Олдос Хаксли: Limbo

TOPSY.

( Faintly. ) Thank you; that’s better.

ASTON. ( Closing the door. ) Poor child! Come and sit down again; the chloroform flower is a real danger. ( Much moved, he leads her back towards the seat. )

CAIN. ( Executes a war dance round the seated couple. ) Poh chile, poh chile! Nyum nyum nyum.

SIR JASPER. One perceives the well–known dangers of playing the Good Samaritan towards an afflicted member of the opposite sex. Pity has touched even our good Cain to tears.

BELLE. Oh, I wonder what’s going to happen! It’s so exciting. I’m so glad Henrika’s gone to sleep.

TOPSY.

It was silly of me to go all faint like that.

ASTON.

I ought to have warned you in time of the chloroform flower.

BELLE. But it’s such a lovely feeling now—like being in a very hot bath with lots of verbena bath–salts, and hardly able to move with limpness, but just ever so comfortable and happy.

ASTON.

How do you feel now? I’m afraid you’re looking very pale. Poor child!

CAIN.

Poh chile, poh chile! …

SIR JASPER. I don’t know much about these things, but it seems to me, my dear Aston, that the moment has decidedly arrived.

ASTON. I’m so sorry. You poor little thing … ( He kisses her very gently on the forehead. )

BELLE.

A—a—h.

HENRIKA. Oh! He kissed me: but he’s so kind and good, so kind and good. ( She stirs and falls back again into her drowsy trance. )

CAIN. Poh chile, poh chile! ( He leans over ASTON’S shoulder and begins rudely kissing TOPSY’S trance–calm, parted lips . TOPSY opens her eyes and sees the black, greasy face, the chryselephantine smile, the pink, thick lips, the goggling eyeballs of white enamel. She screams. HENRIKA springs up and screams too . TOPSY slips on to the floor, and CAIN and ASTON are left face to face with HENRIKA, pale as death and with wide–open, terrified eyes. She is trembling in every limb. )

ASTON. ( Gives CAIN a push that sends him sprawling backwards, and falls on his knees before the pathetic figure of HENRIKA.) Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. What a beast I am! I don’t know what I can have been thinking of to do such a thing.

SIR JASPER. My dear boy, I’m afraid you and Cain knew only too well what you were thinking of. Only too well …

ASTON.

Will you forgive me? I can’t forgive myself.

HENRIKA. Oh, you hurt me, you frightened me so much. I can’t bear it. ( She cries. )

ASTON. O God! O God! ( The tears start into his eyes also. He takes HENRIKA’S hand and begins to kiss it .) I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

SIR JASPER. If you’re not very careful, Aston, you’ll have Cain to deal with again. (CAIN has picked himself up and is creeping stealthily towards the couple in the centre of the conservatory .)

ASTON. ( Turning round. ) Cain, you brute, go to hell! (CAIN slinks back .) Oh, will you forgive me for having been such a swine? What can I do?

TOPSY. ( Who has recovered her self–possession, rises to her feet and pushes HENRIKA into the background .) Thank you, it is really quite all right. I think it would be best to say no more about it, to forget what has happened.

ASTON.

Will you forgive me, then?

TOPSY.

Of course, of course. Please get up, Mr. Tyrrell.

ASTON. ( Climbing to his feet. ) I can’t think how I ever came to be such a brute.

TOPSY. ( Coldly. ) I thought we had agreed not to talk about this incident any further. ( There is a silence. )

SIR JASPER.

Well, Aston? This has been rather fun.

BELLE. I wish you hadn’t been quite so cold with him, Topsy. Poor man! He really is very sorry. One can see that.

HENRIKA.

But did you see that awful face? ( She shudders and covers her eyes. )

ASTON. ( Picking up his dummy and manipulating it. ) It is very hot in here, is it not? Shall we go back to the dancing–room?

TOPSY.

( Also takes up her dummy. ) Yes, let us go back.

ASTON’S DUMMY.

Isn’t that “Roses in Picardy” that the band is playing?

TOPSY’S DUMMY.

I believe it is. What a very good band, don’t you think?

ASTON’S DUMMY. Yes; it plays during dinner, you know, at the Necropole. ( To JASPER.) Lord, what a fool I am! I’d quite forgotten; it was she who told me so as we came in.

TOPSY’S DUMMY.

At the Necropole? Really.

ASTON’S DUMMY.

A very good band and a very good floor.

TOPSY’S DUMMY. Yes, it’s a perfect floor, isn’t it? Like glass…. ( They go out, followed by their respective families. BELLE supports HENRIKA, who is still very weak after her shock .)

BELLE.

How exciting it was, wasn’t it, HENRIKA?

HENRIKA. Wasn’t it awful—too awful! Oh, that face…. (CAIN follows ASTON out in silence and dejection . SIR JASPER brings up the rear of the procession. His face wears its usual expression of slightly bored amusement. He lights a cigarette. )

SIR JASPER. Charming evening, charming evening…. Now it’s over, I wonder whether it ever existed. ( He goes out. The conservatory is left empty. The flowers flash their luminous pistils; the eyes of the assafœtida blossoms solemnly wink; leaves shake and sway and rustle; several of the flowers are heard to utter a low chuckle, while the Alocusia, after whistling a few derisive notes, finally utters a loud, gross Oriental hiccough. )

THE CURTAIN SLOWLY DESCENDS.

When, some fifty years hence, my grandchildren ask me what I did when I was at Oxford in the remote days towards the beginning of our monstrous century, I shall look back across the widening gulf of time and tell them with perfect good faith that I never worked less than eight hours a day, that I took a keen interest in Social Service, and that coffee was the strongest stimulant in which I indulged. And they will very justly say—but I hope I shall be out of hearing. That is why I propose to write my memoirs as soon as possible, before I have had time to forget, so that having the truth before me I shall never in time to come be able, consciously or unconsciously, to tell lies about myself.

At present I have no time to write a complete account of that decisive period in my history. I must content myself therefore with describing a single incident of my undergraduate days. I have selected this one because it is curious and at the same time wholly characteristic of Oxford life before the war.

My friend Lykeham was an Exhibitioner at Swellfoot College. He combined blood (he was immensely proud of his Anglo–Saxon descent and the derivation of his name from Old English lycam , a corpse) with brains. His tastes were eccentric, his habits deplorable, the range of his information immense. As he is now dead, I will say no more about his character.

To proceed with my anecdote: I had gone one evening, as was my custom, to visit him in his rooms at Swellfoot. It was just after nine when I mounted the stairs, and great Tom was still tolling.

“In Thomae laude

Resono bim bam sine fraude,”

as the charmingly imbecile motto used to run, and to–night he was living up to it by bim–bamming away in a persistent basso profondo that made an astonishing background of discord to the sound of frantic guitar playing which emanated from Lykeham’s room. From the fury of his twanging I could tell that something more than usually cataclysmic had happened, for mercifully it was only in moments of the greatest stress that Lykeham touched his guitar.