Chapter X.

by Aldous Huxley

　　Denis did not dance, but when ragtime came squirting out of thepianola in gushes of treacle and hot perfume, in jets of Bengallight, then things began to dance inside him. Little blacknigger corpuscles jigged and drummed in his arteries. He becamea cage of movement, a walking palais de danse. It was veryuncomfortable, like the preliminary symptoms of a disease. Hesat in one of the window-seats, glumly pretending to read.At the pianola, Henry Wimbush, smoking a long cigar through atunnelled pillar of amber, trod out the shattering dance musicwith serene patience. Locked together, Gombauld and Anne movedwith a harmoniousness that made them seem a single creature, two-headed and four-legged. Mr. Scogan, solemnly buffoonish,shuffled round the room with Mary. Jenny sat in the shadowbehind the piano, scribbling, so it seemed, in a big rednotebook. In arm-chairs by the fireplace, Priscilla and Mr.Barbecue-Smith discussed higher things, without, apparently,being disturbed by the noise on the Lower Plane."Optimism," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith with a tone of finality,speaking through strains of the "Wild, Wild Women"--"optimism isthe opening out of the soul towards the light; it is an expansiontowards and into God, it is a h-piritual self-unification withthe Infinite.""How true!" sighed Priscilla, nodding the baleful splendours ofher coiffure."Pessimism, on the other hand, is the contraction of the soultowards darkness; it is a focusing of the self upon a point inthe Lower Plane; it is a h-piritual slavery to mere facts; togross physical phenomena.""They're making a wild man of me." The refrain sang itself overin Denis's mind. Yes, they were; damn them! A wild man, but notwild enough; that was the trouble. Wild inside; raging,writhing--yes, "writhing" was the word, writhing with desire.But outwardly he was hopelessly tame; outwardly--baa, baa, baa.There they were, Anne and Gombauld, moving together as thoughthey were a single supple creature. The beast with two backs.And he sat in a corner, pretending to read, pretending he didn'twant to dance, pretending he rather despised dancing. Why? Itwas the baa-baa business again.Why was he born with a different face? Why was he? Gombauld hada face of brass--one of those old, brazen rams that thumpedagainst the walls of cities till they fell. He was born with adifferent face--a woolly face.The music stopped. The single harmonious creature broke in two.Flushed, a little breathless, Anne swayed across the room to thepianola, laid her hand on Mr. Wimbush's shoulder."A waltz this time, please, Uncle Henry," she said."A waltz," he repeated, and turned to the cabinet where the rollswere kept. He trod off the old roll and trod on the new, a slaveat the mill, uncomplaining and beautifully well bred. "Rum; Tum;Rum-ti-ti; Tum-ti-ti..." The melody wallowed oozily along, likea ship moving forward over a sleek and oily swell. The four-legged creature, more graceful, more harmonious in its movementsthan ever, slid across the floor. Oh, why was he born with adifferent face?"What are you reading?"He looked up, startled. It was Mary. She had broken from theuncomfortable embrace of Mr. Scogan, who had now seized on Jennyfor his victim."What are you reading?""I don't know," said Denis truthfully. He looked at the titlepage; the book was called "The Stock Breeder's Vade Mecum.""I think you are so sensible to sit and read quietly," said Mary,fixing him with her china eyes. "I don't know why one dances.It's so boring."Denis made no reply; she exacerbated him. From the arm-chair bythe fireplace he heard Priscilla's deep voice."Tell me, Mr Barbecue-Smith--you know all about science, Iknow--" A deprecating noise came from Mr. Barbecue-Smith'schair. "This Einstein theory. It seems to upset the wholestarry universe. It makes me so worried about my horoscopes.You see..."Mary renewed her attack. "Which of the contemporary poets do youlike best?" she asked. Denis was filled with fury. Why couldn'tthis pest of a girl leave him alone? He wanted to listen to thehorrible music, to watch them dancing--oh, with what grace, asthough they had been made for one another!--to savour his miseryin peace. And she came and put him through this absurdcatechism! She was like "Mangold's Questions": "What are thethree diseases of wheat?"--"Which of the contemporary poets doyou like best?""Blight, Mildew, and Smut," he replied, with the laconism of onewho is absolutely certain of his own mind.It was several hours before Denis managed to go to sleep thatnight. Vague but agonising miseries possessed his mind. It wasnot only Anne who made him miserable; he was wretched abouthimself, the future, life in general, the universe. "Thisadolescence business," he repeated to himself every now and then,"is horribly boring. But the fact that he knew his disease didnot help him to cure it.After kicking all the clothes off the bed, he got up and soughtrelief in composition. He wanted to imprison his nameless miseryin words. At the end of an hour, nine more or less completelines emerged from among the blots and scratchings."I do not know what I desireWhen summer nights are dark and still,When the wind's many-voiced quireSleeps among the muffled branches.I long and know not what I will:And not a sound of life or laughter stanchesTime's black and silent flow.I do not know what I desire,I do not know."He read it through aloud; then threw the scribbled sheet into thewaste-paper basket and got into bed again. In a very few minuteshe was asleep.