Complete Works of Aldous Huxley, page 141
Roses and electric shocks, the khaki of Deltas and a whiff of asafœtida — wedded indissolubly before the child can speak. But wordless conditioning is crude and wholesale; cannot bring home the finer distinctions, cannot inculcate the more complex courses of behaviour. For that there must be words, but words without reason. In brief, hypnopædia.
‘The greatest moralizing and socializing force of all time.’
The students took it down in their little books. Straight from the horse’s mouth.
Once more the Director touched the switch.
‘. . . so frightfully clever,’ the soft, insinuating, indefatigable voice was saying. ‘I’m really awfully glad I’m a Beta, because . . .’
Not so much like drops of water, though water, it is true, can wear holes in the hardest granite; rather, drops of liquid sealing-wax, drops that adhere, incrust, incorporate themselves with what they fall on, till finally the rock is all one scarlet blob.
‘Till at last the child’s mind is these suggestions, and the sum of the suggestions is the child’s mind. And not the child’s mind only. The adult’s mind too — all his life long. The mind that judges and desires and decides — made up of these suggestions. But all these suggestions are our suggestions!’ The Director almost shouted in his triumph. ‘Suggestions from the State.’ He banged the nearest table. ‘It therefore follows . . .’
A noise made him turn round.
‘Oh, Ford!’ he said in another tone, ‘I’ve gone and woken the children.’
Chapter III
OUTSIDE, IN THE garden, it was playtime. Naked in the warm June sunshine, six or seven hundred little boys and girls were running with shrill yells over the lawns, or playing ball games, or squatting silently in twos and threes among the flowering shrubs. The roses were in bloom, two nightingales soliloquized in the boskage, a cuckoo was just going out of tune among the lime trees. The air was drowsy with the murmur of bees and helicopters.
The Director and his students stood for a short time watching a game of Centrifugal Bumble-puppy. Twenty children were grouped in a circle round a chrome-steel tower. A ball thrown up so as to land on the platform at the top of the tower rolled down into the interior, fell on a rapidly revolving disk, was hurled through one or other of the numerous apertures pierced in the cylindrical casing, and had to be caught.
‘Strange,’ mused the Director, as they turned away, ‘strange to think that even in Our Ford’s day most games were played without more apparatus than a ball or two and a few sticks and perhaps a bit of netting. Imagine the folly of allowing people to play elaborate games which do nothing whatever to increase consumption. It’s madness. Nowadays the Controllers won’t approve of any new game unless it can be shown that it requires at least as much apparatus as the most complicated of existing games.’ He interrupted himself.
‘That’s a charming little group,’ he said, pointing.
In a little grassy bay between tall clumps of Mediterranean heather, two children, a little boy of about seven and a little girl who might have been a year older, were playing, very gravely and with all the focussed attention of scientists intent on a labour of discovery, a rudimentary sexual game.
‘Charming, charming!’ the D.H.C. repeated sentimentally.
‘Charming,’ the boys politely agreed. But their smile was rather patronizing. They had put aside similar childish amusements too recently to be able to watch them now without a touch of contempt. Charming? but it was just a pair of kids fooling about; that was all. Just kids.
‘I always think,’ the Director was continuing in the same rather maudlin tone, when he was interrupted by a loud boo-hooing.
From a neighbouring shrubbery emerged a nurse, leading by the hand a small boy, who howled as he went. An anxious-looking little girl trotted at her heels.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the Director.
The nurse shrugged her shoulders. ‘Nothing much,’ she answered. ‘It’s just that this little boy seems rather reluctant to join in the ordinary erotic play. I’d noticed it once or twice before. And now again to-day. He started yelling just now . . .’
‘Honestly,’ put in the anxious-looking little girl, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him or anything. Honestly.’
‘Of course you didn’t, dear,’ said the nurse reassuringly. ‘And so,’ she went on, turning back to the Director, ‘I’m taking him in to see the Assistant Superintendent of Psychology. Just to see if anything’s at all abnormal.’
‘Quite right,’ said the Director. ‘Take him in. You stay here, little girl,’ he added, as the nurse moved away with her still howling charge. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Polly Trotsky.’
‘And a very good name too,’ said the Director. ‘Run away now and see if you can find some other little boy to play with.’
The child scampered off into the bushes and was lost to sight.
‘Exquisite little creature!’ said the Director, looking after her. Then, turning to his students, ‘What I’m going to tell you now,’ he said, ‘may sound incredible. But then, when you’re not accustomed to history, most facts about the past do sound incredible.’
He let out the amazing truth. For a very long period before the time of Our Ford, and even for some generations afterwards, erotic play between children had been regarded as abnormal (there was a roar of laughter); and not only abnormal, actually immoral (no!): and had therefore been rigorously suppressed.
A look of astonished incredulity appeared on the faces of his listeners. Poor little kids not allowed to amuse themselves? They could not believe it.
‘Even adolescents,’ the D.H.C. was saying, ‘even adolescents like yourselves . . .’
‘Not possible!’
‘Barring a little surreptitious auto-erotism and homosexuality — absolutely nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘In most cases, till they were over twenty years old.’
‘Twenty years old?’ echoed the students in a chorus of loud disbelief.
‘Twenty,’ the Director repeated. ‘I told you that you’d find it incredible.’
‘But what happened?’ they asked. ‘What were the results?’
‘The results were terrible.’ A deep resonant voice broke startlingly into the dialogue.
They looked round. On the fringe of the little group stood a stranger — a man of middle height, black-haired, with a hooked nose, full red lips, eyes very piercing and dark. ‘Terrible,’ he repeated.
The D.H.C. had at that moment sat down on one of the steel and rubber benches conveniently scattered through the gardens; but at the sight of the stranger, he sprang to his feet and darted forward, his hands outstretched, smiling with all his teeth, effusive.
‘Controller! What an unexpected pleasure! Boys, what are you thinking of? This is the Controller; this is his fordship, Mustapha Mond.’
In the four thousand rooms of the Centre the four thousand electric clocks simultaneously struck four. Discarnate voices called from the trumpet mouths.
‘Main Day-shift off duty. Second Day-shift take over. Main Day-shift off . . .’
In the lift, on their way up to the changing-rooms, Henry Foster and the Assistant Director of Predestination rather pointedly turned their backs on Bernard Marx from the Psychology Bureau: averted themselves from that unsavoury reputation.
The faint hum and rattle of machinery still stirred the crimson air in the Embryo-Store. Shifts might come and go, one lupus-coloured face give place to another; majestically and for ever the conveyors crept forward with their load of future men and women.
Lenina Crowne walked briskly towards the door.
His fordship Mustapha Mond! The eyes of the saluting students almost popped out of their heads. Mustapha Mond! The Resident Controller for Western Europe! One of the Ten World Controllers. One of the Ten . . . and he sat down on the bench with the D.H.C., he was going to stay, to stay, yes, and actually talk to them . . . straight from the horse’s mouth. Straight from the mouth of Ford himself.
Two shrimp-brown children emerged from a neighbouring shrubbery, stared at them for a moment with large, astonished eyes, then returned to their amusements among the leaves.
‘You all remember,’ said the Controller, in his strong deep voice, ‘you all remember, I suppose, that beautiful and inspired saying of Our Ford’s: History is bunk. History,’ he repeated slowly, ’is bunk.’
He waved his hand; and it was as though, with an invisible feather whisk, he had brushed away a little dust, and the dust was Harappa, was Ur of the Chaldees; some spider-webs, and they were Thebes and Babylon and Cnossos and Mycenae. Whisk, Whisk — and where was Odysseus, where was Job, where were Jupiter and Gotama and Jesus? Whisk — and those specks of antique dirt called Athens and Rome, Jerusalem and the Middle Kingdom — all were gone. Whisk — the place where Italy had been was empty. Whisk, the cathedrals; whisk, whisk, King Lear and the Thoughts of Pascal. Whisk, Passion: whisk, Requiem; whisk, Symphony; whisk . . .
‘Going to the Feelies this evening, Henry?’ enquired the Assistant Predestinator. ‘I hear the new one at the Alhambra is first-rate. There’s a love scene on a bearskin rug; they say it’s marvellous. Every hair of the bear reproduced. The most amazing tactual effects.’
‘That’s why you’re taught no history,’ the Controller was saying. ‘But now the time has come . . .’
The D.H.C. looked at him nervously. There were those strange rumours of old forbidden books hidden in a safe in the Controller’s study. Bibles, poetry — Ford knew what.
Mustapha Mond intercepted his anxious glance and the corners of his red lips twitched ironically.
‘It’s all right, Director,’ he said in a tone of faint derision, ‘I won’t corrupt them.’
The D.H.C. was overwhelmed with confusion.
Those who feel themselves despised do well to look despising. The smile on Bernard Marx’s face was contemptuous. Every hair on the bear indeed!
‘I shall make a point of going,’ said Henry Foster.
Mustapha Mond leaned forward, shook a finger at them. ‘Just try to realize it,’ he said, and his voice sent a strange thrill quivering along their diaphragms. ‘Try to realize what it was like to have a viviparous mother.’
That smutty word again. But none of them dreamed, this time, of smiling.
‘Try to imagine what “living with one’s family” meant.’
They tried; but obviously without the smallest success.
‘And do you know what a “home” was?’
They shook their heads.
From her dim crimson cellar Lenina Crowne shot up seventeen stories, turned to the right as she stepped out of the lift, walked down a long corridor and, opening the door marked Girls’ Dressing-Room, plunged into a deafening chaos of arms and bosoms and underclothing. Torrents of hot water were splashing into or gurgling out of a hundred baths. Rumbling and hissing, eighty vibro-vacuum massage machines were simultaneously kneading and sucking the firm and sunburnt flesh of eighty superb female specimens. Every one was talking at the top of her voice. A Synthetic Music machine was warbling out a super-cornet solo.
‘Hullo, Fanny,’ said Lenina to the young woman who had the pegs and locker next to hers.
Fanny worked in the Bottling Room, and her surname was also Crowne. But as the two thousand million inhabitants of the planet had only ten thousand names between them, the coincidence was not particularly surprising.
Lenina pulled at her zippers — downwards on the jacket, downwards with a double-handed gesture at the two that held trousers, downwards again to loosen her undergarment. Still wearing her shoes and stockings, she walked off towards the bathrooms.
Home, home — a few small rooms, stiflingly over-inhabited by a man, by a periodically teeming woman, by a rabble of boys and girls of all ages. No air, no space; an understerilized prison; darkness, disease, and smells.
(The Controller’s evocation was so vivid that one of the boys, more sensitive than the rest, turned pale at the mere description and was on the point of being sick.)
Lenina got out of the bath, towelled herself dry, took hold of a long flexible tube plugged into the wall, presented the nozzle to her breast, as though she meant to commit suicide, pressed down the trigger. A blast of warmed air dusted her with the finest talcum powder. Eight different scents and eau-de-Cologne were laid on in little taps over the wash-basin. She turned on the third from the left, dabbled herself with chypre and, carrying her shoes and stockings in her hand, went out to see if one of the vibro-vacuum machines were free.
And home was as squalid psychically as physically. Psychically, it was a rabbit hole, a midden, hot with the frictions of tightly packed life, reeking with emotion. What suffocating intimacies, what dangerous, insane, obscene relationships between the members of the family group! Maniacally, the mother brooded over her children (her children) . . . brooded over them like a cat over its kittens; but a cat that could talk, a cat that could say, ‘My baby, my baby,’ over and over again. ‘My baby, and oh, oh, at my breast, the little hands, the hunger, and that unspeakable agonizing pleasure! Till at last my baby sleeps, my baby sleeps with a bubble of white milk at the corner of his mouth. My little baby sleeps . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Mustapha Mond, nodding his head, ‘you may well shudder.’
‘Who are you going out with to-night?’ Lenina asked, returning from the vibro-vac like a pearl illuminated from within, pinkly glowing.
‘Nobody.’
Lenina raised her eyebrows in astonishment.
‘I’ve been feeling rather out of sorts lately,’ Fanny explained. ‘Dr. Wells advised me to have a Pregnancy Substitute.’
‘But, my dear, you’re only nineteen. The first Pregnancy Substitute isn’t compulsory till twenty-one.’
‘I know, dear. But some people are better if they begin earlier. Dr. Wells told me that brunettes with wide pelvises, like me, ought to have their first Pregnancy Substitute at seventeen. So I’m really two years late, not two years early.’ She opened the door of her locker and pointed to the row of boxes and labelled phials on the upper shelf.
‘Syrup of Corpus Luteum.’ Lenina read the names aloud. ‘Ovarin, guaranteed fresh: not to be used after August 1st, a.f. 632. Mammary Gland Extract: to be taken Three Times Daily, Before Meals, with a Little Water. Placentin: 5cc to be Injected Intravenally every Third Day . . . Ugh!’ Lenina shuddered. ‘How I loathe intravenals, don’t you?’
‘Yes. But when they do one good . . .’ Fanny was a particularly sensible girl.
Our Ford — or Our Freud, as, for some inscrutable reason, he chose to call himself whenever he spoke of psychological matters — Our Freud had been the first to reveal the appalling dangers of family life. The world was full of fathers — was therefore full of misery; full of mothers — therefore of every kind of perversion from sadism to chastity; full of brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts — full of madness and suicide.
‘And yet, among the savages of Samoa, in certain islands off the coast of New Guinea . . .’
The tropical sunshine lay like warm honey on the naked bodies of children tumbling promiscuously among the hibiscus blossoms. Home was in any one of twenty palm-thatched houses. In the Trobriands conception was the work of ancestral ghosts; nobody had ever heard of a father.
‘Extremes,’ said the Controller, ‘meet. For the good reason that they were made to meet.’
‘Dr. Wells says that a three months’ Pregnancy Substitute now will make all the difference to my health for the next three or four years.’
‘Well, I hope he’s right,’ said Lenina. ‘But, Fanny, do you really mean to say that for the next three months you’re not supposed to . . .’
‘Oh no, dear. Only for a week or two, that’s all. I shall spend the evening at the Club playing Musical Bridge. I suppose you’re going out?’
Lenina nodded.
‘Who with?’
‘Henry Foster.’
‘Again?’ Fanny’s kind, rather moon-like face took on an incongruous expression of pained and disapproving astonishment. ‘Do you mean to tell me you’re still going out with Henry Foster?’
Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. But there were also husbands, wives, lovers. There were also monogamy and romance.
‘Though you probably don’t know what those are,’ said Mustapha Mond.
They shook their heads.
Family, monogamy, romance. Everywhere exclusiveness, everywhere a focussing of interest, a narrow channelling of impulse and energy.
‘But every one belongs to every one else,’ he concluded, citing the hypnopædic proverb.
The students nodded, emphatically agreeing with a statement which upwards of sixty-two thousand repetitions in the dark had made them accept, not merely as true, but as axiomatic, self-evident, utterly indisputable.
‘But after all,’ Lenina was protesting, ‘it’s only about four months now since I’ve been having Henry.’
‘Only four months! I like that. And what’s more,’ Fanny went on, pointing an accusing finger, ‘there’s been nobody else except Henry all that time. Has there?’
Lenina blushed scarlet; but her eyes, the tone of her voice remained defiant. ‘No, there hasn’t been any one else,’ she answered almost truculently. ‘And I jolly well don’t see why there should have been.’
‘Oh, she jolly well doesn’t see why there should have been,’ Fanny repeated, as though to an invisible listener behind Lenina’s left shoulder. Then, with a sudden change of tone, ‘But seriously,’ she said, ‘I really do think you ought to be careful. It’s such horribly bad form to go on and on like this with one man. At forty, or thirty-five, it wouldn’t be so bad. But at your age, Lenina! No, it really won’t do. And you know how strongly the D.H.C. objects to anything intense or long-drawn. Four months of Henry Foster, without having another man — why, he’d be furious if he knew . . .’
