Chapter VII.

by Aldous Huxley

　　At Crome all the beds were ancient hereditary pieces offurniture. Huge beds, like four-masted ships, with furled sailsof shining coloured stuff. Beds carved and inlaid, beds paintedand gilded. Beds of walnut and oak, of rare exotic woods. Bedsof every date and fashion from the time of Sir Ferdinando, whobuilt the house, to the time of his namesake in the lateeighteenth century, the last of the family, but all of themgrandiose, magnificent.The finest of all was now Anne's bed. Sir Julius, son to SirFerdinando, had had it made in Venice against his wife's firstlying-in. Early seicento Venice had expended all its extravagantart in the making of it. The body of the bed was like a greatsquare sarcophagus. Clustering roses were carved in high reliefon its wooden panels, and luscious putti wallowed among theroses. On the black ground-work of the panels the carved reliefswere gilded and burnished. The golden roses twined in spirals upthe four pillar-like posts, and cherubs, seated at the top ofeach column, supported a wooden canopy fretted with the samecarved flowers.Anne was reading in bed. Two candles stood on the little tablebeside her, in their rich light her face, her bare arm andshoulder took on warm hues and a sort of peach-like quality ofsurface. Here and there in the canopy above her carved goldenpetals shone brightly among profound shadows, and the soft light,falling on the sculptured panel of the bed, broke restlesslyamong the intricate roses, lingered in a broad caress on theblown cheeks, the dimpled bellies, the tight, absurd littleposteriors of the sprawling putti.There was a discreet tap at the door. She looked up. "Come in,come in." A face, round and childish, within its sleek bell ofgolden hair, peered round the opening door. More childish-looking still, a suit of mauve pyjamas made its entrance.It was Mary. "I thought I'd just look in for a moment to saygood-night," she said, and sat down on the edge of the bed.Anne closed her book. "That was very sweet of you.""What are you reading?" She looked at the book. "Rather second-rate, isn't it?" The tone in which Mary pronounced the word"second-rate" implied an almost infinite denigration. She wasaccustomed in London to associate only with first-rate people wholiked first-rate things, and she knew that there were very, veryfew first-rate things in the world, and that those were mostlyFrench."Well, I'm afraid I like it," said Anne. There was nothing moreto be said. The silence that followed was a rather uncomfortableone. Mary fiddled uneasily with the bottom button of her pyjamajacket. Leaning back on her mound of heaped-up pillows, Annewaited and wondered what was coming."I'm so awfully afraid of repressions," said Mary at last,bursting suddenly and surprisingly into speech. She pronouncedthe words on the tail-end of an expiring breath, and had to gaspfor new air almost before the phrase was finished."What's there to be depressed about?""I said repressions, not depressions.""Oh, repressions; I see," said Anne. "But repressions of what?"Mary had to explain. "The natural instincts of sex..." she begandidactically. But Anne cut her short."Yes, yes. Perfectly. I understand. Repressions! old maids andall the rest. But what about them?""That's just it," said Mary. "I'm afraid of them. It's alwaysdangerous to repress one's instincts. I'm beginning to detect inmyself symptoms like the ones you read of in the books. Iconstantly dream that I'm falling down wells; and sometimes Ieven dream that I'm climbing up ladders. It's most disquieting.The symptoms are only too clear.""Are they?""One may become a nymphomaniac of one's not careful. You've noidea how serious these repressions are if you don't get rid ofthem in time.""It sounds too awful," said Anne. "But I don't see that I can doanything to help you.""I thought I'd just like to talk it over with you.""Why, of course; I'm only too happy, Mary darling."Mary coughed and drew a deep breath. "I presume," she begansententiously, "I presume we may take for granted that anintelligent young woman of twenty-three who has lived incivilised society in the twentieth century has no prejudices.""Well, I confess I still have a few.""But not about repressions.""No, not many about repressions; that's true.""Or, rather, about getting rid of repressions.""Exactly.""So much for our fundamental postulate," said Mary. Solemnitywas expressed in every feature of her round young face, radiatedfrom her large blue eyes. "We come next to the desirability ofpossessing experience. I hope we are agreed that knowledge isdesirable and that ignorance is undesirable."Obedient as one of those complaisant disciples from whom Socratescould get whatever answer he chose, Anne gave her assent to thisproposition."And we are equally agreed, I hope, that marriage is what it is.""It is.""Good!" said Mary. "And repressions being what they are...""Exactly.""There would therefore seem to be only one conclusion.""But I knew that," Anne exclaimed, "before you began.""Yes, but now it's been proved," said Mary. "One must do thingslogically. The question is now...""But where does the question come in? You've reached your onlypossible conclusion--logically, which is more than I could havedone. All that remains is to impart the information to someoneyou like--someone you like really rather a lot, someone you're inlove with, if I may express myself so baldly.""But that's just where the question comes in," Mary exclaimed."I'm not in love with anybody.""Then, if I were you, I should wait till you are.""But I can't go on dreaming night after night that I'm fallingdown a well. It's too dangerous.""Well, if it really is too dangerous, then of course you must dosomething about it; you must find somebody else.""But who?" A thoughtful frown puckered Mary's brow. "It must besomebody intelligent, somebody with intellectual interests that Ican share. And it must be somebody with a proper respect forwomen, somebody who's prepared to talk seriously about his workand his ideas and about my work and my ideas. It isn't, as yousee, at all easy to find the right person.""Well" said Anne, "there are three unattached and intelligent menin the house at the present time. There's Mr. Scogan, to beginwith; but perhaps he's rather too much of a genuine antique. Andthere are Gombauld and Denis. Shall we say that the choice islimited to the last two?"Mary nodded. "I think we had better," she said, and thenhesitated, with a certain air of embarrassment."What is it?""I was wondering," said Mary, with a gasp, "whether they reallywere unattached. I thought that perhaps you might...youmight...""It was very nice of you to think of me, Mary darling," saidAnne, smiling the tight cat's smile. "But as far as I'mconcerned, they are both entirely unattached.""I'm very glad of that," said Mary, looking relieved. "We arenow confronted with the question: Which of the two?""I can give no advice. It's a matter for your taste.""It's not a matter of my taste," Mary pronounced, "but of theirmerits. We must weigh them and consider them carefully anddispassionately.""You must do the weighing yourself," said Anne; there was stillthe trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth and round thehalf-closed eyes. "I won't run the risk of advising youwrongly.""Gombauld has more talent," Mary began, "but he is less civilisedthan Denis." Mary's pronunciation of "civilised" gave the word aspecial and additional significance. She uttered itmeticulously, in the very front of her mouth, hissing delicatelyon the opening sibilant. So few people were civilised, and they,like the first-rate works of art, were mostly French."Civilisation is most important, don't you think?"Anne held up her hand. "I won't advise," she said. "You mustmake the decision.""Gombauld's family," Mary went on reflectively, "comes fromMarseilles. Rather a dangerous heredity, when one thinks of theLatin attitude towards women. But then, I sometimes wonderwhether Denis is altogether serious-minded, whether he isn'trather a dilettante. It's very difficult. What do you think?""I'm not listening," said Anne. "I refuse to take anyresponsibility."Mary sighed. "Well," she said, "I think I had better go to bedand think about it.""Carefully and dispassionately," said Anne.At the door Mary turned round. "Good-night," she said, andwondered as she said the words why Anne was smiling in thatcurious way. It was probably nothing, she reflected. Anne oftensmiled for no apparent reason; it was probably just a habit. "Ihope I shan't dream of falling down wells again to-night," sheadded."Ladders are worse," said Anne.Mary nodded. "Yes, ladders are much graver."