though they had seen enough, sank slowly down through their hatchways, out of
sight, into the nether world.
Lenina was still sobbing. "Too awful," she kept repeating, and all Bernard's
consolations were in vain. "Too awful! That blood!" She shuddered. "Oh, I wish I had
my soma."
There was the sound of feet in the inner room.
Lenina did not move, but sat with her face in her hands, unseeing, apart. Only
Bernard turned round.
The dress of the young man who now stepped out on to the terrace was Indian; but
his plaited hair was straw-coloured, his eyes a pale blue, and his skin a white skin,
bronzed.
"Hullo. Good-morrow," said the stranger, in faultless but peculiar English. "You're
civilized, aren't you? You come from the Other Place, outside the Reservation?"
"Who on earth … ?" Bernard began in astonishment.
The young man sighed and shook his head. "A most unhappy gentleman." And,
pointing to the bloodstains in the centre of the square, "Do you see that damned
spot?" he asked in a voice that trembled with emotion.
"A gramme is better than a damn," said Lenina mechanically from behind her
hands. "I wish I had my soma!"
"I ought to have been there," the young man went on. "Why wouldn't they let me
be the sacrifice? I'd have gone round ten times–twelve, fifteen. Palowhtiwa only got
as far as seven. They could have had twice as much blood from me. The
multitudinous seas incarnadine." He flung out his arms in a lavish gesture; then,
despairingly, let them fall again. "But they wouldn't let me. They disliked me for my
complexion. It's always been like that. Always." Tears stood in the young man's
eyes; he was ashamed and turned away.
Astonishment made Lenina forget the deprivation of soma. She uncovered her face
and, for the first time, looked at the stranger. "Do you mean to say that you wanted
to be hit with that whip?"
Still averted from her, the young man made a sign of affirmation. "For the sake of
the pueblo–to make the rain come and the corn grow. And to please Pookong and
Jesus. And then to show that I can bear pain without crying out. Yes," and his voice
suddenly took on a new resonance, he turned with a proud squaring of the
shoulders, a proud, defiant lifting of the chin "to show that I'm a man … Oh!" He
gave a gasp and was silent, gaping. He had seen, for the first time in his life, the
face of a girl whose cheeks were not the colour of chocolate or dogskin, whose hair
was auburn and permanently waved, and whose expression (amazing novelty!) was
one of benevolent interest. Lenina was smiling at him; such a nice-looking boy, she
was thinking, and a really beautiful body. The blood rushed up into the young
man's face; he dropped his eyes, raised them again for a moment only to find her
still smiling at him, and was so much overcome that he had to turn away and
pretend to be looking very hard at something on the other side of the square.
Bernard's questions made a diversion. Who? How? When? From where? Keeping his
eyes fixed on Bernard's face (for so passionately did he long to see Lenina smiling
that he simply dared not look at her), the young man tried to explain himself. Linda
and he–Linda was his mother (the word made Lenina look uncomfortable)–were
strangers in the Reservation. Linda had come from the Other Place long ago, before
he was born, with a man who was his father. (Bernard pricked up his ears.) She had
gone walking alone in those mountains over there to the North, had fallen down a
steep place and hurt her head. ("Go on, go on," said Bernard excitedly.) Some
hunters from Malpais had found her and brought her to the pueblo. As for the man
who was his father, Linda had never seen him again. His name was Tomakin. (Yes,
"Thomas" was the D.H.C.'s first name.) He must have flown away, back to the Other
Place, away without her–a bad, unkind, unnatural man.
"And so I was born in Malpais," he concluded. "In Malpais." And he shook his head.
The squalor of that little house on the outskirts of the pueblo!
A space of dust and rubbish separated it from the village. Two famine-stricken dogs
were nosing obscenely in the garbage at its door. Inside, when they entered, the
twilight stank and was loud with flies.
"Linda!" the young man called.
From the inner room a rather hoarse female voice said, "Coming."
They waited. In bowls on the floor were the remains of a meal, perhaps of several
meals.
The door opened. A very stout blonde squaw stepped across the threshold and
stood looking at the strangers staring incredulously, her mouth open. Lenina
noticed with disgust that two of the front teeth were missing. And the colour of the
ones that remained … She shuddered. It was worse than the old man. So fat. And
all the lines in her face, the flabbiness, the wrinkles. And the sagging cheeks, with
those purplish blotches. And the red veins on her nose, the bloodshot eyes. And
that neck–that neck; and the blanket she wore over her head–ragged and filthy.
And under the brown sack-shaped tunic those enormous breasts, the bulge of the
stomach, the hips. Oh, much worse than the old man, much worse! And suddenly
the creature burst out in a torrent of speech, rushed at her with outstretched arms
and–Ford! Ford! it was too revolting, in another moment she'd be sick–pressed her
against the bulge, the bosom, and began to kiss her. Ford! to kiss, slobberingly,
and smelt too horrible, obviously never had a bath, and simply reeked of that
beastly stuff that was put into Delta and Epsilon bottles (no, it wasn't true about
Bernard), positively stank of alcohol. She broke away as quickly as she could.
A blubbered and distorted face confronted her; the creature was crying.
"Oh, my dear, my dear." The torrent of words flowed sobbingly. "If you knew how
glad–after all these years! A civilized face. Yes, and civilized clothes. Because I
thought I should never see a piece of real acetate silk again." She fingered the
sleeve of Lenina's shirt. The nails were black. "And those adorable viscose
velveteen shorts! Do you know, dear, I've still got my old clothes, the ones I came
in, put away in a box. I'll show them you afterwards. Though, of course, the acetate
has all gone into holes. But such a lovely white bandolier–though I must say your
green morocco is even lovelier. Not that it did me much good, that bandolier." Her
tears began to flow again. "I suppose John told you. What I had to suffer–and not a
gramme of soma to be had. Only a drink of mescal every now and then, when Popé
used to bring it. Popé is a boy I used to know. But it makes you feel so bad
afterwards. the mescal does, and you're sick with the peyotl; besides it always made
that awful feeling of being ashamed much worse the next day. And I was so
ashamed. Just think of it: me, a Beta–having a baby: put yourself in my place."
(The mere suggestion made Lenina shudder.) "Though it wasn't my fault, I swear;
because I still don't know how it happened, seeing that I did all the Malthusian
Drill–you know, by numbers, One, two, three, four, always, I swear it; but all the
same it happened, and of course there wasn't anything like an Abortion Centre
here. Is it still down in Chelsea, by the way?" she asked. Lenina nodded. "And still
floodlighted on Tuesdays and Fridays?" Lenina nodded again. "That lovely pink
glass tower!" Poor Linda lifted her face and with closed eyes ecstatically
contemplated the bright remembered image. "And the river at night," she
whispered. Great tears oozed slowly out from behind her tight-shut eyelids. "And
flying back in the evening from Stoke Poges. And then a hot bath and vibro-vacuum
massage … But there." She drew a deep breath, shook her head, opened her eyes
again, sniffed once or twice, then blew her nose on her fingers and wiped them on
the skirt of her tunic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said in response to Lenina's
involuntary grimace of disgust. "I oughtn't to have done that. I'm sorry. But what
are you to do when there aren't any handkerchiefs? I remember how it used to
upset me, all that dirt, and nothing being aseptic. I had an awful cut on my head
when they first brought me here. You can't imagine what they used to put on it.
Filth, just filth. 'Civilization is Sterilization,' I used to say t them. And
'Streptocock-Gee to Banbury-T, to see a fine bathroom and W.C.' as though they
were children. But of course they didn't understand. How should they? And in the
end I suppose I got used to it. And anyhow, how can you keep things clean when
there isn't hot water laid on? And look at these clothes. This beastly wool isn't like
acetate. It lasts and lasts. And you're supposed to mend it if it gets torn. But I'm a
Beta; I worked in the Fertilizing Room; nobody ever taught me to do anything like
that. It wasn't my business. Besides, it never used to be right to mend clothes.
Throw them away when they've got holes in them and buy new. 'The more stiches,
the less riches.' Isn't that right? Mending's anti-social. But it's all different here. It's
like living with lunatics. Everything they do is mad." She looked round; saw John and
Bernard had left them and were walking up and down in the dust and garbage
outside the house; but, none the less confidentially lowering her voice, and leaning,
while Lenina stiffened and shrank, so close that the blown reek of embryo-poison
stirred the hair on her cheek. "For instance," she hoarsely whispered, "take the way
they have one another here. Mad, I tell you, absolutely mad. Everybody belongs to
every one else–don't they? don't they?" she insisted, tugging at Lenina's sleeve.
Lenina nodded her averted head, let out the breath she had been holding and
managed to draw another one, relatively untainted. "Well, here," the other went on,
"nobody's supposed to belong to more than one person. And if you have people in
the ordinary way, the others think you're wicked and anti-social. They hate and
despise you. Once a lot of women came and made a scene because their men
came to see me. Well, why not? And then they rushed at me … No, it was too awful.
I can't tell you about it." Linda covered her face with her hands and shuddered.
"They're so hateful, the women here. Mad, mad and cruel. And of course they don't
know anything about Malthusian Drill, or bottles, or decanting, or anything of that
sort. So they're having children all the time–like dogs. It's too revolting. And to
think that I … Oh, Ford, Ford, Ford! And yet John was a great comfort to me. I don't
know what I should have done without him. Even though he did get so upset
whenever a man … Quite as a tiny boy, even. Once (but that was when he was
bigger) he tried to kill poor Waihusiwa–or was it Popé?–just because I used to have
them sometimes. Because I never could make him understand that that was what
civilized people ought to do. Being mad's infectious I believe. Anyhow, John seems
to have caught it from the Indians. Because, of course, he was with them a lot. Even
though they always were so beastly to him and wouldn't let him do all the things the
other boys did. Which was a good thing in a way, because it made it easier for me
to condition him a little. Though you've no idea how difficult that is. There's so much
one doesn't know; it wasn't my business to know. I mean, when a child asks you
how a helicopter works or who made the world–well, what are you to answer if you're
a Beta and have always worked in the Fertilizing Room? What are you to answer?"
Chapter Eight
OUTSIDE, in the dust and among the garbage (there were four dogs now), Bernard
and John were walking slowly up and down.
"So hard for me to realize," Bernard was saying, "to reconstruct. As though we were
living on different planets, in different centuries. A mother, and all this dirt, and
gods, and old age, and disease …" He shook his head. "It's almost inconceivable. I
shall never understand, unless you explain."
"Explain what?"
"This." He indicated the pueblo. "That." And it was the little house outside the
village. "Everything. All your life."
"But what is there to say?"
"From the beginning. As far back as you can remember."
"As far back as I can remember." John frowned. There was a long silence.
It was very hot. They had eaten a lot of tortillas and sweet corn. Linda said, "Come
and lie down, Baby." They lay down together in the big bed. "Sing," and Linda sang.
Sang "Streptocock-Gee to Banbury-T" and "Bye Baby Banting, soon you'll need
decanting." Her voice got fainter and fainter …
There was a loud noise, and he woke with a start. A man was saying something to
Linda, and Linda was laughing. She had pulled the blanket up to her chin, but the
man pulled it down again. His hair was like two black ropes, and round his arm was
a lovely silver bracelet with blue stones in it. He liked the bracelet; but all the same,
he was frightened; he hid his face against Linda's body. Linda put her hand on him
and he felt safer. In those other words he did not understand so well, she said to
the man, "Not with John here." The man looked at him, then again at Linda, and
said a few words in a soft voice. Linda said, "No." But the man bent over the bed
towards him and his face was huge, terrible; the black ropes of hair touched the
blanket. "No," Linda said again, and he felt her hand squeezing him more tightly.
"No, no!" But the man took hold of one of his arms, and it hurt. He screamed. The
man put up his other hand and lifted him up. Linda was still holding him, still
