Chapter VIII.

by Aldous Huxley

  Breakfast on Sunday morning was an hour later than on week-days,and Priscilla, who usually made no public appearance beforeluncheon, honoured it by her presence. Dressed in black silk,with a ruby cross as well as her customary string of pearls roundher neck, she presided. An enormous Sunday paper concealed allbut the extreme pinnacle of her coiffure from the outer world."I see Surrey has won," she said, with her mouth full, "by fourwickets. The sun is in Leo: that would account for it!""Splendid game, cricket," remarked Mr. Barbecue-Smith heartily tono one in particular; "so thoroughly English."Jenny, who was sitting next to him, woke up suddenly with astart. "What?" she said. "What?""So English," repeated Mr. Barbecue-Smith.Jenny looked at him, surprised. "English? Of course I am."He was beginning to explain, when Mrs. Wimbush vailed her Sundaypaper, and appeared, a square, mauve-powdered face in the midstof orange splendours. "I see there's a new series of articles onthe next world just beginning," she said to Mr. Barbecue-Smith."This one's called 'Summer Land and Gehenna.'""Summer Land," echoed Mr. Barbecue-Smith, closing his eyes."Summer Land. A beautiful name. Beautiful--beautiful."Mary had taken the seat next to Denis's. After a night ofcareful consideration she had decided on Denis. He might haveless talent than Gombauld, he might be a little lacking inseriousness, but somehow he was safer."Are you writing much poetry here in the country?" she asked,with a bright gravity."None," said Denis curtly. "I haven't brought my typewriter.""But do you mean to say you can't write without a typewriter?"Denis shook his head. He hated talking at breakfast, and,besides, he wanted to hear what Mr. Scogan was saying at theother end of the table."...My scheme for dealing with the Church," Mr. Scogan wassaying, "is beautifully simple. At the present time the Anglicanclergy wear their collars the wrong way round. I would compelthem to wear, not only their collars, but all their clothes,turned back to frantic--coat, waistcoat, trousers, boots--so thatevery clergyman should present to the world a smooth facade,unbroken by stud, button, or lace. The enforcement of such alivery would act as a wholesome deterrent to those intending toenter the Church. At the same time it would enormously enhance,what Archbishop Laud so rightly insisted on, the 'beauty ofholiness' in the few incorrigibles who could not be deterred.""In hell, it seems," said Priscilla, reading in her Sunday paper,"the children amuse themselves by flaying lambs alive.""Ah, but, dear lady, that's only a symbol," exclaimed Mr.Barbecue-Smith, "a material symbol of a h-piritual truth. Lambssignify...""Then there are military uniforms," Mr. Scogan went on. "Whenscarlet and pipe-clay were abandoned for khaki, there were somewho trembled for the future of war. But then, finding howelegant the new tunic was, how closely it clipped the waist, howvoluptuously, with the lateral bustles of the pockets, itexaggerated the hips; when they realized the brilliantpotentialities of breeches and top-boots, they were reassured.Abolish these military elegances, standardise a uniform of sack-cloth and mackintosh, you will very soon find that...""Is anyone coming to church with me this morning?" asked HenryWimbush. No one responded. He baited his bare invitation. "Iread the lessons, you know. And there's Mr. Bodiham. Hissermons are sometimes worth hearing.""Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I for oneprefer to worship in the infinite church of Nature. How does ourShakespeare put it? 'Sermons in books, stones in the runningbrooks.'" He waved his arm in a fine gesture towards the window,and even as he did so he became vaguely, but none the lessinsistently, none the less uncomfortably aware that something hadgone wrong with the quotation. Something--what could it be?Sermons? Stones? Books?


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