no no no He sprang to his feet, and, half naked as he was, ran out of the house.
At the edge of a heath stood a clump of hoary juniper bushes. He flung himself against them. He embraced not the smooth body of his desires, but an armful of green spikes. Sharp with a thousand points, they pricked him.
he tried to think of poor linda breathless and dumb with her clutching hands and the unutterable terror in her eyes poor linda whom he had sworn to remember but it was still the presence of lenina that haunted him lenina whom he had promised to forget even through the stab and sting of the juniper needles his wincing flesh was aware of her unescapably real sweet sweet and if you wanted me to why didn't you the whip
was hanging on a nail by the door, ready to hand against the arrival of reporters. In a frenzy, the savage ran back to the house, seized it, whirled it, the knotted cords... bit into his flesh strumpet strumpet he shouted at every blow as though it were lenina and how frantically without knowing it he wished it were white warm scented infamous Leniner that he was flogging that strumpet. And then, in a voice of despair, Oh, Lender, forgive me. Forgive me, God. I'm bad. I'm wicked. I'm...
No, no, you strumpet, you strumpet! From his carefully constructed hide in the wood, three hundred metres away, darwin bonaparte the feely corporation's most expert big-game photographer had watched the whole proceedings patience and skill had been rewarded He had spent three days sitting inside the bowl of an artificial oak tree, three nights crawling on his belly through the heather, hiding microphones in gorse bushes, burying wires in the soft grey sand.
seventy-two hours of profound discomfort but now the great moment had come the greatest darwin bonaparte had time to reflect as he moved among his instruments greatest since his taking of the famous, all-howling, stereoscopic feely of the gorilla's wedding. Splendid! he said to himself, as the savage started his astonishing performance, Splendid! He kept his telescopic cameras carefully aimed, glued to their moving objective,
clapped on a higher power to get a close-up of the frantic and distorted face. Admirable! Switched over for half a minute to slow motion. An exquisitely comical effect, he promised himself.
listened in meanwhile to the blows the groans the wild and raving words that were being recorded on the soundtrack at the edge of the film tried the effect of a little amplification yes that was decidedly better was delighted to hear in a momentary lull the shrill singing of a lark wish the savage would turn round so that he could get a good close-up of the blood on his back and almost instantly what astonishing luck
The accommodating fellow did turn round, and he was able to take a perfect close-up. Well, that was grand, he said to himself when it was all over. Really grand. He mopped his face. When they had put in the feely effects at the studio, it would be a wonderful film. Almost as good, thought Darwin Bonaparte, as the sperm whale's love life.
And that by Ford was saying a good deal. Twelve days later, the savage of Surrey... had been released and could be seen heard and felt in every first-class feely palace in western europe the effect of darwin bonaparte's film was immediate and enormous on the afternoon which followed the evening of its release john's rustic solitude was suddenly broken by the arrival overhead of a great swarm of helicopters he was digging in his garden
digging too in his own mind laboriously turning up the substance of his thought death and he drove in his spade once and again and yet again and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death a convincing thunder rumbled through the words he lifted another spadeful of earth
why had linda died why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last he shuddered a good kissing carrion he planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground as flies to wanton boys are we to the gods they kill us for their sport
thunder again words that proclaim themselves true truer somehow than truth itself and yet that same gloucester had called them ever gentle gods Besides, thy best of rest is sleep, and that thou oft provok'st, yet grossly fear'st thy death, which is no more, no more than sleep, sleep. perchance to dream his spade struck against a stone he stooped to pick it up for in that sleep of death what dreams
A humming overhead had become a roar, and suddenly he was in shadow. There was something between the sun and him. He looked up, startled, from his digging, from his thoughts, looked up in a dazzled bewilderment. his mind still wandering in that other world of truer than truth, still focused on the immensities of death and deity, looked up and saw close above him the swarm of hovering machines.
like locusts they came hung poised descended all around him on the heather and from out of the bellies of these giant grasshoppers stepped men in white viscous flannels women for the weather was hot, in acetate shantung pyjamas or velveteen shorts and sleeveless half-unzippered singlets, one couple from each.
in a few moments there were dozens of them standing in a wide circle round the lighthouse staring laughing clicking their cameras throwing as to an ape peanuts packets of sex hormone chewing gum Petty Burr. And every moment, for across the Hogsback, the stream of traffic now flowed unceasingly, their numbers increased, as in a nightmare.
The dozens became scores, the scores hundreds. The savage had retreated towards cover, and now, in the posture of an animal at bay, stood with his back to the wall of the lighthouse staring from face to face in speechless horror like a man out of his senses from this stupor He was aroused to a more immediate sense of reality by the impact on his cheek of a well-aimed packet of chewing gum. A shock of startling pain, and he was brought awake, awake, and fiercely angry. Go away!
he shouted the ape had spoken there was a burst of laughter and hand clapping good old savage hurrah hurrah and through the babble he heard cries of whip whip the whip Acting on the word suggestion, he seized the bunch of knotted cords from its nail behind the door and shook it at his tormentors. There was a yell of ironical applause. Menacingly, he advanced towards them.
a woman cried out in fear the line wavered at its most immediately threatened point then stiffened again stood firm the consciousness of being in overwhelming force had given these sightseers a courage which the savage had not expected of them. Taken aback, he halted and looked round. Why don't you leave me alone?
there was an almost plaintive note in his anger have a few magnesium salted almonds said the man who if the savage were to advance would be the first to be attacked he held out a packet They're really very good, you know, he added, with a rather nervous smile of propitiation. And the magnesium salts will help to keep you young. The savage ignored the offer.
"'What do you want with me?' he asked, turning from one grinning face to another. "'What do you want with me?' "'The whip!' answered a hundred voices confusedly. Do the whipping stunt! Let's see the whipping stunt! Then, in unison and on a slow, heavy rhythm, We want the whip! shouted a group at the end of the line.
we want the whip others at once took up the cry and the phrase was repeated parrot fashion again and again with an ever-growing volume of sound until by the seventh or eighth reiteration no other word was being spoken we want the whip they were all crying together and in intoxicated by the noise, the unanimity, the sense of rhythmical atonement, they might, it seemed, have gone on for hours, almost indefinitely.
but at about the twenty-fifth repetition the proceedings were startlingly interrupted yet another helicopter had arrived from across the hogsback hung poised above the crowd then dropped within a few yards of where the savage was standing, in the open space between the line of sightseers and the lighthouse. The roar of the air screws momentarily drowned the shouting. Then, as the machine touched the ground,
and the engines were turned off. We want the whip! We want the whip! broke out again in the same loud, insistent monotone. the door of the helicopter opened and out stepped first a fair and ruddy-faced young man then in green velveteen shorts white shirt and jockey cap a young woman at the sight of the young woman the savage started recoiled turned pale the young woman stood smiling at him an uncertain imploring almost abject smile the seconds passed
Her lips moved. She was saying something, but the sound of her voice was covered by the loud, reiterated refrain of the sightseers. We want the whip! We want the whip! the young woman pressed both hands to her left side and on that peach-bright dull beautiful face of hers appeared a strangely incongruous expression of yearning distress her blue eyes seemed to grow larger brighter and suddenly two tears rolled down her cheeks inaudibly she spoke again
Then, with a quick, impassioned gesture, stretched out her arms towards the savage, stepped forward. We want the whip! We want... And all of a sudden... They had what they wanted. Strumpet! The savage had rushed at her like a madman. Fitch you! Like a madman, he was slashing at her with his whip of small cords. Terrified, she had turned to flee, had tripped and fallen in the heather. "'Henry! Henry!' she shouted, but her ruddy-faced companion had bolted out of harm's way behind the helicopter.
With a whoop of delighted excitement the line broke. There was a convergent stampede towards that magnetic centre of attraction. Pain was a fascinating horror. Fry, lechery, fry! Frenzied, the savage slashed again. Hungrily they gathered round, pushing and scrambling like swine about the trough. Oh, the flesh! The savage ground his teeth. This time it was on his shoulders that the whip descended. Kill it! Kill it!
drawn by the fascination of the horror of pain and from within impelled by that habit of co-operation that desire for unanimity and atonement which their conditioning had so ineradicably implanted in them They began to mime the frenzy of his gestures, striking at one another as the savage struck at his own rebellious flesh, or at that plump incarnation of turpitude writhing in the heather at his feet. Kill it! Kill it!
"'Kill it!' the savage went on shouting. Then suddenly somebody started singing, "'Orgy! Porgy!' And in a moment they had all caught up the refrain, and, singing, had begun to dance. Orgy, porgy, round and round and round, beating one another in six-eight time. Orgy!
poor gee it was after midnight when the last of the helicopters took its flight stupefied by soma and exhausted by a long-drawn frenzy of sensuality the savage lay sleeping in the heather the sun was already high when he awoke he lay for a moment blinking in owlish incomprehension at the light then suddenly remembered everything. Oh, my God! My God! He covered his eyes with his hand.
That evening, the swarm of helicopters that came buzzing across the hog's back was a dark cloud ten kilometres long. the description of last night's orgy of atonement had been in all the papers savage called the first arrivals as they alighted from their machine Mr Savage! There was no answer. The door of the lighthouse was ajar. They pushed it open and walked into a shuttered twilight.
Through an archway on the further side of the room, they could see the bottom of the staircase that led up to the higher floors. Just under the crown of the arch dangled a pair of feet. Mr Savage! slowly very slowly like two unhurried compass-needles the feet turn towards the right north north-east east southeast south southwest then paused and after a few seconds turned as unhurriedly back towards the left South-Southwest South-Southeast East
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