Chapter XV.

by Aldous Huxley

　　"In the time of the amiable Brantome," Mr. Scogan was saying,"every debutante at the French Court was invited to dine at theKing's table, where she was served with wine in a handsome silvercup of Italian workmanship. It was no ordinary cup, this gobletof the debutantes; for, inside, it had been most curiously andingeniously engraved with a series of very lively amorous scenes.With each draught that the young lady swallowed these engravingsbecame increasingly visible, and the Court looked on withinterest, every time she put her nose in the cup, to see whethershe blushed at what the ebbing wine revealed. If the debutanteblushed, they laughed at her for her innocence; if she did not,she was laughed at for being too knowing.""Do you propose," asked Anne, "that the custom should be revivedat Buckingham Palace?""I do not," said Mr. Scogan. "I merely quoted the anecdote as anillustration of the customs, so genially frank, of the sixteenthcentury. I might have quoted other anecdotes to show that thecustoms of the seventeenth and eighteenth, of the fifteenth andfourteenth centuries, and indeed of every other century, from thetime of Hammurabi onward, were equally genial and equally frank.The only century in which customs were not characterised by thesame cheerful openness was the nineteenth, of blessed memory. Itwas the astonishing exception. And yet, with what one mustsuppose was a deliberate disregard of history, it looked upon itshorribly pregnant silences as normal and natural and right; thefrankness of the previous fifteen or twenty thousand years wasconsidered abnormal and perverse. It was a curious phenomenon.""I entirely agree." Mary panted with excitement in her effort tobring out what she had to say. "Havelock Ellis says..."Mr. Scogan, like a policeman arresting the flow of traffic, heldup his hand. "He does; I know. And that brings me to my nextpoint: the nature of the reaction.""Havelock Ellis...""The reaction, when it came--and we may say roughly that it setin a little before the beginning of this century--the reactionwas to openness, but not to the same openness as had reigned inthe earlier ages. It was to a scientific openness, not to thejovial frankness of the past, that we returned. The wholequestion of Amour became a terribly serious one. Earnest youngmen wrote in the public prints that from this time forth it wouldbe impossible ever again to make a joke of any sexual matter.Professors wrote thick books in which sex was sterilised anddissected. It has become customary for serious young women, likeMary, to discuss, with philosophic calm, matters of which themerest hint would have sufficed to throw the youth of the sixtiesinto a delirium of amorous excitement. It is all very estimable,no doubt. But still"--Mr. Scogan sighed.--"I for one should liketo see, mingled with this scientific ardour, a little more of thejovial spirit of Rabelais and Chaucer.""I entirely disagree with you," said Mary. "Sex isn't a laughingmatter; it's serious.""Perhaps," answered Mr. Scogan, "perhaps I'm an obscene old man.For I must confess that I cannot always regard it as whollyserious.""But I tell you..." began Mary furiously. Her face had flushedwith excitement. Her cheeks were the cheeks of a great ripepeach."Indeed," Mr. Scogan continued, "it seems to me one of fewpermanently and everlastingly amusing subjects that exist. Amouris the one human activity of any importance in which laughter andpleasure preponderate, if ever so slightly, over misery andpain.""I entirely disagree," said Mary. There was a silence.Anne looked at her watch. "Nearly a quarter to eight," she said."I wonder when Ivor will turn up." She got up from her deck-chair and, leaning her elbows on the balustrade of the terrace,looked out over the valley and towards the farther hills. Underthe level evening light the architecture of the land revealeditself. The deep shadows, the bright contrasting lights gave thehills a new solidity. Irregularities of the surface, unsuspectedbefore, were picked out with light and shade. The grass, thecorn, the foliage of trees were stippled with intricate shadows.The surface of things had taken on a marvellous enrichment."Look!" said Anne suddenly, and pointed. On the opposite side ofthe valley, at the crest of the ridge, a cloud of dust flushed bythe sunlight to rosy gold was moving rapidly along the sky-line."It's Ivor. One can tell by the speed."The dust cloud descended into the valley and was lost. A hornwith the voice of a sea-lion made itself heard, approaching. Aminute later Ivor came leaping round the corner of the house.His hair waved in the wind of his own speed; he laughed as he sawthem."Anne, darling," he cried, and embraced her, embraced Mary, verynearly embraced Mr. Scogan. "Well, here I am. I've come withincredulous speed." Ivor's vocabulary was rich, but a littleerratic. "I'm not late for dinner, am I?" He hoisted himself upon to the balustrade, and sat there, kicking his heels. With onearm he embraced a large stone flower-pot, leaning his headsideways against its hard and lichenous flanks in an attitude oftrustful affection. He had brown, wavy hair, and his eyes wereof a very brilliant, pale, improbable blue. His head was narrow,his face thin and rather long, his nose aquiline. In old age--though it was difficult to imagine Ivor old--he might grow tohave an Iron Ducal grimness. But now, at twenty-six, it was notthe structure of his face that impressed one; it was itsexpression. That was charming and vivacious, and his smile wasan irradiation. He was forever moving, restlessly and rapidly,but with an engaging gracefulness. His frail and slender bodyseemed to be fed by a spring of inexhaustible energy."No, you're not late.""You're in time to answer a question," said Mr. Scogan. "We werearguing whether Amour were a serious matter or no. What do youthink? Is it serious?""Serious?" echoed Ivor. "Most certainly.""I told you so," cried Mary triumphantly."But in what sense serious?" Mr. Scogan asked."I mean as an occupation. One can go on with it without evergetting bored.""I see," said Mr. Scogan. "Perfectly.""One can occupy oneself with it," Ivor continued, "always andeverywhere. Women are always wonderfully the same. Shapes varya little, that's all. In Spain"--with his free hand he describeda series of ample curves--"one can't pass them on the stairs. InEngland"--he put the tip of his forefinger against the tip of histhumb and, lowering his hand, drew out this circle into animaginary cylinder--"In England they're tubular. But theirsentiments are always the same. At least, I've always found itso.""I'm delighted to hear it," said Mr. Scogan.