【有声英语文学名著】美丽新世界（18a）

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by Aldous Huxley

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 Savage¹ emerged.

"I say," Helmholtz exclaimed solicitously², "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 defiled³. 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 am purified," said the Savage. "I drank some mustard and warm water."

The others stared at him in astonishment⁴. "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 good-bye," he went on in another tone. "We're off to-morrow morning."

"Yes, we're off to-morrow," said Bernard on whose face the Savage remarked a new expression of determined⁵ 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 say 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 to-morrow too."

"But where?" the others asked in unison⁶.

The Savage shrugged⁷ his shoulders. "Anywhere. I don't care. So long as I can be alone."

From Guildford the down-line followed the Wey valley to Godalming, then, over Milford and Witley, proceeded to Haslemere and on through Petersfield towards Portsmouth. Roughly parallel to it, the upline passed over Worplesden, Tongham, Puttenham, Elstead and Grayshott. Between the Hog's Back 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 flyers-particularly at night and when they had taken half a gramme too much. There had been accidents. Serious ones. It had been decided⁹ to deflect¹⁰ the upline a few kilometres to the west. Between Grayshott and Tongham four abandoned air-lighthouses marked the course of the old Portsmouth-to-London road. The skies above them were silent and deserted¹¹. It was over Selborne, Bordon and Farnham that the helicopters now ceaselessly hummed and roared.

The Savage had chosen as his hermitage the old light-house which stood on the crest¹² 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 luxurious¹⁴. He pacified¹⁵ his conscience by promising¹⁶ himself a compensatingly harder self-discipline, purifications the more complete and thorough. His first night in the hermitage was, deliberately¹⁷, a sleepless¹⁸ 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 Awonawilona, now to Jesus and Pookong, now to his own guardian¹⁹ 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 clenched²⁰ 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; yet, 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 to the incarnation of a divine being. But who was he to be pampered²¹ 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 filthy²³ sty, some blind hole in the ground. Stiff and still aching after his long night of pain, but for that very reason inwardly reassured²⁴, he climbed up to the platform of his tower, he looked out over the bright sunrise world which he had regained²⁵ the right to inhabit. On the north the view was bounded by the long chalk ridge²⁶ of the Hog's Back, from behind whose eastern extremity²⁷ rose the towers of the seven skyscrapers²⁸ which constituted Guildford. Seeing them, the Savage made a grimace²⁹; but he was to become reconciled to them in course of time; for at night they twinkled gaily³⁰ with geometrical constellations³¹, or else, flood-lighted, pointed³² their luminous³³ fingers (with a gesture whose significance nobody in England but the Savage now understood) solemnly towards the plumbless mysteries of heaven.

In the valley which separated the Hog's Back from the sandy hill on which the lighthouse stood, Puttenham was a modest little village nine stories high, with silos, a poultry³⁴ 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-story tower of Elstead. Dim in the hazy³⁵ 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 clumps³⁷ of Scotch³⁸ 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 solitude³⁹! 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-T Tower; but the hills of Malpais were hardly more deserted than this Surrey heath. The crowds that daily left London, left it only to play Electro-magnetic Golf or Tennis. Puttenham possessed⁴⁰ 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 viscose-woollen 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 kilogrammes of wheat flour. "No, not synthetic⁴¹ starch⁴² and cotton-waste flour-substitute," he had insisted. "Even though it is more nourishing." But when it came to pan-glandular biscuits and vitaminized beef-surrogate, he had not been able to resist the shopman's persuasion⁴³. Looking at the tins now, he bitterly reproached himself for his weakness. Loathesome civilized¹³ stuff! He had made up his mind that he would never eat it, even if he were starving. "That'll teach them," he thought vindictively⁴⁴. 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 shafts⁴⁵, 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 Mit-sima had taught him, until he had a stave of his own height, stiff at the thickened 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 whittling⁴⁶ the stave into shape, when he realized with a start that he was singing-s/ng/'ng/ 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 filth²² of civilized life; it was to be purified and made good; it was actively⁴⁷ to make amends⁴⁸. 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 loathsome⁴⁹ twins, swarming⁵⁰ like lice across the mystery of her death, insulting, with their presence, not merely his own grief and repentance⁵¹, but the very gods themselves. He had sworn to remember, he had sworn unceasingly to make amends. And there was he, 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 Delta⁵²-Minus landworkers from one of the Put-tenham Bokanovsky Groups happened to be driving to Elstead and, at the top of the hill, were astonished to see a young man standing⁵³ Outside the abandoned lighthouse stripped to the waist and hitting himself with a whip of knotted cords. His back was horizontally streaked⁵⁴ with crimson⁵⁵, and from weal to weal ran thin trickles⁵⁶ 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 ...

"Ford⁸!" whispered the driver. And his twins were of the same opinion.

"Fordey!" they said.

Three days later, like turkey buzzards settling on a corpse⁵⁷, 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 whittled⁵⁸ and dried, tipped with sharp nails, carefully nocked. He had made a raid one night on the Puttenham poultry farm, and now had feathers enough to equip a whole armoury. 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 am the representative of The Hourly Radio."

Startled as though by the bite of a snake, the Savage sprang to his feet, scattering⁵⁹ 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 aluminum⁶⁰ stove-pipe hat in which he carried his wireless⁶¹ receiver and transmitter. "Excuse my 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, scowling⁶². 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 buckled⁶³ round his waist; plugged them simultaneously⁶⁴ into the sides of his aluminum hat; touched a spring on the crown-and antennae⁶⁵ 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 there, 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 wheeze⁶⁶ and cackle, by hiccoughs and sudden squeaks⁶⁷. "Hullo," he said to the microphone, "hullo, hullo ..." A bell suddenly rang inside his hat. "Is that you, Edzel? 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, Edzel!) 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 then something about Civilization. You know the sort of stuff. 'What I think of the Civilized 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. "Hani! Sons eso tse-na!" And seizing the reporter by the shoulder, he spun⁶⁸ him round (the young man revealed himself invitingly⁶⁹ well-covered), aimed and, with all the force and accuracy of a champion foot-and-mouth-baller, delivered a most prodigious⁷⁰ 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 luncheon⁷¹.

Undeterred by that cautionary bruise⁷² on their colleague's 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, "Benighted⁷³ fool!" shouted the man from The Fordian Science Monitor, "why don't you take soma?"

"Get away!" The Savage shook his fist.

The other retreated a few steps then turned round again. "Evil's an unreality if you take a couple of grammes."

"Kohakwa iyathtokyai!"The tone was menacingly derisive⁷⁴.

"Pain's a delusion⁷⁵."

"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 hovered⁷⁶ inquisitively⁷⁷ round the tower. He shot an arrow into the importunately⁷⁸ nearest of them. It pierced the aluminum floor of the cabin; there was a shrill⁷⁹ yell, and the machine went rocketing up into the air with all the acceleration⁸⁰ that its super-charger could give it. The others, in future, kept their distance respectfully. Ignoring their tiresome⁸¹ humming (he likened himself in his imagination to one of the suitors of the Maiden⁸² of Matsaki, unmoved and persistent⁸³ 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 larks⁸⁴, silent.

The weather was breathlessly hot, there was thunder in the air. He had dug all the morning and was resting, stretched out along the floor. And suddenly the thought of Lenina was a real presence, naked and tangible⁸⁵, saying "Sweet!" and "Put your arms round me!"-in shoes and socks, perfumed. Impudent⁸⁶ strumpet! But oh, oh, her arms round his neck, the lifting of her breasts, her mouth! Eternity⁸⁷ 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 the heath stood a clump³⁶ of hoary⁸⁸ juniper bushes. He flung himself against them, he embraced, not the smooth body of his desires, but an armful of green spikes⁸⁹. Sharp, with a thousand points, they pricked⁹⁰ 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 wincing⁹¹ flesh was aware of her, unescapably real. "Sweet, sweet ... And if you wanted me too, why didn't you ..."

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