After Many a Summer Dies the Swan

by Aldous Huxley

  “Get plans and estimates for everything else,” he ordered in a tone so gruff that he might have been delivering a reprimand. “But no martyrs. I won’t have any martyrs.”

  Almost in tears, Charlie pleaded for just one lion, just one early Christian Virgin with her hands tied behind her back—because people got such a kick out of anything to do with ropes or handcuffs. Two or three Virgins would have been much better, of course; but he’d be content with one. “Just one, Mr. Stoyte,” he implored, clasping his eloquent hands. “Only one.”

  Obstinately deaf to all his entreaties, Mr. Stoyte shook his head. “No martyrs here,” he said. “That’s final.” And to show that it was final, he threw away the butt of his cigar and got up to go.

  Five minutes later, Charlie Habakkuk was letting off steam to his secretary. The ingratitude of people! The stupidity. He’d a good mind to resign, just to show the old buzzard that they couldn’t get on without him. Not for five minutes. Who was it that had made the place what it was: the uniquest cemetery in the world? Absolutely the uniquest. Who? (Charlie slapped himself on the chest.) And who made all the money? Jo Stoyte. And what had he done to make the place a success? Absolutely nothing at all. It was enough to make you want to be a Communist. And the old devil wasn’t grateful or even decently polite. Pushing you around as though you were a bum off the streets! Well, there was one comfort: Old Jo hadn’t been looking any too good this morning. One of these days, maybe, they’d have the pleasure of burying him. Down there in the vestibule of the Columbarium, eight foot underground. And serve him right!

  It was not only that he didn’t look too good; leaning back in the car which was taking him down to Beverly Hills on his way to see Clancy, Mr. Stoyte was thinking, as he had thought so often during these last two or three weeks, that he didn’t feel too good. He’d wake up in the morning feeling kind of sluggish and heavy; and his mind didn’t seem to be as clear as it was. Obispo called it suppressed influenza and made him take those pills every night; but they didn’t seem to do him any good. He went on feeling that way just the same. And, on top of everything else, he was worrying himself sick about Virginia. The Baby was acting strange, like someone that wasn’t really there; so quiet, and not noticing anything, and starting when you spoke to her and asking what you said. Acting for all the world like one of those advertisements for Sal Hepatica or California Syrup of Figs; and that was what he’d have thought it was, if it hadn’t been for the way she went on with that Peter Boone fellow. Always talking to him at meals—and asking him to come and have a swim; and wanting to take a squint down his microscope—and what sort of a damn did she give for microscopes, he’d like to know? Throwing herself at him—that was what it had looked like on the surface. And that kind of syrup-of-figs way of acting (like people at those Quaker Meetings that Prudence used to make him go to before she took up with Christian Science)—that all fitted in. You’d say she was kind of stuck on the fellow. But then why should it have happened so suddenly? Because she’d never shown any signs of being stuck on him before. Always treated him like you’d treat a great big dog—friendly and all that, but not taking him too seriously; just a pat on the head and then, when he’d wagged his tail, thinking of something else. No, he couldn’t understand it; he just couldn’t figure it out. It looked like she was stuck on him; but then, at the same time, it looked like she just didn’t notice if he was a boy or a dog. Because that was how she was acting even now. She paid a lot of attention to him—only the way you’d pay attention to a nice big retriever. And that was what had thrown him out. If she’d been stuck on Pete in the ordinary way, then he’d have got mad, and raised hell, and thrown the boy out of the house. But how could you raise hell over a dog? How could you get mad with a girl for telling a retriever she’d like to have a squint down his microscope? You couldn’t even if you tried; because getting mad didn’t make any sense. All he’d been able to do was just worry, trying to figure things out and not being able to. There was only one thing that was clear, and that was that the Baby meant more to him than he had thought, more than he had ever believed it possible that any one should mean to him. It had begun by his just wanting her—wanting her to touch, to hold, to handle, to eat; wanting her because she was warm and smelt good; wanting her because she was young and he was old, because she was so innocent and he too tired for anything not innocence to excite. That was how it had begun; but almost immediately something else had happened. That youth of hers, that innocence and sweetness—they were more than just exciting. She was so cute and lovely and childish, he almost felt like crying over her, even while he wanted to hold and handle and devour. She did the strangest things to him—made him feel good, like you felt when you’d tanked up a bit on Scotch, and at the same time made him feel good, like you felt when you were at church, or listening to William Jennings Bryan, or making some poor kid happy by giving him a doll or something. And Virginia wasn’t just anybody’s kid, like the ones at the hospital; she was his kid, his very own. Prudence wasn’t able to have children; and at the time he’d been sore about it. But now he was glad. Because if he’d had a row of kids, they’d be standing in the way of the Baby. And Virginia meant more to him than any daughter could mean. Because even if she were only a daughter, which she wasn’t, she was probably a lot nicer than his own flesh-and-blood daughter would have been—seeing that, after all, the Stoytes were all a pretty sour-faced lot and Prudence had been kind of dumb even if she was a good woman, which she certainly was—maybe a bit too good. Whereas with the Baby everything was just right, just perfect. He had been happier since he’d known her than he’d ever been in years, With her around, things had seemed worth doing again. You didn’t have to go through life asking “why?” The reason for everything was there in front of you, wearing that cunning little yachting cap, maybe, or all dressed up with her emeralds and everything for some party with the moving picture crowd.

  And now something had happened. The reason for carrying on was being taken away from him. The Baby had changed; she was fading away from him; she had gone somewhere else. Where had she gone? And why? Why did she want to leave him? To leave him all alone. Absolutely alone, and he was an old man, and the white slab was there in the vestibule of the Columbarium, waiting for him.

  “What’s the matter, Baby?” he had asked. Time and again he had asked with anguish in his heart, too miserable to be angry, too much afraid of being left alone to care about his dignity, or his rights, about anything except keeping her, at whatever cost. “What’s the matter, Baby?”

  And all she ever did was to look at him as though she were looking at him from some place a million miles away—to look at him like that and say: Nothing; she was feeling fine; she hadn’t got anything on her mind; and, no, there wasn’t anything he could do for her, because he’d given her everything already, and she was perfectly happy.

  And if he mentioned Pete (kind of casually, so she shouldn’t think he suspected anything) she wouldn’t even bat an eyelid; just say, Yes, she liked Pete; he was a nice boy, but unsophisticated—and that made her laugh; and she liked laughing.

  “But, Baby, you’re different,” he would say; and it was difficult for him to keep his voice from breaking, he was so unhappy. “You don’t act like you used to, Baby.”

  And all she’d answer was that that was funny because she felt just the same.

  “You don’t feel the same about me,” he would say.

  And she’d say she did. And he’d say no. And she’d say it wasn’t true. Because what reasons did he have for saying she felt different about him? And of course she was quite right; there weren’t any reasons you could lay your finger on. He couldn’t honestly say she acted less affectionate, or didn’t want to let him kiss her, or anything like that. She was different because of something you couldn’t put a name to. Something in the way she looked and moved and sat around. He couldn’t describe it except by saying it was like she wasn’t really there where you thought you were looking at her, but some pla
ce else; some place where you couldn’t touch her, or talk to her, or even really see her. That was how it was. But whenever he had tried to explain it to her, she had just laughed at him and said he must be having some of those feminine intuitions you read about in stories—only his feminine intuitions were all wrong.

  And so there he’d be, back where he started from, trying to figure it out and not being able to, and worrying himself sick. Yes, worrying himself sick. Because when he’d got over feeling sluggish and heavy, like he always did in the mornings now, he felt so worried about the Baby that he’d start bawling out the servants and being rude to that god-damned Englishman and getting mad with Obispo. And the next thing that happened was that he couldn’t digest his meals. He was getting heartburn and sour stomach; and one day he had such a pain that he’d thought it was appendicitis. But Obispo had said it was just gas; because of his suppressed influenza. And then he’d got mad and told the fellow he must be a lousy doctor if he couldn’t cure a little thing like that. Which must have put the fear of God into Obispo, because he’d said, “Just give me two or three days more. That’s all I need to complete the treatment.” And he’d said that suppressed influenza was a funny thing; didn’t seem to be anything, but poisoned the whole system, so you couldn’t think straight any more; and you’d get to imagining things that weren’t really there, and worrying about them.

  Which might be true in a general way; but in this case he just knew it wasn’t all imagination. The Baby was different; he had a reason for being worried.

  Sunk in his mood of perplexed and agitated gloom, Mr. Stoyte was carried down the windings of the mountain road, through the bowery oasis of Beverly Hills and eastward (for Clancy lived in Hollywood) along Santa Monica Boulevard. Over the telephone, that morning, Clancy had put on one of his melodramatic conspirator acts. From the rigmarole of hints and dark allusions and altered names, Mr. Stoyte had gathered that the news was good. Clancy and his boys had evidently succeeded in buying up most of the best land in the San Felipe Valley. At another time, Mr. Stoyte would have exulted in his triumph; today, even the prospect of making a million or two of easy money gave him no sort of pleasure. In the world he had been reduced to inhabiting, millions were irrelevant. For what could millions do to allay his miseries? The miseries of an old, tired, empty man; of a man who had no end in life but himself, no philosophy, no knowledge but of his own interests, no appreciations, not even any friends—only a daughter-mistress, a concubine-child, frantically desired, cherished to the point of idolatry. And now this being, on whom he had relied to give significance to his life, had begun to fail him. He had come to doubt her fidelity—but to doubt without tangible reasons, to doubt in such a way that none of the ordinary satisfying reactions, of rage, of violence, of recrimination, was appropriate. The sense was going out of his life and he could do nothing; for he was in a situation with which he did not know how to deal, hopelessly bewildered. And always, in the background of his mind, there floated an image of that circular marble room, with Rodin’s image of desire at the centre, and that white slab in the pavement at its base—the slab that would someday have his name engraved upon it: Joseph Panton Stoyte, and the dates of his birth and death. And along with that inscription went another, in orange letters on a coal black ground: It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God. And meanwhile here was Clancy, conspiratorially announcing victory. Good news, good news!! A year or two from now he would be richer by another million. But the millions were in one world and the old, unhappy, frightened man was in another, and there was no communication between the two.

  Chapter IV

  JEREMY worked for a couple of hours, unpacking, examining, provisionally cataloguing, filing. There were no interesting finds this morning—merely accounts and legal documents and business letters. Stuff for Coulton and Tawney and the Hammonds; not at all his cup of tea.

  By half past twelve the weight of boredom had become too much for him. He broke off and, in search of a little spiritual refreshment turned to the Fifth Earl’s vellum-bound note-book.

  “July, 1780,” he read. “Sensuality is close allied with Sorrow, and it sometimes happens that, on account of the very sincerity of her Grief, the weeping Widow is betrayed by her own Feelings and finds herself unable to resist the importunities of the funeral Guest, who knows the Art of passing imperceptibly from Condolence to Familiarity. I myself have posthumously cuckolded a Duke and two Viscounts (one of them no later than last night) upon the very Beds from which but a few hours before, they had been borne in Pomp to the ancestral Sepulchre.”

  That was something for his mother, Jeremy reflected. The sort of thing she really adored! He had a good mind, if it wasn’t too horribly expensive, to cable it to her in a night letter.

  He returned to the note-book.

  “One of the Livings in my Gift having unexpected fallen vacant, my Sister sent to me today a young Divine whom she commends, and I believe her, for his singular Virtue. I will have no Parsons around me but such as drink deep, ride to Hounds and caress the Wives and daughters of their Parishioners. A Virtuous Parson does nothing to test or exercise the Faith of his Flock; but as I have written to my Sister, it is by Faith that we come to Salvation.”

  The next entry was dated March, 1784:

  “In old Tombs newly opened a kind of ropy Slime depends from the roof and coats the walls. It is the condensation of decay.”

  “January, 1786. Half a dozen pensées in as many years. If I am to fill a volume at this rate, I must outlast the patriarchs. I regret my sloth, but console myself with the thought that my fellow men are too contemptible for me to waste my time instructing or entertaining them.”

  Jeremy hurried over three pages of reflections on politics and economics. Under the date of March 12, 1787, he found a more interesting entry:

  “Dying is almost the least spiritual of our acts, more strictly carnal even than the act of love. There are Death Agonies that are like the strainings of the Costive at stool. Today I saw M. B. die.”

  “January 11th, 1788. This day fifty years ago I was born. From solitude in the Womb, we emerge into solitude among our Fellows, and return again to solitude within the Grave. We pass our lives in the attempt to mitigate that solitude. But Propinquity is never fusion. The most populous City is but an agglomeration of wildernesses. We exchange Words, but exchange them from prison to prison, and without hope that they will signify to others what they mean to ourselves. We marry, and there are two solitudes in the house instead of one; we beget children, and there are many solitudes. We reiterate the act of love; but again propinquity is never fusion. The most intimate contact is only of Surfaces and we couple, as I have seen the condemned Prisoners at Newgate coupling with their Trulls, between the bars of our cages. Pleasure cannot be shared; like Pain, it can only be experienced or inflicted, and when we give Pleasure to our Lovers or bestow Charity upon the Needy, we do so, not to gratify the object of our Benevolence, but only ourselves. For the Truth is that we are kind for the same reason as we are cruel, in order that we may enhance the sense of our own Power; and this we are for ever trying to do, despite the fact that by doing it we cause ourselves to feel more solitary than ever. The reality of Solitude is the same in all men, there being no mitigation of it, except in Forgetfulness, Stupidity or Illusion; but a man’s sense of Solitude is proportionate to the sense and fact of his Power. In any set of circumstances, the more Power we have, the more intensely do we feel our solitude. I have enjoyed much Power in my life.”

  “June, 1788. Captain Pavey came to pay his respects today, a round, jovial, low man, whom even his awe of me could not entirely prevent from breaking out into the vulgar Mirth which is native to him. I questioned him concerning his last Voyage, and he very minutely described for me the mode of packing the Slaves in the holds; the chains used to secure them; the feeding of them and, in calm weather, the exercising on deck, though always with Nets about the bulwarks, to prevent the more desperate from casting the
mselves into the sea; the Punishments for the refractory; the schools of hungry sharks accompanying the vessel; the scurvy and other diseases, the wearing away of the negroes’ Skin by the hardness of the planks on which they lie and the continual Motion of the waves; the Stench so horrible that even the hardiest seaman will turn pale and swoon away, if he ventures into the hold; the frequent Deaths and almost incredibly rapid Putrefaction, especially in damp Weather near the Line. When he took his leave, I made him a present of a gold snuff box. Anticipating no such favour, he was so coarsely loud in his expression of thanks and future devotion to my Interests, that I was forced to cut him short. The snuff box cost me sixty guineas; Captain Pavey’s last three Voyages have brought me upwards of forty thousand. Power and wealth increase in direct proportion to a man’s distance from the material objects from which wealth and power are ultimately derived. For every risk taken by the General Officer, the private soldier takes a hundred; and for every guinea earned by the latter the General earns a hundred. So with myself and Pavey and the Slaves. The Slaves labour in the Plantation for nothing but blows and their diet; Captain Pavey undergoes the hardships and dangers of the Sea and lives not so well as a Haberdasher or Vintner; I put my hand to nothing more material than a Banker’s draft, and a shower of gold descends upon me for my pains. In a world such as ours, a man is given but three choices. In the first place, he may do as the multitude have always done and, too stupid to be wholly a knave, mitigate his native baseness with a no less native folly. Second, he may imitate those more consummate fools who painfully deny their native Baseness in order to practise Virtue. Third, he may choose to be a man of sense—one who, knowing his native Baseness, thereby learns to make use of it and, by the act of knowledge, rises superior to it and to his more foolish Fellows. For myself, I have chosen to be a man of sense.”