Chapter XXVII.

by Aldous Huxley

　　Mr. Scogan had been accommodated in a little canvas hut. Dressedin a black skirt and a red bodice, with a yellow-and-red bandanahandkerchief tied round his black wig, he looked--sharp-nosed,brown, and wrinkled--like the Bohemian Hag of Frith's Derby Day.A placard pinned to the curtain of the doorway announced thepresence within the tent of "Sesostris, the Sorceress ofEcbatana." Seated at a table, Mr. Scogan received his clients inmysterious silence, indicating with a movement of the finger thatthey were to sit down opposite him and to extend their hands forhis inspection. He then examined the palm that was presentedhim, using a magnifying glass and a pair of horn spectacles. Hehad a terrifying way of shaking his head, frowning and clickingwith his tongue as he looked at the lines. Sometimes he wouldwhisper, as though to himself, "Terrible, terrible!" or "Godpreserve us!" sketching out the sign of the cross as he utteredthe words. The clients who came in laughing grew suddenly grave;they began to take the witch seriously. She was a formidable-looking woman; could it be, was it possible, that there wassomething in this sort of thing after all? After all, theythought, as the hag shook her head over their hands, afterall...And they waited, with an uncomfortably beating heart, forthe oracle to speak. After a long and silent inspection, Mr.Scogan would suddenly look up and ask, in a hoarse whisper, somehorrifying question, such as, "Have you ever been hit on the headwith a hammer by a young man with red hair?" When the answer wasin the negative, which it could hardly fail to be, Mr. Scoganwould nod several times, saying, "I was afraid so. Everything isstill to come, still to come, though it can't be very far offnow." Sometimes, after a long examination, he would justwhisper, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," andrefuse to divulge any details of a future too appalling to beenvisaged without despair. Sesostris had a success of horror.People stood in a queue outside the witch's booth waiting for theprivilege of hearing sentence pronounced upon them.Denis, in the course of his round, looked with curiosity at thiscrowd of suppliants before the shrine of the oracle. He had agreat desire to see how Mr. Scogan played his part. The canvasbooth was a rickety, ill-made structure. Between its walls andits sagging roof were long gaping chinks and crannies. Deniswent to the tea-tent and borrowed a wooden bench and a smallUnion Jack. With these he hurried back to the booth ofSesostris. Setting down the bench at the back of the booth, heclimbed up, and with a great air of busy efficiency began to tiethe Union Jack to the top of one of the tent-poles. Through thecrannies in the canvas he could see almost the whole of theinterior of the tent. Mr. Scogan's bandana-covered head was justbelow him; his terrifying whispers came clearly up. Denis lookedand listened while the witch prophesied financial losses, deathby apoplexy, destruction by air-raids in the next war."Is there going to be another war?" asked the old lady to whom hehad predicted this end."Very soon," said Mr. Scogan, with an air of quiet confidence.The old lady was succeeded by a girl dressed in white muslin,garnished with pink ribbons. She was wearing a broad hat, sothat Denis could not see her face; but from her figure and theroundness of her bare arms he judged her young and pleasing. Mr.Scogan looked at her hand, then whispered, "You are stillvirtuous."The young lady giggled and exclaimed, "Oh, lor'!""But you will not remain so for long," added Mr. Scogansepulchrally. The young lady giggled again. "Destiny, whichinterests itself in small things no less than in great, hasannounced the fact upon your hand." Mr. Scogan took up themagnifying-glass and began once more to examine the white palm."Very interesting," he said, as though to himself--"veryinteresting. It's as clear as day." He was silent."What's clear?" asked the girl."I don't think I ought to tell you." Mr. Scogan shook his head;the pendulous brass ear-rings which he had screwed on to his earstinkled."Please, please!," she implored.The witch seemed to ignore her remark. "Afterwards, it's not atall clear. The fates don't say whether you will settle down tomarried life and have four children or whether you will try to goon the cinema and have none. They are only specific about thisone rather crucial incident.""What is it? What is it? Oh, do tell me!"The white muslin figure leant eagerly forward.Mr. Scogan sighed. "Very well," he said, "if you must know, youmust know. But if anything untoward happens you must blame yourown curiosity. Listen. Listen." He lifted up a sharp, claw-nailed forefinger. "This is what the fates have written. NextSunday afternoon at six o'clock you will be sitting on the secondstile on the footpath that leads from the church to the lowerroad. At that moment a man will appear walking along thefootpath." Mr. Scogan looked at her hand again as though torefresh his memory of the details of the scene. "A man," herepeated--"a small man with a sharp nose, not exactly goodlooking nor precisely young, but fascinating." He lingeredhissingly over the word. "He will ask you, 'Can you tell me theway to Paradise?' and you will answer, 'Yes, I'll show you,' andwalk with him down towards the little hazel copse. I cannot readwhat will happen after that." There was a silence."Is it really true?" asked white muslin.The witch gave a shrug of the shoulders. "I merely tell you whatI read in your hand. Good afternoon. That will be sixpence.Yes, I have change. Thank you. Good afternoon."Denis stepped down from the bench; tied insecurely and crookedlyto the tentpole, the Union Jack hung limp on the windless air."If only I could do things like that!" he thought, as he carriedthe bench back to the tea-tent.Anne was sitting behind a long table filling thick white cupsfrom an urn. A neat pile of printed sheets lay before her on thetable. Denis took one of them and looked at it affectionately.It was his poem. They had printed five hundred copies, and verynice the quarto broadsheets looked."Have you sold many?" he asked in a casual tone.Anne put her head on one side deprecatingly. "Only three so far,I'm afraid. But I'm giving a free copy to everyone who spendsmore than a shilling on his tea. So in any case it's having acirculation."Denis made no reply, but walked slowly away. He looked at thebroadsheet in his hand and read the lines to himself relishinglyas he walked along:"This day of roundabouts and swings,Struck weights, shied cocoa-nuts, tossed rings,Switchbacks, Aunt Sallies, and all such smallHigh jinks--you call it ferial?A holiday? But paper nosesSniffed the artificial rosesOf round Venetian cheeks through halfEach carnival year, and masks might laughAt things the naked face for shameWould blush at--laugh and think no blame.A holiday? But Galba showedElephants on an airy road;Jumbo trod the tightrope then,And in the circus armed menStabbed home for sport and died to breakThose dull imperatives that makeA prison of every working day,Where all must drudge and all obey.Sing Holiday! You do not knowHow to be free. The Russian snowflowered with bright blood whose roses spreadPetals of fading, fading redThat died into the snow again,Into the virgin snow; and menFrom all ancient bonds were freed.Old law, old custom, and old creed,Old right and wrong there bled to death;The frozen air received their breath,A little smoke that died away;And round about them where they layThe snow bloomed roses. Blood was thereA red gay flower and only fair.Sing Holiday! Beneath the TreeOf Innocence and Liberty,Paper Nose and Red CockadeDance within the magic shadeThat makes them drunken, merry, and strongTo laugh and sing their ferial song:'Free, free...!'But Echo answersFaintly to the laughing dancers,'Free'--and faintly laughs, and still,Within the hollows of the hill,Faintlier laughs and whispers, 'Free,'Fadingly, diminishingly:'Free,' and laughter faints away...Sing Holiday! Sing Holiday!"He folded the sheet carefully and put it in his pocket. Thething had its merits. Oh, decidedly, decidedly! But howunpleasant the crowd smelt! He lit a cigarette. The smell ofcows was preferable. He passed through the gate in the park wallinto the garden. The swimming-pool was a centre of noise andactivity."Second Heat in the Young Ladies' Championship." It was thepolite voice of Henry Wimbush. A crowd of sleek, seal-likefigures in black bathing-dresses surrounded him. His grey bowlerhat, smooth, round, and motionless in the midst of a moving sea,was an island of aristocratic calm.Holding his tortoise-shell-rimmed pince-nez an inch or two infront of his eyes, he read out names from a list."Miss Dolly Miles, Miss Rebecca Balister, Miss Doris Gabell..."Five young persons ranged themselves on the brink. From theirseats of honour at the other end of the pool, old Lord Moleyn andMr. Callamay looked on with eager interest.Henry Wimbush raised his hand. There was an expectant silence."When I say 'Go,' go. Go!" he said. There was an almostsimultaneous splash.Denis pushed his way through the spectators. Somebody pluckedhim by the sleeve; he looked down. It was old Mrs. Budge."Delighted to see you again, Mr. Stone," she said in her rich,husky voice. She panted a little as she spoke, like a short-winded lap-dog. It was Mrs. Budge who, having read in the "DailyMirror" that the Government needed peach stones--what they neededthem for she never knew--had made the collection of peach stonesher peculiar "bit" of war work. She had thirty-six peach treesin her walled garden, as well as four hot-houses in which treescould be forced, so that she was able to eat peaches practicallythe whole year round. In 1916 she ate 4200 peaches, and sent thestones to the Government. In 1917 the military authoritiescalled up three of her gardeners, and what with this and the factthat it was a bad year for wall fruit, she only managed to eat2900 peaches during that crucial period of the nationaldestinies. In 1918 she did rather better, for between January1st and the date of the Armistice she ate 3300 peaches. Sincethe Armistice she had relaxed her efforts; now she did not eatmore than two or three peaches a day. Her constitution, shecomplained, had suffered; but it had suffered for a good cause.Denis answered her greeting by a vague and polite noise."So nice to see the young people enjoying themselves," Mrs. Budgewent on. "And the old people too, for that matter. Look at oldLord Moleyn and dear Mr. Callamay. Isn't it delightful to seethe way they enjoy themselves?"Denis looked. He wasn't sure whether it was so very delightfulafter all. Why didn't they go and watch the sack races? The twoold gentlemen were engaged at the moment in congratulating thewinner of the race; it seemed an act of supererogatorygraciousness; for, after all, she had only won a heat."Pretty little thing, isn't she?" said Mrs. Budge huskily, andpanted two or three times."Yes," Denis nodded agreement. Sixteen, slender, but nubile, hesaid to himself, and laid up the phrase in his memory as a happyone. Old Mr. Callamay had put on his spectacles to congratulatethe victor, and Lord Moleyn, leaning forward over his walking-stick, showed his long ivory teeth, hungrily smiling."Capital performance, capital," Mr. Callamay was saying in hisdeep voice.The victor wriggled with embarrassment. She stood with her handsbehind her back, rubbing one foot nervously on the other. Herwet bathing-dress shone, a torso of black polished marble."Very good indeed," said Lord Moleyn. His voice seemed to comefrom just behind his teeth, a toothy voice. It was as though adog should suddenly begin to speak. He smiled again, Mr.Callamay readjusted his spectacles."When I say 'Go,' go. Go!"Splash! The third heat had started."Do you know, I never could learn to swim," said Mrs. Budge."Really?""But I used to be able to float."Denis imagined her floating--up and down, up and down on a greatgreen swell. A blown black bladder; no, that wasn't good, thatwasn't good at all. A new winner was being congratulated. Shewas atrociously stubby and fat. The last one, long andharmoniously, continuously curved from knee to breast, had beenan Eve by Cranach; but this, this one was a bad Rubens."...go--go--go!" Henry Wimbush's polite level voice once morepronounced the formula. Another batch of young ladies dived in.Grown a little weary of sustaining a conversation with Mrs.Budge, Denis conveniently remembered that his duties as a stewardcalled him elsewhere. He pushed out through the lines ofspectators and made his way along the path left clear behindthem. He was thinking again that his soul was a pale, tenuousmembrane, when he was startled by hearing a thin, sibilant voice,speaking apparently from just above his head, pronounce thesingle word "Disgusting!"He looked up sharply. The path along which he was walking passedunder the lee of a wall of clipped yew. Behind the hedge theground sloped steeply up towards the foot of the terrace and thehouse; for one standing on the higher ground it was easy to lookover the dark barrier. Looking up, Denis saw two headsovertopping the hedge immediately above him. He recognised theiron mask of Mr. Bodiham and the pale, colourless face of hiswife. They were looking over his head, over the heads of thespectators, at the swimmers in the pond."Disgusting!" Mrs. Bodiham repeated, hissing softly.The rector turned up his iron mask towards the solid cobalt ofthe sky. "How long?" he said, as though to himself; "how long?"He lowered his eyes again, and they fell on Denis's upturnedcurious face. There was an abrupt movement, and Mr. and Mrs.Bodiham popped out of sight behind the hedge.Denis continued his promenade. He wandered past the merry-go-round, through the thronged streets of the canvas village; themembrane of his soul flapped tumultuously in the noise andlaughter. In a roped-off space beyond, Mary was directing thechildren's sports. Little creatures seethed round about her,making a shrill, tinny clamour; others clustered about the skirtsand trousers of their parents. Mary's face was shining in theheat; with an immense output of energy she started a three-leggedrace. Denis looked on in admiration."You're wonderful," he said, coming up behind her and touchingher on the arm. "I've never seen such energy."She turned towards him a face, round, red, and honest as thesetting sun; the golden bell of her hair swung silently as shemoved her head and quivered to rest."Do you know, Denis," she said, in a low, serious voice, gaspinga little as she spoke--"do you know that there's a woman here whohas had three children in thirty-one months?""Really," said Denis, making rapid mental calculations."It's appalling. I've been telling her about the MalthusianLeague. One really ought..."But a sudden violent renewal of the metallic yelling announcedthe fact that somebody had won the race. Mary became once morethe centre of a dangerous vortex. It was time, Denis thought, tomove on; he might be asked to do something if he stayed too long.He turned back towards the canvas village. The thought of teawas making itself insistent in his mind. Tea, tea, tea. But thetea-tent was horribly thronged. Anne, with an unusual expressionof grimness on her flushed face, was furiously working the handleof the urn; the brown liquid spurted incessantly into theproffered cups. Portentous, in the farther corner of the tent,Priscilla, in her royal toque, was encouraging the villagers. Ina momentary lull Denis could hear her deep, jovial laughter andher manly voice. Clearly, he told himself, this was no place forone who wanted tea. He stood irresolute at the entrance to thetent. A beautiful thought suddenly came to him; if he went backto the house, went unobtrusively, without being observed, if hetiptoed into the dining-room and noiselessly opened the littledoors of the sideboard--ah, then! In the cool recess within hewould find bottles and a siphon; a bottle of crystal gin and aquart of soda water, and then for the cups that inebriate as wellas cheer...A minute later he was walking briskly up the shady yew-tree walk.Within the house it was deliciously quiet and cool. Carrying hiswell-filled tumbler with care, he went into the library. There,the glass on the corner of the table beside him, he settled intoa chair with a volume of Sainte-Beuve. There was nothing, hefound, like a Causerie du Lundi for settling and soothing thetroubled spirits. That tenuous membrane of his had been toorudely buffeted by the afternoon's emotions; it required a rest.