Chapter 19 Chapter Eighteen

The door was ajar and the two of them entered. "John!" An unpleasant, his own voice came from the bathroom. "Is something wrong?" Helmholtz called. no answer.The unpleasant sound came again, twice.There is no sound.The bathroom door clicked open.In came the Savage, very pale. "I tell you," said Helmholtz with concern, "you do have a sick look on your face, John!" "Did you eat anything that didn't work?" Bernard asked. The Savage nodded. "I ate civilization." "what did you eat?" "I'm poisoned; tainted. And," he said, lowering his voice, "I swallow my own evil."

"That's right, but what happened... I mean you were..." "I have washed myself now," said the Savage, "and I have had mustard in warm water." The two stared at him in amazement. "You mean you did it on purpose?" Bernard asked. "That's how Indians wash themselves." He sat down, sighed, and wiped his forehead with his hand. "I'm going to rest for a few minutes," he said. "I'm pretty tired." "Well, I'm not surprised," Helmholtz said after a moment of silence. "We came to say goodbye." He changed his tone and continued, "Tomorrow we will leave."

"Yes, we're leaving tomorrow," said Bernard.The Savage saw in his face an expression of complete resignation. "By the way, John," he leaned forward in his chair, and put his hand on Savage's knee, "I'm going to say how sorry I am for what happened yesterday," he blushed, "how ashamed ,” said with a trembling voice, “how much…” The Savage interrupted him, grabbed his hand emotionally, and squeezed it. "Helmholtz has been very kind to me," Bernard went on after a pause, "without him I would have..." "All right, all right," protested Helmholtz.

silence.The three young men cheered up despite their pain, because their pain came from their love for each other. "I went to see the President this morning," said the Savage at last. "I asked him if I could go to the island with you." "What did he say?" Helmholtz asked impatiently. The Savage shook his head. "He won't let me go." "Why not?" "He said he wanted to keep doing the experiment, but I'm not going to do it the hell out of it," the Savage suddenly lost his temper. "I don't want to be a goddam guinea pig for him. Even if all the presidents of the world come I won't do it if you beg me. I'll leave tomorrow too."

"But where are you going?" they both asked at the same time. The Savage shrugged. "I can go anywhere, I don't care. Just be alone." The descending route is from Guildford along the Way Valley to Godaming, via Milford, Waitery to Hansmere, and then through Petersfield to Portsmouth.A roughly parallel ascent goes through Worpreston, East Rock, Boltonham, Elster and Gretha.The two routes are within six or seven kilometers of each other at several points between Boar's Back and Red Buck's Head.That's too close for careless drivers—especially at night when they've swallowed an extra half gram of soma.There have been several accidents, serious accidents.So it was decided to move the uplink a few kilometers to the west.This left four lighthouses at Gretha and East Rock, marking the old flight line from Portsmouth to London.The sky over the lighthouse is quiet and deserted.The helicopters were buzzing and roaring over Selborne, Bolton and Farnham at this moment.

The hermitage chosen by the savage was an old lighthouse perched on top of a hill between Boltonham and Elster.The building is made of steel and concrete, and it is still in good condition.The savages who first explored the place had found it too comfortable, civilized to an almost luxurious degree.But he promised himself that he would make up for it with stricter self-discipline and a more radical cleansing, so as to appease his conscience.He purposely did not sleep the first night in the hermitage, but spent hour after hour on his knees praying, now to the sinful Heaven that had begged for forgiveness, now to Awonavirona in Zuni, and now Pray to Jesus and Pugong, and sometimes to his guardian creature, the falcon.He stretched out his arms from time to time, as if on a cross. He didn't move for a long time, and the stretched arms hurt, and the pain became more and more painful. The pain was trembling, which was unbearable.He stretched out his hands and voluntarily went to the cross, clenching his teeth at the same time, sweating from the pain. "Oh, forgive me! Oh, keep me chaste! Help me to be good!" he repeated, until he nearly fainted with pain.

In the morning he felt he had earned his right to live in the lighthouse, though most of the windows were still glass, and the view from the platform was wonderful.The reasons that had led him to choose the lighthouse almost immediately led him another way.He chose to live there because of its beauty, and because from his vantage point it seemed to be possible to see the divine body.But what kind of person is he, to be so pampered, to enjoy such beautiful scenery every day?What kind of man was he to live with the body of God?He is only fit to live in a dirty pigsty or a black hole in the ground.Due to the torment of the long night, his body was still stiff, and the lingering pain was still there, and it was precisely because of this that he felt his conscience was at ease.He climbed up to the platform of the tower and looked towards the bright world of the rising sun. He had regained the right to live here.The view to the north is framed by the chalky mountains that wind along the back of the boar.There are seven skyscrapers behind the eastern end of the group, which is Guildford.The Savage smiles bitterly at the sight of those buildings, but in time he must live in harmony with them, for at night either their geometric stars blink merrily, or they floodlight like Glowing fingers point to the deep and mysterious sky.The significance of that gesture was, perhaps, unknown to anyone but a savage in England.

Boltonham is a small, unremarkable village in the gorge, between Boar's Back and the hill on which his lighthouse stands.Nine floors, with cylindrical granaries, a poultry farm and a small vitamin D factory.To the south of the lighthouse is a long, gentle slope covered with heather, which gradually descends and connects with a series of ponds. Behind the forest beyond the pond stands the fourteen-story Elster Building.The red stag's head and Selborne loomed in the hazy air of England, drawing the eyes to the romantic blue distance.But it wasn't just the vista that drew the Savage to his lighthouse. It was the close-up that fascinated him as well.The woods, the great expanses of heather and yellow gorse, and the gleaming pools, shaded by patches of Scotch fir and beech, with water-lilies and rushes--these were all very beautiful. , they are all startling to the dull eye accustomed to the deserts of America.Not to mention loneliness!Days passed, and he didn't see a single person.The lighthouse is only a quarter of an hour's flight from Charing T, but this Surrey moor is wilder than the mountains of Malpais.People left London in batches, but only to play electromagnetic golf or tennis.Bottonham has no golf course, and the nearest Riemann course is far away in Guildford.The only attractive thing here is the view of wild flowers.Since there is no good reason to come here, there are no tourists here.In the first days the savage lived a solitary life, undisturbed.

John had received a personal allowance when he first arrived in London, most of which had been spent on equipment.Before leaving London he bought four faux fur blankets, thick rope, string, nails, glue, a few tools, matches (though he plans to make a fire drill when the time comes), jars, plates, twenty-four bags of various seeds and ten kilos of flour. "No, no synthetic starch and waste cotton flour substitute," he once insisted, "although that would be more nutritious." But when it came to pan-glandular biscuits and vitamin-added beef substitute, he gave in under the persuasion of his boss.Looking at the cans now, he strongly condemned his own weakness.Hateful product of civilization.He made up his mind not to eat those things even if he was hungry. "That would be an education for them," he thought vindictively.But that would be an education for him too.

He counted the money, and he hoped the few remaining would get him through the winter.By next spring there will be enough produce from his garden to make him independent of the outside world.At the same time, there is always prey.He has seen many rabbits, and there are waterfowl in the pond.He immediately began to make bows and arrows. Next to the lighthouse were poplars, and a whole forest of hazel, full of tall branches, good for arrow shafts.He started by cutting down a young poplar, cut out a six-foot trunk without branches, peeled off the bark, and then peeled off the bark as old Mitsima taught him, peeled off the white wood with one knife, and peeled off the bark. Out came a stick as tall as himself.The middle part is thicker for strength, and the middle part is thinner for flexibility and convenience.Work gave him great pleasure.After weeks of loafing and doing nothing in London, where he needed nothing but the push of a button or the pull of a handle, it was a sheer pleasure to do work that required skill and patience.

He had almost whittled his stick into a bow, and was startled when he suddenly realized that he was singing.Sing!He seemed to come back from the outside, and suddenly bumped into himself doing bad things and was caught on the spot, and couldn't help but flushed with embarrassment.After all, he didn't come here to sing and enjoy, but to keep him from being polluted by the garbage of civilized life;He realized with bewilderment that while he was so absorbed in cutting his bow, he had forgotten what he had sworn to always remember—poor Linda, his fierce, callous attitude towards Linda, and Those nasty superborns that crawled like lice in the mysterious circumstances of her death.Their presence was an insult not only to his grief and remorse, but to the gods.He had vowed to remember them, and to keep making amends.But now he sang while he was cutting the bow, and he sang... He went into the house, opened the mustard box, put some water in, and boiled it over the fire. Half an hour later, three Delta farmers from the same Bokanowski group at Boltonham, on their way to Elster, happened to see a young man, shirtless, outside an abandoned lighthouse on top of a hill. , whipping himself with a knotted rope.There were scarlet welts across his back, and strands of blood flowed from the welts.The truck driver pulled over on the side of the road, and joined his two companions, jaws drooping, to stare at the rare spectacle.One, two, three, they counted.At the eighth stroke the young man stopped his self-discipline, ran to the edge of the woods, vomited violently, and when he had finished vomiting, came back and grabbed the whip again and beat him hard.Nine, ten, eleven, twelve... "Forte!" whispered the driver, and his brethren felt the same way. "Ford!" they all said. Three days later, the reporter came and landed on the corpse like a vulture. The bow had been dried over a simmer of fresh leaves and was ready for use, and the savages were busy making arrow shafts.Thirty hazel stalks had been whittled and dried, and sharpened nails were used for the arrowheads, the ends of which were carefully carved.He raided Boltonham Poultry one night, and now he had enough feathers to make an arsenal of weapons.He was feathering arrow shafts when the first reporter found him.The man's air-cushioned shoes made no sound, and quietly came behind him. "Good morning, Mr. Savage," he said. "I'm a reporter from the Hourly Radio." As if bitten by a snake, the Savage sprang to his feet, throwing arrows, feathers, glue-pots, and brushes to the ground. "Excuse me," said the reporter, genuinely sorry, "I didn't mean to..." He touched the brim of his hat—an aluminum chimney hat with a radio inlaid. "Excuse me for not being able to take off my hat," he said. "It's a bit heavy. Well, I was just saying that for The Hourly Radio..." "What are you going to do?" asked the Savage, frowning.The reporter replied with his most flattering smile. "Of course our readers would be very interested if..." He tilted his head to one side, smiling almost obsequiously, "just a few words from you, Mr. Savage." He made a few With a polite gesture, he quickly untied the two wires (the wires are connected to the mobile battery tied around his waist), inserted them into the sides of his aluminum hat separately, and then touched a spring on the top of the hat, dah, An antenna shoots out; he touches a spring on the brim of his hat again, and a microphone pops out like a pogo stick, dangling six inches from his nose.He pulled the receiver over his ears again, pressed the left button—a slight wasp-like humming sound emerged; twisted the right handle again, and the humming became a kind of hissing in a stethoscope. Hiccups, gurgles, burps, and sudden squeaks are replaced. "Hello," he said into the microphone, "Hello, hello..." Suddenly a bell rang in the hat. "Is that you, Ezel? I'm Premo Mellon. Yes, I've found him. Now Mr. Savage is going to take the receiver and say a few words, Mr. Savage, isn't he?" Looking at him with his flattering smile, "Please tell our readers why you came here, what made you leave London so abruptly, (Ezell, listen!) and, of course, the whipping."( The savage was taken aback, how did they know about the flogging?) "We're all very anxious to know about the flogging before we talk about civilization. You know that sort of thing." opinion', just a few words, just a few words..." The Savage did as he was told, and uttered only a few disturbing words, five in all, and nothing more--the five words he had used to tell Bernard about the chief singer of the Canterbury community. "Taca, Hani! Song, Erso, Zerner!" He grabbed the reporter by the shoulder and twisted him (the young man came out in a cute package) like a professional football champion. , summoned all his strength and kicked it out accurately, giving him a hard kick. Eight minutes later the latest edition of The Hourly was on the streets of London.The banner headline of the first edition read: "The Hourly Broadcaster's tail sacrum was kicked by a mysterious wild man, causing a sensation in Surrey". "Even London is buzzing," thought the reporter as he went home and read this, but the "slamming" was so painful that he had to sit down to lunch very carefully. Four of his colleagues, undeterred by the warning injury to his coccyx, represented the New York Times, Frankfurt's 4D Continuum, Forte's Science Monitor and Delta Mirror that afternoon. Newspaper came to the lighthouse for an interview, and was interviewed several times, each time being more brutal. "You unreasonable bastard," the reporter of the Ford Science Monitor yelled from a safe distance, rubbing his sore buttocks, "why don't you swallow some soma?" "Get lost!" the barbarian shook his fist. The opponent took a few steps back and turned around. "Swallow a gram or two and the bad isn't realistic." "Kuohakua, babbling and dragging Keyayi!" The tone was ironic and aggressive. "Pain becomes an illusion." "Oh, is it?" said the Savage, picking up a stick of hazel, and sprinting forward. The Ford Science Monitor scrambled to hide in his helicopter. Then the Savage had a moment of peace.Several helicopters flew over, hovering around the lighthouse as if exploring.He shot an arrow at the nearest disturbing plane, piercing the aluminum floor of the cabin.There was a shriek, and the plane rocketed into the sky with the maximum acceleration its supercharger could provide.Since then, other planes have always been kept at a respectful distance.The savage ignored the drone of the plane and dug his future vegetable garden.In his imagination he compared himself to one of the Matasji girl's suitors, motionless surrounded by winged vermin.After a while, the pests apparently got bored and flew away.For hours on end the sky above him was empty, and there was no sound but the cry of larks. It was suffocatingly hot, and there was thunder in the sky.He had been digging all morning and was sprawled on the floor sleeping.The longing for Lenina became a real reality.Lenina, naked and palpable, is saying, "My dear, put your arms around me!" She wears shoes and socks, and she wears perfume.Shameless bitch!But oh!Oh!Her arms were round his neck!Ah, she lifted those breasts to him, and lifted her lips!Lenina!Eternity is in our eyes and on our lips... no, no, no, no!He turned over, jumped up, and ran out half naked.There was a clump of gray juniper at the edge of the moor, and he rushed towards it, and what thrust into his arms was a patch of green needles instead of the creamy flesh he craved.Countless sharp pine needles pricked him, and he tried hard to think about poor Linda, panting, scratching, and there was unspeakable terror in his eyes.Poor Linda, the Linda he swore to remember!But it was still Lenina's body that haunted him.Even when the pine needles hurt him, his cringing flesh felt the inescapable Lenina. "Honey, honey, since you miss me too, why don't you..." The whip was hung on a nail by the door, so that the reporter could take it when he came.The savage, maddened, ran back into the house and seized the whip, and with one stroke, the knotted rope bit into his flesh. "Bitch! Bitch!" he yelled at each whip, as if it were Lenina (how he wished so madly that it was Lenina, without realizing it), white, warm, and spraying. Lenina of perfumes!He beat her like that, shameless Lenina. "Bitch!" and he said in a desperate voice, "Oh, Linda, forgive me, forgive me, God, I'm bad! I'm evil, I'm... no, no, you bitch! You bitch!" The whole process has been observed by one of Sensation Films' best and most skilled cinematographers, Darwin Bonaparte.He was hiding in a well-built bunker three hundred meters away.Patience and skill paid off.He sat for three days in the hollow of a false oak, three nights in the heather, buried microphones in gorse bushes, and wires in soft gray sand.After seventy-two hours of hard work, he had his moment of greatness—the greatest moment since his roaring diorama, The Marriage of a Gorilla, in which Darwin Bonaparte thought as he moved between his tools. "Brilliant!" said the Savage to himself as soon as he began his astonishing performance. "Brilliant!" He carefully adjusted the lens of the camera, keeping his eyes on the moving subject.He cranks up more power, closes in for a wildly contorted close-up of a face (very good), then cuts to half a minute of slow motion (which, he promises himself, will yield brilliant comedy), while listening to the edge of the film Whiplashes, moans, and babbles recorded on the soundtrack.He amplified the sound a little bit and listened (well, much better, definitely).And in the momentary peace he heard the shriek of a skylark, and he was glad.He wished the Savage would turn around and let him get a nice close-up of the bloodstains on his back - and almost as soon as he thought (what amazing luck), the reasonable fellow did body, let him take a perfect close-up. "Well, it's amazing!" he said to himself after the filming, "It's really amazing!" He wiped his face.Go to the studio and add sensory effects to make a great movie.Almost as good as The Love Life of the Sperm Whale, Darwin Bonaparte thought - and that, Ford!There are so many problems to explain! Twelve days later "Savages of Surrey" was shown and could be seen, heard and felt in any good cinema in Western Europe. A Darwin Bonaparte film had an immediate effect, a huge effect.At dusk that day after the movie screening, John's loneliness in the countryside was suddenly broken by helicopters swarming overhead. He dug in his garden—and as he dug he dug into his own heart, agonizing over the substance of his thoughts.Death—he shoveled and shoveled and shoveled and shoveled again.All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way into the soil of death.A persuasive thunderbolt rumbled between the words.He picked up another shovel.Why did Linda die?Why let her change slowly, become more and more impersonal, and finally... He shivered.A big kissable piece of stinky dog ​​meat.He put his foot on the shovel and stomped hard into the firm ground.We are like flies to urchins before God, who kill us just for fun.There was another thunder.That was absolutely true—truer in a certain sense than truth.Yet the same Gloucester called them ever-gentle gods.Your best rest is sleep, and you often long for it, but you are foolishly afraid of death, which just doesn't exist.Death is nothing but sleep, sleep, and perhaps dreaming.His shovel struck a rock, and he bent down to pick it up.In that dream of death, what kind of dream will appear... The buzzing overhead turned to a roar, a shadow suddenly closed over him, and something got between him and the sun!Startled, he stopped digging and thinking, and looked up. The sight before him made him dizzy and confused.His heart is still wandering in another world, in that world that is more real than real, still concentrated in the endless sweat of death and gods, but when he looked up, he saw a large black mass of hovering helicopters approaching his head .Helicopters flew like locusts, suspended in the air, landed on all sides of him, into the heather, and out of the bellies of these monstrous locusts emerged men in white viscose flannels and rayon togaes from the heat. , velvet shorts or sleeveless topless dresses – one pair per flight.Dozens of pairs had come down within minutes.They stood in a big circle around the lighthouse, staring, laughing, cameras clicking, throwing him peanuts, sex-hormone gum, and pan-glandular creme biscuits like monkeys.Their numbers increased every moment, for now the torrent of planes on the backs of wild boars was still coming.Dozens immediately turned into hundreds, and then hundreds, as if in a nightmare. The barbarian had retreated to the hiding place, and now he was facing the lighthouse with his back, looking like a fierce tiger Feng He, staring at the faces in front of him, speechless in horror, like a madman. A pack of chewing gum hit him precisely in the face, jolting him out of his daze and making him feel a more immediate reality.With a terrible pain, he was wide awake, wide awake and furious. "Get out!" he yelled. The monkey has spoken!Laughter and applause erupted. "Dear old savage! Hurrah! Hurrah!" he heard shouting over the chorus of voices. "Whip, whip, whip!" This inspired him, and he seized the knotted rope that was attached to the nail behind the door, and shook it at his tormentors. A burst of ironic cheers erupted. He lunged at them in a threatening manner.A woman cried out in terror.The few people in the crowd who were most directly threatened hesitated for a moment, but then stabilized and stood still.Absolute superiority in numbers gave the sightseers more courage than the savages expected of them.He took a step back, stopped, and looked around. "Why can't you keep me quiet?" There was almost sadness in his anger. "Eat some magnesium salt almonds!" The man handed out a bag of almonds, and if the barbarians attacked him, he would bear the brunt of it. "It's delicious, you know," he said kindly with a nervous smile, "Magnesium salt can keep you young forever." The Savage ignored what he offered. "What are you going to do with me?" He looked at the smirking faces one after another and asked, "What are you going to do with me?" "Whip," hundreds of throats yelled in disorder, "play a whip skill. Let's see the whip skill." Then, everyone cried out in one voice, slowly, heavily and rhythmically. "We-want-see-whip-gong." The crowd behind also shouted, "we-want-to-see-whip-gong." Immediately the others followed suit, repeating the words like parrots.They yelled and yelled, louder and louder, until the seventh or eighth time they yelled nothing else. "We--want--see--the-whip-gong." The people all cried out.Stimulated by the cry, the strength of unity, and the compensating sense of rhythm, it seemed they could go on like that for hours—almost endlessly.But when it was repeated for the twenty-fifth time, the process was abruptly interrupted.Another helicopter came over the back of the boar, hovered over the people for a moment, and then stopped a few yards from the Savage, in the clearing between the crowd and the lighthouse.The roar of the propellers temporarily drowned out the shouting.After the plane landed and the engines shut down, the same constant, monotonous high-pitched cry broke out again. The doors of the helicopter opened, and first a handsome young man with a ruddy face stepped out, and then a girl in green velvet shorts, a white blouse, and a jockey cap. The Savage startled at the sight of the girl, flinched, and paled. The girl stood smiling at him--an uncertain, begging, almost submissive smile.As the seconds passed, her lips moved and she was speaking, but her voice was drowned out by repeated high-pitched yells. "We--want--see--the-whip-gong." The young girl pressed her hands on the left side of her body, a disharmonious expression of longing and pain appeared on her face as bright as a peach and as beautiful as a doll.Her blue eyes seemed to grow larger and brighter.Two teardrops suddenly rolled down his cheeks.She spoke again, still out of hearing.Then she made a sudden impulsive gesture, stretched out her arms, and walked towards the barbarian. "We--want--see--whip-gong..." Suddenly their demands were met. "Bitch!" The Savage rushed at her like a madman. "Smelly cat!" He swung his whip at her like a madman. She was so frightened that she turned and ran, tripped and fell on the heather. "Henry, Henry!" she yelled, but her radiant companion had already fled the danger zone and ducked behind the helicopter. People were excited and happy, shouting loudly.The circle breaks up and people run wild towards the center of magnetic attraction.Pain is a fascinating horror. "Punishment, fornication, punishment!" the savage frantically whipped again. People couldn't wait to surround them, crowding around like pigs around the trough. "Ah! Lust!" the barbarian gritted his teeth, and this time the whip fell on his shoulders, "Kill the lust! Kill the lust!" The terror of suffering attracts men, and out of an inner need (which their conditioning has indelibly buried in them), driven by the habit of cooperation and governed by a desire for solidarity, they too begin to imitate the savages. with the frenzy of a savage whipping his own treacherous flesh, beating each other, or beating the plump, twitching flesh in the heather at his feet—the embodiment of corruption. "Kill the flesh, kill the flesh, kill the flesh..." the savage went on shouting. At this time someone started singing "Happy and dripping", and in an instant everyone sang the compound line, sang and danced.Cheerful and dripping, dancing round and round, beating each other in six or eight beats.Happy and dripping... It was past midnight when the last helicopter flew away.The Savage lay asleep in the heather.Soma intoxicated him, and he was exhausted by long and frenzied carnal indulgences.The sun was high when he awoke.He lay for a moment, blinking his eyes drowsily like an owl to the light, and then suddenly came to himself—he understood everything. "Oh, God, God!" He covered his face with his hands. That night the helicopters that had swarmed over the boar's back buzzed into a cloud ten kilometers long.The scene from the previous night's atonement orgy was in all the papers. "Barbarian!" shouted the first to arrive as soon as they got off the plane, "Mr. Savage!" no answer. The lighthouse door was ajar, and they pushed it open into the shuttered gloom.Through an archway on the opposite side of the room they could see the bottom of the stairs leading up.A pair of feet dangled directly under the arch. "Mr. Savage!" Slowly, very slowly, like slow compass feet, the legs turned to the right, turned north, northeast, east, southeast, south, southwest, stopped, hung for a while, and just as slowly Turned back to the left.Southwest, South, Southeast, East...

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