Author: Aldous Huxley
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/aldous-huxley/page,158,480199-complete_works_of_aldous_huxley.html
‘What you need,’ the Savage went on, ’is something with tears for a change. Nothing costs 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 egg-shell. 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 V.P.S. treatments compulsory.’
‘V.P.S.?’
‘Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. 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 may happen to-morrow; 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.
Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
Chapter XVIII
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 am 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 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 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 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 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 Wey valley to Godalming, then, over Milford and Witley, proceeded to Haslemere and on through Petersfield towards Portsmouth. Roughly parallel to it, the up-line 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 decided to deflect the up-line 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 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 Zuñi to Awonawilona, now to Jesus and Pookong, 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 to 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 Hog’s Back, from behind whose eastern extremity rose the towers of the seven skyscrapers which constituted Guildford. Seein
g 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 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 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-story 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-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 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 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 synthetic starch 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 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 were 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 water-fowl 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 Mitsima 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 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 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 Delta-Minus land-workers from one of the Puttenham Bokanovsky 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 weal to weal 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.
‘Fordey!’ 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 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, 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 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, 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 — and antennæ 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 wheeze and crackle, by hiccoughs and sudden squeaks. ‘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 di
sconcerting 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. ‘Háni! Sons éso tse-ná!’ 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 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, ‘Benighted 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 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.