Chapter V.

by Aldous Huxley

　　Mr. Wimbush had taken them to see the sights of the Home Farm,and now they were standing, all six of them--Henry Wimbush, Mr.Scogan, Denis, Gombauld, Anne, and Mary--by the low wall of thepiggery, looking into one of the styes."This is a good sow," said Henry Wimbush. "She had a litter offourteen."Fourteen?" Mary echoed incredulously. She turned astonishedblue eyes towards Mr. Wimbush, then let them fall onto theseething mass of elan vital that fermented in the sty.An immense sow reposed on her side in the middle of the pen. Herround, black belly, fringed with a double line of dugs, presenteditself to the assault of an army of small, brownish-black swine.With a frantic greed they tugged at their mother's flank. Theold sow stirred sometimes uneasily or uttered a little grunt ofpain. One small pig, the runt, the weakling of the litter, hadbeen unable to secure a place at the banquet. Squealing shrilly,he ran backwards and forwards, trying to push in among hisstronger brothers or even to climb over their tight little blackbacks towards the maternal reservoir."There are fourteen," said Mary. "You're quite right. Icounted. It's extraordinary.""The sow next door," Mr. Wimbush went on, "has done very badly.She only had five in her litter. I shall give her anotherchance. If she does no better next time, I shall fat her up andkill her. There's the boar," he pointed towards a farther sty."Fine old beast, isn't he? But he's getting past his prime.He'll have to go too.""How cruel!" Anne exclaimed."But how practical, how eminently realistic!" said Mr. Scogan."In this farm we have a model of sound paternal government. Makethem breed, make them work, and when they're past working orbreeding or begetting, slaughter them.""Farming seems to be mostly indecency and cruelty," said Anne.With the ferrule of his walking-stick Denis began to scratch theboar's long bristly back. The animal moved a little so as tobring himself within easier range of the instrument that evokedin him such delicious sensations; then he stood stock still,softly grunting his contentment. The mud of years flaked off hissides in a grey powdery scurf."What a pleasure it is," said Denis, "to do somebody a kindness.I believe I enjoy scratching this pig quite as much as he enjoysbeing scratched. If only one could always be kind with so littleexpense or trouble..."A gate slammed; there was a sound of heavy footsteps."Morning, Rowley!" said Henry Wimbush."Morning, sir," old Rowley answered. He was the most venerableof the labourers on the farm--a tall, solid man, still unbent,with grey side-whiskers and a steep, dignified profile. Grave,weighty in his manner, splendidly respectable, Rowley had the airof a great English statesman of the mid-nineteenth century. Hehalted on the outskirts of the group, and for a moment they alllooked at the pigs in a silence that was only broken by the soundof grunting or the squelch of a sharp hoof in the mire. Rowleyturned at last, slowly and ponderously and nobly, as he dideverything, and addressed himself to Henry Wimbush."Look at them, sir," he said, with a motion of his hand towardsthe wallowing swine. "Rightly is they called pigs.""Rightly indeed," Mr. Wimbush agreed."I am abashed by that man," said Mr. Scogan, as old Rowleyplodded off slowly and with dignity. "What wisdom, whatjudgment, what a sense of values! 'Rightly are they calledswine.' Yes. And I wish I could, with as much justice, say,'Rightly are we called men.'"They walked on towards the cowsheds and the stables of the cart-horses. Five white geese, taking the air this fine morning, evenas they were doing, met them in the way. They hesitated,cackled; then, converting their lifted necks into rigid,horizontal snakes, they rushed off in disorder, hissing horriblyas they went. Red calves paddled in the dung and mud of aspacious yard. In another enclosure stood the bull, massive as alocomotive. He was a very calm bull, and his face wore anexpression of melancholy stupidity. He gazed with reddish-browneyes at his visitors, chewed thoughtfully at the tangiblememories of an earlier meal, swallowed and regurgitated, chewedagain. His tail lashed savagely from side to side; it seemed tohave nothing to do with his impassive bulk. Between his shorthorns was a triangle of red curls, short and dense."Splendid animal," said Henry Wimbush. "Pedigree stock. Buthe's getting a little old, like the boar.""Fat him up and slaughter him," Mr. Scogan pronounced, with adelicate old-maidish precision of utterance."Couldn't you give the animals a little holiday from producingchildren?" asked Anne. "I'm so sorry for the poor things."Mr. Wimbush shook his head. "Personally," he said, "I ratherlike seeing fourteen pigs grow where only one grew before. Thespectacle of so much crude life is refreshing.""I'm glad to hear you say so," Gombauld broke in warmly. "Lotsof life: that's what we want. I like pullulation; everythingought to increase and multiply as hard as it can."Gombauld grew lyrical. Everybody ought to have children--Anneought to have them, Mary ought to have them--dozens and dozens.He emphasised his point by thumping with his walking-stick on thebull's leather flanks. Mr. Scogan ought to pass on hisintelligence to little Scogans, and Denis to little Denises. Thebull turned his head to see what was happening, regarded thedrumming stick for several seconds, then turned back againsatisfied, it seemed, that nothing was happening. Sterility wasodious, unnatural, a sin against life. Life, life, and stillmore life. The ribs of the placid bull resounded.Standing with his back against the farmyard pump, a little apart,Denis examined the group. Gombauld, passionate and vivacious,was its centre. The others stood round, listening--HenryWimbush, calm and polite beneath his grey bowler; Mary, withparted lips and eyes that shone with the indignation of aconvinced birth-controller. Anne looked on through half-shuteyes, smiling; and beside her stood Mr. Scogan, bolt upright inan attitude of metallic rigidity that contrasted strangely withthat fluid grace of hers which even in stillness suggested a softmovement.Gombauld ceased talking, and Mary, flushed and outraged, openedher mouth to refute him. But she was too slow. Before she couldutter a word Mr. Scogan's fluty voice had pronounced the openingphrases of a discourse. There was no hope of getting so much asa word in edgeways; Mary had perforce to resign herself."Even your eloquence, my dear Gombauld," he was saying--"evenyour eloquence must prove inadequate to reconvert the world to abelief in the delights of mere multiplication. With thegramophone, the cinema, and the automatic pistol, the goddess ofApplied Science has presented the world with another gift, moreprecious even than these--the means of dissociating love frompropagation. Eros, for those who wish it, is now an entirelyfree god; his deplorable associations with Lucina may be brokenat will. In the course of the next few centuries, who knows? theworld may see a more complete severance. I look forward to itoptimistically. Where the great Erasmus Darwin and Miss AnnaSeward, Swan of Lichfield, experimented--and, for all theirscientific ardour, failed--our descendants will experiment andsucceed. An impersonal generation will take the place ofNature's hideous system. In vast state incubators, rows uponrows of gravid bottles will supply the world with the populationit requires. The family system will disappear; society, sappedat its very base, will have to find new foundations; and Eros,beautifully and irresponsibly free, will flit like a gaybutterfly from flower to flower through a sunlit world.""It sounds lovely," said Anne."The distant future always does."Mary's china blue eyes, more serious and more astonished thanever, were fixed on Mr. Scogan. "Bottles?" she said. "Do youreally think so? Bottles..."