Олдос Хаксли: Limbo

HENRIKA. ( From behind the kadapoo tree. ) No, you mustn’t show them to him. They’re really mine, you know, a great many of them.

BELLE. Nonsense! ( She stoops down and moves TOPSY’S foot in such a way that a very well–shaped, white–stockinged leg is visible some way up the calf. Then, to TOPSY.) Pull your skirt down, my dear. You’re quite indecent.

CAIN. ( Putting up his monocle. ) Oh, nyum nyum, ma honey! Come wid me to Dixie Land….

SIR JASPER.

H’m, a little conscious, don’t you think?

ASTON. But even professionals are human, my dear young lady. And perhaps I might be able to give you some help with your writings.

TOPSY.

That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Tyrrell.

HENRIKA.

Oh, don’t let him see them. I don’t want him to. Don’t let him.

ASTON. ( With heavy charm. ) It always interests me so much when I hear of the young—and I trust you won’t be offended if I include you in their number—when I hear of the young taking to writing. It is one of the most important duties that we of the older generation can perform—to help and encourage the young with their work. It’s a great service to the cause of Art.

SIR JASPER. That was what I was always saying to Mrs. Towler, if I remember rightly.

TOPSY. I can’t tell you, Mr. Tyrrell, how delightful it is to have one’s work taken seriously. I am so grateful to you. May I send you my little efforts, then?

CAIN.

( Executes a step dance to the furious clicking of a pair of bones. )

SIR JASPER.

I congratulate you, Aston. A most masterful bit of strategy.

BELLE. I wonder what he’ll do next. Isn’t it exciting? Topsy, toss your head again. That’s right. Oh, I wish something would happen!

HENRIKA.

What have you done? Oh, Topsy, you really mustn’t send him my poems.

BELLE.

You said he was such a nice man just now.

HENRIKA. Oh yes, he’s nice, I know. But then he’s a man, you must admit that. I don’t want him to see them.

TOPSY. ( Firmly. ) You’re being merely foolish, Henrika. Mr. Tyrrell, a very distinguished literary man, has been kind enough to take an interest in my work. His criticism will be the greatest help to me.

BELLE. Of course it will, and he has such charming eyes. ( A pause. The music, which has, all this while, been faintly heard through the ball–room door, becomes more audible. They are playing a rich, creamy waltz. ) What delicious music! Henrika, come and have a dance. ( She seizes HENRIKA round the waist and begins to waltz . HENRIKA is reluctant at first, but little by little the rhythm of the dance takes possession of her till, with her half–closed eyes and languorous, trance–like movements, she might figure as the visible living symbol of the waltz . ASTON and TOPSY lean back in their seats, marking the time with a languid beating of the hand . CAIN sways and swoons and revolves in his own peculiar and inimitable version of the dance .)

SIR JASPER. ( Who has been watching the whole scene with amusement. ) What a pretty spectacle! “Music hath charms….”

HENRIKA. ( In an almost extinct voice. ) Oh, Belle, Belle, I could go on dancing like this for ever. I feel quite intoxicated with it.

TOPSY.

( To ASTON.) What a jolly tune this is!

ASTON.

Isn’t it? It’s called “Dreams of Desire,” I believe.

BELLE.

What a pretty name!

TOPSY.

These are wonderful flowers here.

ASTON.

Let’s go and have a look at them.

( They get up and walk round the conservatory. The flowers light up as they pass; in the midst of each is a small electric globe. )

ASTON. This purple one with eyes is the assafœtida flower. Don’t put your nose too near; it has a smell like burning flesh. This is a Cypripedium from Sumatra. It is the only man–eating flower in the world. Notice its double set of teeth. ( He puts a stick into the mouth of the flower, which instantly snaps to, like a steel trap. ) Nasty, vicious brute! These blossoms like purple sponges belong to the twangum tree; when you squeeze them they ooze blood. This is the Jonesia, the octopus of the floral world: each of its eight tentacles is armed with a sting capable of killing a horse. Now this is a most interesting and instructive flower—the patchouli bloom. It is perhaps the most striking example in nature of structural specialization brought about by Evolution. If only Darwin had lived to see the patchouli plant! You have heard of flowers specially adapting themselves to be fertilized by bees or butterflies or spiders and such–like? Well, this plant which grows in the forests of Guatemala can only be fertilized by English explorers. Observe the structure of the flower; at the base is a flat, projecting pan, containing the pistil; above it an overarching tube ending in a spout. On either side a small crevice about three–quarters of an inch in length may be discerned in the fleshy lobes of the calix. The English traveller seeing this plant is immediately struck by its resemblance to those penny–in–the–slot machines which provide scent for the public in the railway stations at home. Through sheer force of habit he takes a penny from his pocket and inserts it in one of the crevices or slots. Immediate result—a jet of highly scented liquid pollen is discharged from the spout upon the pistil lying below, and the plant is fertilized. Could anything be more miraculous? And yet there are those who deny the existence of God. Poor fools!

TOPSY.

Wonderful! ( Sniffing. ) What a good scent.

ASTON.

The purest patchouli.

BELLE.

How delicious! Oh, my dear … ( She shuts her eyes in ecstasy. )

HENRIKA.

( Drowsily. ) Delicious, ’licious….

SIR JASPER. I always like these rather canaille perfumes. Their effect is admirable.

ASTON. This is the leopard–flower. Observe its spotted skin and its thorns like agate claws. This is the singing Alocusia—Alocusia Cantatrix—discovered by Humboldt during his second voyage to the Amazons. If you stroke its throat in the right place, it will begin to sing like a nightingale. Allow me. ( He takes her by the wrist and guides her fingers towards the palpitating throat of a gigantic flower shaped like a gramophone trumpet. The Alocusia bursts into song; it has a voice like Caruso’s. )

CAIN. Oh, nyum nyum! What a hand! Oh, ma honey. ( He runs a thick black finger along TOPSY’S arm .)

TOPSY.

What a remarkable flower!

BELLE. I wonder whether he stroked my arm like that by accident or on purpose.

HENRIKA. ( Gives a little shiver. ) He’s touching me, he’s touching me! But somehow I feel so sleepy I can’t move.

TOPSY. ( She moves on towards the next flower : BELLE does not allow her to disengage her hand at once .) What a curious smell this one has!

ASTON.

Be careful, be careful! That’s the chloroform plant.

TOPSY. Oh, I feel quite dizzy and faint. That smell and the heat … ( She almost falls : ASTON puts out his arm and holds her up .)

ASTON.

Poor child!

CAIN. Poh chile, poh chile! ( He hovers round her, his hands almost touching her, trembling with excitement: his white eyeballs roll horribly. )

ASTON. I’ll open the door. The air will make you feel better. ( He opens the conservatory door, still supporting TOPSY with his right arm. The wind is heard, fearfully whistling: a flurry of snow blows into the conservatory. The flowers utter piercing screams of rage and fear; their lights flicker wildly; several turn perfectly black and drop on to the floor writhing in agony. The floral octopus agitates its tentacles; the twangum blooms drip blood; all the leaves of all the trees clap together with a dry, scaly sound. )