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"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 disconcerting 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.
After that the Savage was left for a time in peace. A few helicopters came and
hovered inquisitively round the tower. He shot an arrow into the importunately
nearest of them. It pierced the aluminum floor of the cabin; there was a shrill yell,
and the machine went rocketing up into the air with all the acceleration that its
super-charger could give it. The others, in future, kept their distance respectfully.
Ignoring their tiresome humming (he likened himself in his imagination to one of
the suitors of the Maiden of Mátsaki, unmoved and persistent among the winged
vermin), the Savage dug at what was to be his garden. After a time the vermin
evidently became bored and flew away; for hours at a stretch the sky above his
head was empty and, but for the larks, silent.
The weather was breathlessly hot, there was thunder in the air. He had dug all the
morning and was resting, stretched out along the floor. And suddenly the thought of
Lenina was a real presence, naked and tangible, saying "Sweet!" and "Put your
arms round me!" in shoes and socks, perfumed. Impudent strumpet! But oh, oh,
her arms round his neck, the lifting of her breasts, her mouth! Eternity was in our
lips and eyes. Lenina & No, no, no, no! He sprang to his feet and, half naked as he
was, ran out of the house. At the edge of the heath stood a clump of hoary juniper
bushes. He flung himself against them, he embraced, not the smooth body of his
desires, but an armful of green spikes. Sharp, with a thousand points, they pricked
him. He tried to think of poor Linda, breathless and dumb, with her clutching hands
and the unutterable terror in her eyes. Poor Linda whom he had sworn to remember.
But it was still the presence of Lenina that haunted him. Lenina whom he had
promised to forget. Even through the stab and stmg of the juniper needles, his
wincing fiesh was aware of her, unescapably real. "Sweet, sweet & And if you wanted
me too, why didn't you & "
The whip was hanging on a nail by the door, ready to hand against the arrival of
reporters. In a frenzy the Savage ran back to the house, seized it, whirled it. The
knotted cords bit into his flesh.
"Strumpet! Strumpet!" he shouted at every blow as though it were Lenina (and how
frantically, without knowing it, he wished it were), white, warm, scented, infamous
Lenina that he was dogging thus. "Strumpet!" And then, in a voice of despair, "Oh,
Linda, forgive me. Forgive me, God. I'm bad. I'm wicked. I'm & No, no, you
strumpet, you strumpet!"
From his carefully constructed hide in the wood three hundred metres away, Darwin
Bonaparte, the Feely Corporation's most expert big game photographer had
watched the whole proceedings. Patience and skill had been rewarded. He had spent
three days sitting inside the bole of an artificial oak tree, three nights crawling on
his belly through the heather, hiding microphones in gorse bushes, burying wires in
the soft grey sand. Seventy-two hours of profound discomfort. But now me great
moment had come the greatest, Darwin Bonaparte had time to reflect, as he
moved among his instruments, the greatest since his taking of the famous
all-howling stereoscopic feely of the gorillas' wedding. "Splendid," he said to
himself, as the Savage started his astonishing performance. "Splendid!" He kept his
telescopic cameras carefully aimed glued to their moving objective; clapped on a
higher power to get a close-up of the frantic and distorted face (admirable!);
switched over, for half a minute, to slow motion (an exquisitely comical effect, he
promised himself); listened in, meanwhile, to the blows, the groans, the wild and
raving words that were being recorded on the sound-track at the edge of his film,
tried the effect of a little amplification (yes, that was decidedly better); was
delighted to hear, in a momentary lull, the shrill singing of a lark; wished the
Savage would turn round so that he could get a good close-up of the blood on his
back and almost instantly (what astonishing luck!) the accommodating fellow did
turn round, and he was able to take a perfect close-up.
"Well, that was grand!" he said to himself when it was all over. "Really grand!" He
mopped his face. When they had put in the feely effects at the studio, it would be a
wonderful film. Almost as good, thought Darwin Bonaparte, as the Sperm Whale's
Love-Life and that, by Ford, was saying a good deal!
Twelve days later The Savage of Surrey had been released and could be seen,
heard and felt in every first-class feely-palace in Western Europe.
The effect of Darwin Bonaparte's film was immediate and enormous. On the
afternoon which followed the evening of its release John's rustic solitude was
suddenly broken by the arrival overhead of a great swarm of helicopters.
He was digging in his garden digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously turning up
the substance of his thought. Death and he drove in his spade once, and again,
and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. A
convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]