Antic Hay, Aldous Huxley [whitelam books .txt] 📗

Hand in hand they walked down towards the valley of the heaths.

“I don’t know why you should be forgiving me,” she said, laughing. “It seems to me that I ought to be doing the forgiving. After yesterday.” She shook her head at him. “You made me so wretched.”

“Ah, but you’ve already done your forgiving.”

“You seem to take it very much for granted,” said Emily. “Don’t be too sure.”

“But I am sure,” said Gumbril. “I can see⁠—”

Emily laughed again. “I feel happy,” she declared.

“So do I.”

“How green the grass is!”

Green, green⁠—after these long damp months it glowed in the sunlight, as though it were lighted from inside.

“And the trees!”

The pale, high, clot-polled trees of the English spring; the dark, symmetrical pine trees, islanded here and there on the lawns, each with its own separate profile against the sky and its own shadow, impenetrably dark or freckled with moving lights, on the grass at its feet.

They walked on in silence. Gumbril took off his hat, breathed the soft air that smelt of the greenness of the garden.

“There are quiet places also in the mind,” he said meditatively. “But we build bandstands and factories on them. Deliberately⁠—to put a stop to the quietness. We don’t like the quietness. All the thoughts, all the preoccupations in my head⁠—round and round, continually.” He made a circular motion with his hand. “And the jazz bands, the music-hall songs, the boys shouting the news. What’s it for? what’s it all for? To put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at any cost it isn’t there. Ah, but it is; it is there, in spite of everything, at the back of everything. Lying awake at night, sometimes⁠—not restlessly, but serenely, waiting for sleep⁠—the quiet reestablishes itself, piece by piece; all the broken bits, all the fragments of it we’ve been so busily dispersing all day long. It reestablishes itself, an inward quiet, like this outward quiet of grass and trees. It fills one, it grows⁠—a crystal quiet, a growing, expanding crystal. It grows, it becomes more perfect; it is beautiful and terrifying, yes, terrifying as well as beautiful. For one’s alone in the crystal and there’s no support from outside, there’s nothing external and important, nothing external and trivial to pull oneself up by or to stand on, superiorly, contemptuously, so that one can look down. There’s nothing to laugh at or feel enthusiastic about. But the quiet grows and grows. Beautifully and unbearably. And at last you are conscious of something approaching; it is almost a faint sound of footsteps. Something inexpressibly lovely and wonderful advances through the crystal, nearer, nearer. And, oh, inexpressibly terrifying. For if it were to touch you, if it were to seize and engulf you, you’d die; all the regular, habitual, daily part of you would die. There would be an end of bandstands and whizzing factories, and one would have to begin living arduously in the quiet, arduously in some strange, unheard-of manner. Nearer, nearer come the steps; but one can’t face the advancing thing. One daren’t. It’s too terrifying, it’s too painful to die. Quickly, before it is too late, start the factory wheels, bang the drum, blow up the saxophone. Think of the women you’d like to sleep with, the schemes for making money, the gossip about your friends, the last outrage of the politicians. Anything for a diversion. Break the silence, smash the crystal to pieces. There, it lies in bits; it is easily broken, hard to build up and easy to break. And the steps? Ah, those have taken themselves off, double quick. Double quick, they were gone at the first flawing of the crystal. And by this time the lovely and terrifying thing is three infinities away, at least. And you lie tranquilly on your bed, thinking of what you’d do if you had ten thousand pounds, and of all the fornications you’ll never commit.” He thought of Rosie’s pink underclothes.

“You make things very complicated,” she said, after a silence.

Gumbril spread out his greatcoat on a green bank and they sat down. Leaning back, his hands under his head, he watched her sitting there beside him. She had taken off her hat; there was a stir of wind in those childish curls, and at the nape, at the temples, where the hair had sleaved out thin and fine, the sunlight made little misty haloes of gold. Her hands clasped round her knees, she sat quite still, looking out across the green expanses, at the trees, at the white clouds on the horizon. There was quiet in her mind, he thought. She was native to that crystal world; for her, the steps came comfortingly through the silence and the lovely thing brought with it no terrors. It was all so easy for her and simple.

Ah, so simple, so simple; like the Hire Purchase System on which Rosie had bought her pink bed. And how simple it was, too, to puddle clear waters and unpetal every flower!⁠—every wild flower, by God! one ever passed in a governess cart at the heels of a barrel-bellied pony. How simple to spit on the floors of churches! Si prega di non sputare. Simple to kick one’s legs and enjoy oneself⁠—dutifully⁠—in pink underclothing. Perfectly simple.

“It’s like the Arietta, don’t you think?” said Emily suddenly, “the Arietta of Op. 111.” And she hummed the first bars of the air. “Don’t you feel it’s like that?”

“What’s like that?”

“Everything,” said Emily. “Today, I mean. You and me. These gardens⁠—” And she went on humming.

Gumbril shook his head. “Too simple for me,” he said.

Emily laughed. “Ah, but then think how impossible it gets a little farther on.” She agitated her fingers wildly, as though she were trying to play the impossible passages. “It begins easily for the sake of poor imbeciles like me; but it goes on, it goes on, more and more fully and subtly and abstrusely and embracingly. But