Page 111 - BraveNewWorld

IDPH 111

Europe.
“It’s wonderful, of course. And yet in a way,” she had confessed to Fanny, “I
feel as though I were getting something on false presences. Because, of course,
the first thing they all want to know is what it’s like to make love to a Savage.
And I have to say I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Most of the men don’t
believe me, of course. But it’s true. I wish it weren’t,” she added sadly and
sighed. “He’s terribly good-looking; don’t you think so?”
“But doesn’t he like you?” asked Fanny.
“Sometimes I think he does and sometimes I think he doesn’t. He always does
his best to avoid me; goes out of the room when I come in; won’t touch me;
won’t even look at me. But sometimes if I turn round suddenly, I catch him
staring; and then-well, you know how men look when they like you.”
Yes, Fanny knew.
“I can’t make it out,” said Lenina.

She couldn’t make it out; and not only was bewildered; was also rather upset.
“Because, you see, Fanny, I like him.”
Liked him more and more. Well, now there’d be a real chance, she thought, as
she scented herself after her bath. Dab, dab, dab-a real chance. Her high spirits
overflowed in a song.
”Hug me till you drug me, honey;

Kiss me till I’m in a coma;
Hug me, honey, snuggly bunny;
Love’s as good as soma.”

The scent organ was playing a delightfully refreshing Herbal Capriccio- rip-
pling arpeggios of thyme and lavender, of rosemary, basil, myrtle, tarragon; a
series of daring modulations through the spice keys into ambergris; and a slow
return through sandalwood, camphor, cedar and newmown hay (with occasio-
nal subtle touches of discord-a whiff of kidney pudding, the faintest suspicion
of pig’s dung) back to the simple aromatics with which the piece began. The
final blast of thyme died away; there was a round of applause; the lights went
up. In the synthetic music machine the sound-track roll began to unwind. It
was a trio for hyper-violin, super- cello and oboe-surrogate that now filled the
air with its agreeable languor. Thirty or forty bars-and then, against this ins-
trumental background, a much more than human voice began to warble; now
throaty, now from the head, now hollow as a flute, now charged with yearning
harmonics, it effortlessly passed from Gaspard’s Forster’s low record on the

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