Олдос Хаксли - Antic Hay

Mr Gumbril received them on his balcony with courtesy.

'I was just thinking of going in to work,' he said. 'And now you come and give me a good excuse for sitting out here a little longer. I'm delighted.'

Gumbril Junior went downstairs to see what he could find in the way of food. While he was gone, his father explained to Mrs Viveash the secrets of the birds. Enthusiastically, his light floss of grey hair floating up and falling again about his head as he pointed and gesticulated, he told her; the great flocks assembled—goodness only knew where!—they flew across the golden sky, detaching here a little troop, there a whole legion, they flew until at last all had found their appointed resting–places and there were no more to fly. He made this nightly flight sound epical, as though it were a migration of peoples, a passage of armies.

'And it's my firm belief,' said Gumbril Senior, adding notes to his epic, 'that they make use of some sort of telepathy, some kind of direct mind–to–mind communication between themselves. You can't watch them without coming to that conclusion.'

'A charming conclusion,' said Mrs Viveash.

'It's a faculty,' Gumbril Senior went on, 'we all possess, I believe. All we animals.' He made a gesture which included himself, Mrs Viveash and the invisible birds among the plane–trees. 'Why don't we use it more? You may well ask. For the simple reason, my dear young lady, that half our existence is spent in dealing with things that have no mind—things with which it is impossible to hold telepathic communication. Hence the development of the five senses. I have eyes that preserve me from running into the lamp–post, ears that warn me I'm in the neighbourhood of Niagara. And having made these instruments very efficient, I use them in holding converse with other beings having a mind. I let my telepathic faculty lie idle, preferring to employ an elaborate and cumbrous arrangement of symbols in order to make my thought known to you through your senses. In certain individuals, however, the faculty is naturally so well–developed—like the musical, or the mathematical, or the chess–playing faculties in other people—that they cannot help entering into direct communication with other minds, whether they want to or not. If we knew a good method of educating and drawing out the latent faculty, most of us could make ourselves moderately efficient telepaths; just as most of us can make ourselves into moderate musicians, chess players and mathematicians. There would also be a few, no doubt, who could never communicate directly. Just as there are a few who cannot recognize "Rule Britannia" or Bach's Concerto in D minor for two violins, and a few who cannot comprehend the nature of an algebraical symbol. Look at the general development of the mathematical and musical faculties only within the last two hundred years. By the twenty–first century, I believe, we shall all be telepaths. Meanwhile, these delightful birds have forestalled us. Not having the wit to invent a language or an expressive pantomime, they contrive to communicate such simple thoughts as they have, directly and instantaneously. They all go to sleep at once, wake at once, say the same thing at once; they turn all at once when they're flying. Without a leader, without a word of command, they do everything together, in complete unison. Sitting here in the evenings, I sometimes fancy I can feel their thoughts striking against my own. It has happened to me once or twice: that I have known a second before it actually happened, that the birds were going to wake up and begin their half–minute of chatter in the dark. Wait! Hush.' Gumbril Senior threw back his head, pressed his hand over his mouth, as though by commanding silence on himself he could command it on the whole world. 'I believe they're going to wake now. I feel it.'

He was silent. Mrs Viveash looked towards the dark trees and listened. A full minute passed. Then the old gentleman burst out happily laughing.

'Completely wrong!' he said. 'They've never been more soundly asleep.' Mrs Viveash laughed too. 'Perhaps they all changed their minds, just as they were waking up,' she suggested.

Gumbril Junior reappeared; glasses clinked as he walked, and there was a little rattle of crockery. He was carrying a tray.

'Cold beef,' he said, 'and salad and a bit of a cold apple–pie. It might be worse.'

They drew up chairs to Gumbril Senior's work–table, and there, among the letters and the unpaid bills and the sketchy elevations of archiducal palaces, they ate the beef and the apple–pie, and drank the one–and–ninepenny vin ordinaire of the house. Gumbril Senior, who had already supped, looked on at them from the balcony.

'Did I tell you,' said Gumbril Junior, 'that we saw Mr Porteous's son the other evening—very drunk?'

Gumbril Senior threw up his hands. 'If you knew the calamities that young imbecile has been the cause of!'

'What's he done?'

'Gambled away I don't know how much borrowed money. And poor Porteous can't afford anything—even now.' Mr Gumbril shook his head and clutched and combed his beard. 'It's a fearful blow, but of course, Porteous is very steadfast and serene and…There!' Gumbril Senior interrupted himself, holding up his hand. 'Listen!'

In the fourteen plane–trees the starlings had suddenly woken up.

There was a wild outburst, like a stormy sitting in the Italian Parliament. Then all was silent. Gumbril Senior listened, enchanted. His face, as he turned back towards the light, revealed itself all smiles. His hair seemed to have blown loose of its own accord, from within, so to speak; he pushed it into place.

'You heard them?' he asked Mrs Viveash. 'What can they have to say to one another, I wonder, at this time of night?'

'And did you feel they were going to wake up?' Mrs Viveash inquired.

'No,' said Gumbril Senior with candour.

'When we've finished,' Gumbril Junior spoke with his mouth full, 'you must show Myra your model of London. She'd adore it—except that it has no electric sky–signs.'

His father looked all of a sudden very much embarrassed. 'I don't think it would interest Mrs Viveash much,' he said.

'Oh, yes it would. Really,' she declared.

'Well, as a matter of fact it isn't here.' Gumbril Senior pulled with fury at his beard.

'Not here? But what's happened to it?'

Gumbril Senior wouldn't explain. He just ignored his son's question and began to talk once more about the starlings. Later on, however, when Gumbril and Mrs Viveash were preparing to go, the old man drew him apart into a corner and began to whisper the explanation.

'I didn't want to blare it about in front of strangers,' he said, as though it were a question of the housemaid's illegitimate baby or a repair to the water–closet. 'But the fact is, I've sold it. The Victoria and Albert had wind that I was making it; they've been wanting it all the time. And I've let them have it.'

'But why?' Gumbril Junior asked in a tone of astonishment. He knew with what a paternal affection—no, more than paternal; for he was sure that his father was more whole–heartedly attached to his models than his son—with what pride he regarded these children of his spirit.

Gumbril Senior sighed. 'It's all that young imbecile,' he said.

'What young imbecile?'

'Porteous's son, of course. You see, poor Porteous has had to sell his library, among other things. You don't know what that means to him. All these precious books. And collected at the price of such hardships. I thought I'd like to buy a few of the best ones back for him. They gave me quite a good price at the Museum.' He came out of his corner and hurried across the room to help Mrs Viveash with her cloak. 'Allow me, allow me,' he said.

Slowly and pensively Gumbril Junior followed him. Beyond good and evil? Below good and evil? The name of earwig…The tubby pony trotted. The wild columbines suspended, among the shadows of the hazel copse, hooked spurs, helmets of aerial purple. The Twelfth Sonata of Mozart was insecticide; no earwigs could crawl through that music. Emily's breasts were firm and pointed and she had slept at last without a tremor. In the starlight, good, true and beautiful became one. Write the discovery in books—in books quos , in the morning, legimus cacantes . They descended the stairs. The cab was waiting outside.