Author: Aldous Huxley
Category: Literature
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Philip nodded. ‘They do step on it all right,’ he said. ‘They get a move on. Progress. But as you say, it’s probably in the direction of the bottomless pit.’
‘And the only thing the reformers can find to talk about is the shape, colour and steering arrangements of the vehicle. Can’t the imbeciles see that it’s the direction that matters, that we’re entirely on the wrong road and ought to go back – preferably on foot, without the stinking machine?’
‘You may be right,’ said Philip. ‘But the trouble is that, given our existing world, you can’t go back, you can’t scrap the machine. That is, you can’t do it unless you’re prepared to kill off about half the human race. Industrialism made possible the doubling of the world’s population in a hundred years. If you want to get rid of industrialism, you’ve got to get back to where you started. That’s to say, you’ve got to slaughter half the existing number of men and women. Which might, sub specie aeternitatis or merely historiae, be an excellent thing. But hardly a matter of practical politics.’
‘Not at the moment,’ Rampion agreed. ‘But the next war and the next revolution will make it only too practical.’
‘Possibly. But one shouldn’t count on wars and revolutions. Because, if you count on them happening, they certainly will happen.’
‘They’ll happen,’ said Rampion, ‘whether you count on them or not. Industrial progress means over-production, means the need for getting new markets, means international rivalry, means war. And mechanical progress means more specialization and standardization of work, means more ready-made and unindividual amusements, means diminution of initiative and creativeness, means more intellectualism and the progressive atrophy of all the vital and fundamental things in human nature, means increased boredom and restlessness, means finally a kind of individual madness that can only result in social revolution. Count on them or not, wars and revolutions are inevitable, if things are allowed to go on as they are at present.’
‘So the problem will solve itself,’ said Philip.
‘Only by destroying itself. When humanity’s destroyed, obviously there’ll be no more problem. But it seems a poor sort of solution. I believe there may be another, even within the framework of the present system. A temporary one while the system’s being modified in the direction of a permanent solution. The root of the evil’s in the individual psychology; so it’s there, in the individual psychology, that you’d have to begin. The first step would be to make people live dualistically, in two compartments. In one compartment as industrialized workers, in the other as human beings. As idiots and machines for eight hours out of every twenty-four and real human beings for the rest.’
‘Don’t they do that already?’
‘Of course they don’t. They live as idiots and machines all the time, at work and in their leisure. Like idiots and machines, but imagining they’re living like civilized humans, even like gods. The first thing to do is to make them admit that they are idiots and machines during working hours. “Our civilization being what it is,” this is what you’ll have to say to them, “you’ve got to spend eight hours out of every twenty-four as a mixture between an imbecile and a sewing machine. It’s very disagreeable, I know. It’s humiliating and disgusting. But there you are. You’ve got to do it; otherwise the whole fabric of our world will fall to bits and we’ll all starve. Do the job, then, idiotically and mechanically; and spend your leisure hours in being a real complete man or woman, as the case may be. Don’t mix the two lives together; keep the bulkheads watertight between them. The genuine human life in your leisure hours is the real thing. The other’s just a dirty job that’s got to be done. And never forget that it is dirty and, except in so far as it keeps you fed and society intact, utterly unimportant, utterly irrelevant to the real human life. Don’t be deceived by the canting rogues who talk of the sanctity of labour and the Christian Service, that business men do their fellows. It’s all lies. Your work’s just a nasty, dirty job, made unfortunately necessary by the folly of your ancestors. They piled up a mountain of garbage and you’ve got to go on digging it away, for fear it might stink you to death, dig for dear life, while cursing the memory of the maniacs who made all the dirty work for you to do. But don’t try to cheer yourself up by pretending the nasty mechanical job is a noble one. It isn’t; and the only result of saying and believing that it is, will be to lower your humanity to the level of the dirty work. If you believe in business as Service and the sanctity of labour, you’ll merely turn yourself into a mechanical idiot for twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four. Admit it’s dirty, hold your nose and do it for eight hours and then concentrate on being a real human being in your leisure. A real complete human being. Not a newspaper reader, not a jazzer, not a radio fan. The industrialists who purvey standardized ready-made amusements to the masses are doing their best to make you as much of a mechanical imbecile in your leisure as in your hours of work. But don’t let them. Make the effort of being human.” That’s what you’ve got to say to people; that’s the lesson you’ve got to teach the young. You’ve got to persuade everybody that all this grand industrial civilization is just a bad smell and that the real, significant life can only be lived apart from it. It’ll be a very long time before decent living and industrial smell can be reconciled. Perhaps, indeed, they’re irreconcilable. It remains to be seen. In the meantime, at any rate, we must shovel the garbage and bear the smell stoically, and in the intervals try to lead the real human life.’
‘It’s a good programme,’ said Philip. ‘But I don’t see you winning many votes on it at the next election.’
‘That’s the trouble.’ Rampion frowned. ‘One would have them all against one. For the only thing they’re all agreed on – Tories, Liberals, Socialists, Bolsheviks – is the intrinsic excellence of the industrial stink and the necessity of standardizing and specializing every trace of genuine manhood or womanhood out of the human race. And we’re expected to take an interest in politics. Well, well.’ He shook his head. ‘Let’s think about something pleasanter. Look, I want to show you this picture.’ He crossed the studio and pulled out one from a stack of canvases leaning against the wall. ‘There,’ he said when he had set it up on an easel. Seated on the crest of a grassy bank, where she formed the apex of the pyramidal composition, a naked woman was suckling a child. Below and in front of her to the left crouched a man, his bare back turned to the spectator, and in the corresponding position on the right stood a little boy. The crouching man was playing with a couple of tiny leopard cubs that occupied the centre of the picture, a little below the seated mother’s feet; the little boy looked on. Close behind the woman and filling almost the whole of the upper part of the picture, stood a cow, its head slightly averted, ruminating. The woman’s head and shoulder stood out pale against its dun flank.
‘It’s a picture I like particularly,’ said Rampion after a little silence. ‘The flesh is good. Don’t you think? Has a bloom to it, a living quality. By God, how marvellously your father-in-law could paint flesh in the open air! Amazing! Nobody’s done it better. Not even Renoir. I wish I had his gifts. But this is all right, you know,’ he went on, turning back to the picture. ‘Quite good, really. And there are other qualities. I feel I’ve managed to get the living relationship of the figures to each other and the rest of the world. The cow, for example. It’s turned away, it’s unaware of the human scene. But somehow you feel it’s happily in touch with the humans in some milky, cud-chewing, bovine way. And the humans are in touch with it. And also in touch with the leopards, but in a quite different way – a way corresponding to the quick leopardy way the cubs are in touch with them. Yes, I like it.’
‘So do I,’ said Philip. ‘It’s something to put over against the industrial stink.’ He laughed. ‘You ought to paint a companion picture of life in the civilized world. The woman in a mackintosh, leaning against a giant Bovril bottle and feeding her baby with Glaxo. The bank covered with asphalt. The man dressed in a five-guinea suit for fifty shillings, squatting
down to play with a wireless set. And the little boy, pimpled and with rickets, looking interestedly on.’
‘And the whole thing painted in the cubist manner,’ said Rampion; ‘so as to make quite sure that there should be no life in it whatever. Nothing like modern art for sterilizing the life out of things. Carbolic acid isn’t in it.’
CHAPTER XXIV
LOCAL GOVERNMENT AMONG the Indians under the Maurya emperors continued, week after week, to necessitate Mr Quarles’s attendance at the British Museum for at least two full days in every seven.
‘I had no idyah,’ he explained, ‘that there was so much available matyahrial.’
Gladys, meanwhile, was discovering that she had made a mistake. The good time which she had looked forward to enjoying under Mr Quarles’s protection was no better than the good time she might have enjoyed with ‘boys’ hardly richer than herself. Mr Quarles, it seemed, was not prepared to pay for the luxury of feeling superior. He wanted to be a great man, but for very little money. His excuse for the cheap restaurant and the cheap seats at the theatre was always the necessity of secrecy. It would never do for him to be seen by an acquaintance in Gladys’s company; and since his acquaintances belonged to the world which is carried, replete, from the Berkeley to the stalls of the Gaiety, Mr Quarles and Gladys ate at a Corner House and looked at the play remotely from the Upper Circle. Such was the official explanation of the very unprincely quality of Sidney’s treats. The real explanation was not the need for secrecy, but Sidney’s native reluctance to part with hard cash. For though large sums meant little to him, small ones meant a great deal. When it was a matter of ‘improving the estate’, he would lightheartedly sign away hundreds, even thousands of pounds. But when it was a question of parting with two or three half-crowns to give his mistress a better seat at the play or a more palatable meal, a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates, he became at once the most economical of men. His avarice was at the root of a certain curious puritanism, which tinged his opinions about almost all pleasures and amusements other than the strictly sexual. Dining with a seduced work-girl in the cheap obscurity of a Soho eating-hell, he would (with all the passion of a Milton reproving the sons of Belial, all the earnestness of a Wordsworth advocating low living and high thinking) denounce the hoggish guzzlers at the Carlton, the gluttons at the Ritz, who in the midst of London’s serried miseries would carelessly spend a farm labourer’s monthly wage on tête-à-tête dinner. Thus his inexpensive preferences in the matter of restaurants and theatre seats were made to assume a high moral as well as a merely diplomatic character. Seduced by an ageing libertine, Mr Quarles’s mistresses were surprised to find themselves dining with a Hebrew prophet, and taking their amusements with a disciple of Cato or of Calvin.
‘One would think you were a blessed saint to hear you talk,’ said Gladys sarcastically, when he had paused for breath in the midst of one of his Corner House denunciations of the extravagant and greedy. ‘You!’ Her laughter was mockingly savage.
Mr Quarles was disconcerted. He was used to being listened to respectfully, as an Olympian. Gladys’s tone was ribald and rebellious; he didn’t like it; it even alarmed him.
He raised his chin with dignity and fired a dropping shot of rebuke upon her head. ‘It isn’t a question of myah personalities,’ he pronounced. ‘It’s a question of general principles.’
‘I can’t see any difference,’ retorted Gladys, abolishing at one stroke all the solemn pretensions of all the philosophers and moralists, all the religious leaders and reformers and Utopia makers from the beginning of human time.
What exasperated Gladys most was the fact that even in the world of the Maison Lyons and cheap seats, Mr Quarles did not abandon his Olympian pretensions and his Olympian manners. His indignation, when one evening there was a crowd on the stairs leading to the Upper Circle was loud and righteous. ‘A ryahl scandal!’ he called it.
‘One would think you’d taken the royal box,’ said Gladys sarcastically.
And when, at a tea-shop, he complained that the one-and-four-penny slice of salmon tasted as though it had come from British Columbia rather than from Scotland, she advised him to write to The Times about it. The discovery tickled her fancy and, after that, she was always ironically telling him to write to The Times. Did he complain, a noble and disillusioned philosopher, of the shallowness of politicians and the sordid triviality of political life, Gladys bade him write to The Times. He was eloquent about iniquitous Mrs Grundy and English illiberality; let him write to The Times. It was a ryahl scandal that neither Sir Edward Grey nor Lloyd George should have been able to speak French; The Times again was indicated. Mr Quarles was hurt and outraged. Nothing like this had ever happened before. In the company of his other mistresses the consciousness of his superiority had been a serene happiness. They had worshipped and admired; he had felt himself a god. And during the first days Gladys too had seemed a worshipper. But coming to pray, she had stayed to mock. His spiritual happiness was ruined. If it had not been for the bodily solace which the species in her provided, Mr Quarles would have quickly exhausted the subject of local self-government under the Mauryas and stayed at home. But there was in Gladys a more than usually large admixture of undifferentiated species. It was too much for Mr Quarles. The derisive individual in her pained and repelled him; but the attraction of what was generic, of the whole feminine species, the entire sex, was stronger than that individual repulsion. In spite of her mockery, Mr Quarles returned. The claims of the Indians became increasingly peremptory.
Realizing her power, Gladys began to withhold what he desired. Perhaps he could be blackmailed into the generosity which it was not in his nature to display spontaneously. Returning from a very inexpensive evening at Lyons’ and the pictures, she pushed him angrily away when, in the taxi, he attempted the usual endearments.
‘Can’t you leave me in peace?’ she snapped. And a moment later, ‘Tell the driver to go to my place first and drop me.’
‘But, my dyah child!’ Mr Quarles protested. Hadn’t she promised to come back with him?
‘I’ve changed my mind. Tell the driver.’
The thought that, after three days of fervid anticipation, he would have to pass the evening in solitude was agonizing. ‘But, Gladys, my darling …’
‘Tell the driver.’
‘But it’s ryahly too cruel; you’re too unkind.’
‘Better write to The Times about it,’ was all her answer. ‘I’ll tell the driver myself.’
After a night of insomnia and suffering Mr Quarles went out as soon as the shops were open and bought a fourteen-guinea wrist watch.
The advertisement was for a dentifrice. But as the picture represented two fox-trotting young people showing their teeth at one another in an amorous and pearly smile and as the word began with a D, little Phil unhesitatingly read ‘dancing’.
His father laughed. ‘You old humbug!’ he said. ‘I thought you said you could read.’
‘But they are dancing,’ the child protested.
‘Yes, but that isn’t what the word says. Try again.’ He pointed.
Little Phil glanced again at the impossible word and took a long look at the picture. But the fox-trotting couple gave him no help. ‘Dynamo,’ he said at last in desperation. It was the only other word beginning with a D that he could think of at the moment.
‘Or why not dinosaurus, while you’re about it?’ mocked his father. ‘Or dolicocephalous? Or dicotyledon?’ Little Phil was deeply offended; he could not bear to be laughed at. ‘Try again. Try to read it this time. Don’t guess.’
Little Phil turned his head away. ‘It bores me,’ he said. His vanity made him reluctant to attempt what he could not achieve successfully. Miss Fulkes, who believed in teaching by rational persuasion and with the reasoned consent of the taught (she was still very young), had lectured him on his own psychology, in the hope that, once he had realized his defects, he would mend them. ‘You’ve got the wrong sort of pride,’ she had told him. ‘You�
��re not ashamed of being a dunce and not knowing things. But you are ashamed of making mistakes. You’d rather not do a thing at all than do it badly. That’s quite wrong.’ Little Phil would nod his head and say ‘Yes, Miss Fulkes’ in the most rational and understanding way imaginable. But he continued to prefer doing things not at all to doing them with difficulty and badly. ‘It bores me,’ he repeated. ‘But would you like me to make you a drawing?’ he suggested, turning back to his father with a captivating smile. He was always ready to draw; he drew well.
‘No thanks. I’d like you to read,’ said Philip.
‘But it bores me.’
‘Never mind. You must try.’
‘But I don’t want to try.’
‘But I want you to. Try.’
Little Phil burst into tears. Tears, he knew, were an irresistible weapon. And, sure enough, they proved their value yet once more.
Elinor looked up from where she was sitting, dissociated, book in hand, at the other end of the room. ‘Don’t make him cry,’ she called. ‘It’s so bad for him.’
Philip shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you imagine that’s the way to educate a child …’ he said with a bitterness that the occasion did not justify, a bitterness gradually accumulated during the past weeks of silence and distant hostility, of self-questioning and ineffective self-reproach, and finding now an almost irrelevant expression.