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布鲁姆斯伯里中心四千个房间里的四千个电子钟的指针同时指向下午两点二十七分。这只“工业的蜂巢”——主任喜欢这么称呼它——正在忙忙碌碌地工作着。每个人都在忙着，每件事情都有条不紊地进行着。在显微镜下，精子疯狂地甩动着长长的尾巴，低着头往卵子里面钻。受孕后的卵子正在膨胀，在分裂，或者如果经过了波卡诺夫斯基程序，正在忙着发芽，分裂成许多独立的胚胎。电梯正从社会命运预定室轰隆隆地运行到地下室，在那里，在暗红色的房间里，胚胎们暖暖地泡在腹膜垫上，吃饱了代血浆和荷尔蒙，它们正在长大，长大；或者，如果其中添加了有毒物质，它们正在逐渐憔悴，发育受挫，长成艾普西隆。瓶架子几乎不为人察觉地向前爬行着，发出轻微的嗡嗡声和咔嗒声，一个星期接着一个星期，一直到永恒，爬行着，进入换瓶室，刚刚换瓶的婴儿发出第一声恐惧而惊奇的哭叫。
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地下二层的发电机呜呜地转动着，电梯匆匆地上上下下。总共十一个楼层的育婴室，现在全部都是哺育时间。从一千八百个瓶子里，一千八百个被精心贴了标签的婴儿正在同时吸食各自那一品脱消过毒的外分泌液。
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在育婴室上面，是十个楼层的宿舍，还需要睡午觉的小男孩小女孩和其他人一样忙碌。虽然他们并不知道这点，但是，他们正在无意识地倾听着睡眠教育课程——卫生学和社交课、阶级意识课和幼童的爱情生活课。再往上走是游戏室，由于天刚刚开始下雨，所以，游戏室里，九百个稍微大一些的孩子正在玩耍，搭积木和做泥塑，做着找拉链游戏和性爱游戏。
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嗡嗡嗡，嗡嗡嗡，蜂巢里一派忙碌，快乐的忙碌。年轻姑娘们一边俯身在试管上忙碌着，一边唱着欢快的歌曲；命运预定员们一边工作，一边吹着口哨；在换瓶室里，对着空空的瓶子，人们开着多么有趣的玩笑！可是，主任和亨利·福斯特一起走进受精室时，主任的脸却阴沉着，严厉地紧绷着。
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“一个坏榜样，”他正在说，“就在这个房间里。因为这里高种姓的工人是我们中心最多的。我告诉他了，两点半在这里见我。”
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“他工作干得不错。”亨利说，他的慷慨有点虚伪。
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“我知道。但是，正因为如此，我们必须要严厉。他的超常智力伴随着更大的道德责任。一个人的才能越出众，误导他人走上歧途的能力就越大。宁可一个人受苦，也不让多数人被腐蚀。理智地看待这个问题，福斯特先生，你就会明白，没有任何罪过比不守常规的行为更讨厌了。谋杀只是杀死个体，毕竟，个体又是什么呢？”他挥挥手，指了指那些成排的显微镜、试管和孵化器，“我们可以轻易地制造个体，想造多少就造多少。可是，不守常规的行为威胁的不仅仅是个体的生命，它打击的是社会本身。是的，是社会本身。”他重复了一遍，“哦，他来了。”
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伯纳德走进了房间，从两排受精员中间走向他们。表面上的志得意满和满怀信心勉强掩盖住了他的紧张情绪。“上午好(1)，主任，”他的声音异常地大，紧接着，为了纠正刚才的错误，他说，“您让我来这里跟您谈谈。”声音又轻得近乎荒唐，几乎像是在吱吱叫。
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(1) 原文如此，从上下文判断，似应为“下午好”。
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“是啊，马克斯先生，”主任盛气凌人地说，“我是让你来这里见我了。我想，你是昨天晚上休假回来的。”
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“是的。”伯纳德回答。
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“是——的。”主任拉着长音重复了一遍，像蛇一样发出了嘶音，突然，他提高了嗓门，“女士们，先生们——”像个喇叭在广播，“女士们，先生们——”
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对着试管忙活的姑娘们停止了唱歌，显微镜操作员们心不在焉的口哨声也戛然而止。房间里一片静寂，每个人都扭头向这边看过来。
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“女士们，先生们，”主任再次说，“原谅我这样打断你们的工作。痛苦的责任感使我不得不这么做。社会的安全和稳定正陷于危险中。是的，女士们，先生们，陷于危险之中。这个人，”他谴责一般地指着伯纳德，“站在这里的这个人，这个阿尔法＋，社会赋予了他那么多，自然，社会也指望他贡献更多，你们的这个同事——或许我可以提前说，你们的这个前同事？——他严重地背叛了社会对他的信任，他那些关于运动和唆麻的异端邪说，他那不合常规、耸人听闻的性生活，他拒绝遵从福帝的教导，在工作时间之外的行为作风‘就像个小孩子’。”（主任划了个T字。）“女士们，先生们，他的行为表明他已经沦为社会的敌人，一切秩序和稳定的颠覆者，对抗文明本身的密谋者。因为这个原因，我提议开除他，解除他在本中心的职务，令他声名狼藉；我还建议，申请把他调到最低级的分中心，让他尽可能远离重要的人口中心，这样，对他的惩罚才能为社会的利益服务。在冰岛，他那非福帝式的行为就没有多少机会引人误入歧途了。”主任停住了，交叉抱住两只胳膊，转向伯纳德，威严地说：“马克斯，你能给我一个理由，让我不执行对你的判决吗？”
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“能，我能。”伯纳德响亮地回答。
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主任吃了一惊，但还是义正词严地说：“把你的理由拿出来吧。”
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“当然，可我的理由在走廊里。稍等片刻。”伯纳德匆匆跑到门口，推开了门。“进来吧。”他发出命令，那个理由就进来了，出现在众人眼前。
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人们都倒抽了一口气，惊恐地窃窃私语，一个年轻姑娘尖叫起来，还有人站到椅子上想好好看看，结果碰倒了两只装满精子的试管。琳达走进了房间，浑身浮肿，肌肉松弛，在那些年轻坚实的肉体和平展光滑的面孔之间，她就像一个奇怪而可怕的中年怪物。她卖弄风情似的微笑着，一个花容失色、七零八碎的微笑；她走路时还摇摆着她那巨大的屁股，仍然以为自己在细腰款款地迤逦而行。伯纳德走在她的旁边。
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“他就在那里。”他说，指着主任。
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“你以为我认不出他来吗？”琳达愤愤不平地问。她转向主任。“我当然还认识你，托马金。无论在哪里，即使在一千个人中间，我都能认出你的。不过你可能忘了我了。你不记得了吗？难道你不记得了吗，托马金？你的琳达呀。”她站在那里，看着他，头歪向一侧，仍然微笑着，但是，当她看到主任脸上的震惊与厌恶，她的微笑就变得越来越不自信，犹豫了，直至最后消失。“难道你不记得了吗，托马金？”她颤抖着声音又重复了一遍。她的眼神是那么焦急、那么痛苦。她那长了斑的松弛的脸奇怪地扭曲着，显得极度悲伤。“托马金！”她伸出双臂。有人开始嘻嘻笑起来。
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“这是什么意思？”主任说，“这个可怕的……”
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“托马金！”她跑向前，毛毡拖在身后，两手猛地搂住主任的脖子，把脸埋在他的胸前。
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一阵不可抑制的哄堂大笑。
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“这个可怕的恶作剧！”主任大喊。
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他涨红了脸，试图从她的怀抱中挣脱出来，她拼命地拽住他。“可我是琳达，我是琳达。”她的声音被笑声淹没了。“你让我怀了个孩子。”她大喊，声音压住了周围的喧嚣。人们突然陷入可怕的沉默，目光尴尬地游移着，不知道该往哪里看。主任的脸色突然变得煞白，他停止了挣扎，站在那里，双手放在她的手腕上，惊恐地盯着她。“是啊，一个孩子，我是他的妈妈。”她挑战一般，把这些脏话甩向周围义愤填膺的静寂中。之后，她突然从他身边离开了，羞愧地，羞愧地，用双手捂住了脸，哭泣着。“那不是我的错，托马金，因为我每次都做操，难道不是吗？难道不是吗？每次都做……我不知道怎么回事。托马金，要是你知道那多么可怕……可是，尽管如此，他对我还是一大安慰。”
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她转向门口。“约翰！”她叫道，“约翰！”
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他马上进来了，在门里面停留了片刻，向周围看了看，然后，他快步穿过房间，鹿皮靴悄无声息地踏在地板上，他走到主任面前，双膝着地跪下，口齿清晰地说：“爸爸！”
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这个词（也许由于“爸爸”一词的含义与那个可憎而道德败坏的表示生育的词有一段距离，它没有那么猥亵，仅仅是粗俗而已。这个词仅仅是肮脏的，而不是淫秽的），这个可笑的脏词，打破了刚才几乎令人难以忍受的紧张感。笑声再次爆发出来，响亮的、有点歇斯底里的笑声，一阵接着一阵，好像再也停不下来了。我的爸爸，而这个人居然是主任！我的爸爸！哦，福帝！哦，福帝！这个笑话太可笑了。呵呵声和哈哈声再次爆发，那些脸几乎都要笑得裂开了，眼泪都笑了出来。又有人打破了六只装精子的试管。我的爸爸！
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主任脸色苍白，眼神狂乱，瞪视着四周，他痛苦，不解，羞愧难忍。
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我的爸爸！刚刚要平静下去的笑声再次爆发，比刚才更响亮了。他捂住耳朵，冲出了房间。
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The hands of all the four thousand electric clocks in all the Bloomsbury Centre’s four thousand rooms marked twenty-seven minutes past two. “This hive of industry,” as the Director was fond of calling it, was in the full buzz of work. Every one was busy, everything in ordered motion. Under the microscopes, their long tails furiously lashing, spermatozoa were burrowing head first into eggs; and, fertilized, the eggs were expanding, dividing, or if bokanovskified, budding and breaking up into whole populations of separate embryos. From the Social Predestination Room the escalators went rumbling down into the basement, and there, in the crimson darkness, stewingly warm on their cushion of peritoneum and gorged with blood-surrogate and hormones, the foetuses grew and grew or, poisoned, languished into a stunted Epsilonhood. With a faint hum and rattle the moving racks crawled imperceptibly through the weeks and the recapitulated aeons to where, in the Decanting Room, the newly-unbottled babes uttered their first yell of horror and amazement.
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The dynamos purred in the sub-basement, the lifts rushed up and down. On all the eleven floors of Nurseries it was feeding time. From eighteen hundred bottles eighteen hundred carefully labelled infants were simultaneously sucking down their pint of pasteurized external secretion.
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Above them, in ten successive layers of dormitory, the little boys and girls who were still young enough to need an afternoon sleep were as busy as every one else, though they did not know it, listening unconsciously to hypnopaedic lessons in hygiene and sociability, in class-consciousness and the toddler’s love-life. Above these again were the playrooms where, the weather having turned to rain, nine hundred older children were amusing themselves with bricks and clay modelling, hunt-the-zipper, and erotic play.
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Buzz, buzz! the hive was humming, busily, joyfully. Blithe was the singing of the young girls over their test-tubes, the Predestinators whistled as they worked, and in the Decanting Room what glorious jokes were cracked above the empty bottles! But the Director’s face, as he entered the Fertilizing Room with Henry Foster, was grave, wooden with severity.
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“A public example,” he was saying. “In this room, because it contains more high-caste workers than any other in the Centre. I have told him to meet me here at half-past two.”
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“He does his work very well,” put in Henry, with hypocritical generosity.
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“I know. But that’s all the more reason for severity. His intellectual eminence carries with it corresponding moral responsibilities. The greater a man’s talents, the greater his power to lead astray. It is better that one should suffer than that many should be corrupted. Consider the matter dispassionately, Mr. Foster, and you will see that no offence is so heinous as unorthodoxy of behaviour. Murder kills only the individual—and, after all, what is an individual?” With a sweeping gesture he indicated the rows of microscopes, the test-tubes, the incubators. “We can make a new one with the greatest ease—as many as we like. Unorthodoxy threatens more than the life of a mere individual; it strikes at Society itself. Yes, at Society itself,” he repeated. “Ah, but here he comes.”
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Bernard had entered the room and was advancing between the rows of fertilizers towards them. A veneer of jaunty self-confidence thinly concealed his nervousness. The voice in which he said, “Good-morning, Director,” was absurdly too loud; that in which, correcting his mistake, he said, “You asked me to come and speak to you here,” ridiculously soft, a squeak.
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“Yes, Mr. Marx,” said the Director portentously. “I did ask you to come to me here. You returned from your holiday last night, I understand.”
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“Yes,” Bernard answered.
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“Yes-s,” repeated the Director, lingering, a serpent, on the “s.” Then, suddenly raising his voice, “Ladies and gentlemen,” he trumpeted, “ladies and gentlemen.”
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The singing of the girls over their test-tubes, the preoccupied whistling of the Microscopists, suddenly ceased. There was a profound silence; every one looked round.
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“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Director repeated once more, “excuse me for thus interrupting your labours. A painful duty constrains me. The security and stability of Society are in danger. Yes, in danger, ladies and gentlemen. This man,” he pointed accusingly at Bernard, “this man who stands before you here, this Alpha-Plus to whom so much has been given, and from whom, in consequence, so much must be expected, this colleague of yours—or should I anticipate and say this ex-colleague? —has grossly betrayed the trust imposed in him. By his heretical views on sport and soma, by the scandalous unorthodoxy of his sex-life, by his refusal to obey the teachings of Our Ford and behave out of office hours ‘like a babe in a bottle,’” (here the Director made the sign of the T), “he has proved himself an enemy of Society, a subverter, ladies and gentlemen, of all Order and Stability, a conspirator against Civilization itself. For this reason I propose to dismiss him, to dismiss him with ignominy from the post he has held in this Centre; I propose forthwith to apply for his transference to a Sub-Centre of the lowest order and, that his punishment may serve the best interest of Society, as far as possible removed from any important Centre of population. In Iceland he will have small opportunity to lead others astray by his unfordly example.” The Director paused; then, folding his arms, he turned impressively to Bernard. “Marx,” he said, “can you show any reason why I should not now execute the judgment passed upon you?”
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“Yes, I can,” Bernard answered in a very loud voice.
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Somewhat taken aback, but still majestically, “Then show it,” said the Director.
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“Certainly. But it’s in the passage. One moment.” Bernard hurried to the door and threw it open. “Come in,” he commanded, and the reason came in and showed itself.
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There was a gasp, a murmur of astonishment and horror; a young girl screamed; standing on a chair to get a better view some one upset two test-tubes full of spermatozoa. Bloated, sagging, and among those firm youthful bodies, those undistorted faces, a strange and terrifying monster of middle-agedness, Linda advanced into the room, coquettishly smiling her broken and discoloured smile, and rolling as she walked, with what was meant to be a voluptuous undulation, her enormous haunches. Bernard walked beside her.
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“There he is,” he said, pointing at the Director.
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“Did you think I didn’t recognize him?” Linda asked indignantly; then, turning to the Director, “Of course I knew you; Tomakin, I should have known you anywhere, among a thousand. But perhaps you’ve forgotten me. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember, Tomakin? Your Linda.” She stood looking at him, her head on one side, still smiling, but with a smile that became progressively, in face of the Director’s expression of petrified disgust, less and less self-confident, that wavered and finally went out. “Don’t you remember, Tomakin?” she repeated in a voice that trembled. Her eyes were anxious, agonized. The blotched and sagging face twisted grotesquely into the grimace of extreme grief. “Tomakin!” She held out her arms. Some one began to titter.
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“What’s the meaning,” began the Director, “of this monstrous…”
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“Tomakin!” She ran forward, her blanket trailing behind her, threw her arms round his neck, hid her face on his chest.
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A howl of laughter went up irrepressibly.
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“…this monstrous practical joke,” the Director shouted.
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Red in the face, he tried to disengage himself from her embrace. Desperately she clung. “But I’m Linda, I’m Linda.’” The laughter drowned her voice. “You made me have a baby,” she screamed above the uproar. There was a sudden and appalling hush; eyes floated uncomfortably, not knowing where to look. The Director went suddenly pale, stopped struggling and stood, his hands on her wrists, staring down at her, horrified. “Yes, a baby—and I was its mother.” She flung the obscenity like a challenge into the outraged silence; then, suddenly breaking away from him, ashamed, ashamed, covered her face with her hands, sobbing. “It wasn’t my fault, Tomakin. Because I always did my drill, didn’t I? Didn’t I? Always…I don’t know how…If you knew how awful, Tomakin…But he was a comfort to me, all the same.” Turning towards the door, “John!” she called. “John!”
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He came in at once, paused for a moment just inside the door, looked round, then soft on his moccasined feet strode quickly across the room, fell on his knees in front of the Director, and said in a clear voice: “My father!”
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The word (for “father” was not so much obscene as—with its connotation of something at one remove from the loathsomeness and moral obliquity of child-bearing—merely gross, a scatological rather than a pornographic impropriety), the comically smutty word relieved what had become a quite intolerable tension. Laughter broke out, enormous, almost hysterical, peal after peal, as though it would never stop. My father—and it was the Director! My father! Oh Ford, oh Ford! That was really too good. The whooping and the roaring renewed themselves, faces seemed on the point of disintegration, tears were streaming. Six more test-tubes of spermatozoa were upset. My father!
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Pale, wild-eyed, the Director glared about him in an agony of bewildered humiliation.
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My father! The laughter, which had shown signs of dying away, broke out again more loudly than ever. He put his hands over his ears and rushed out of the room.
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序号
英文
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amazement [ə’meɪzmənt] |
n.惊愕;惊异 |
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secretion [sɪ’kriːʃn] |
n.分泌;分泌物;藏匿 |
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erotic [ɪ’rɒtɪk] |
adj.性爱的;性欲的;色情的 |
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fertilize [’fɜːtəlaɪz] |
v.施肥;使肥沃;使丰富;【生】使受精;使受粉 |
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generosity [ˌdʒenə’rɒsəti] |
n.慷慨;大方;宽大 |
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unorthodox [ʌn’ɔːθədɒks] |
adj.非正统的;异端的 |
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squeak [skwiːk] |
n.吱吱声;逃脱 |
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portentous [pɔː’tentəs] |
adj.前兆的;不吉的;可怕的;煞有介事的;自命不凡的 |
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trumpet [’trʌmpɪt] |
n.喇叭;喇叭声;喇叭手 |
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microscopist [maɪ’krɒskəpɪst] |
n.使用显微镜的技术人员 |
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majestically [mə’dʒestɪkli] |
adv.威严地;雄伟地 |
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haunch [hɔːntʃ] |
n.(人和动物)臀部和腿部多肉的部分;腰腿部;〈建〉梁腋 |
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titter [’tɪtə(r)] |
n.嗤笑;偷笑 |
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monstrous [’mɒnstrəs] |
adj.怪异的;畸形的;巨大的 |
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irrepressibly [ˌɪrɪ’presəbli] |
adv.控制不住地(约束不了地) |
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sob [sɒb] |
v.抽泣;呜咽 |
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spermatozoon [ˌspɜːmətə’zəʊən] |
n.精虫;精子 |
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humiliation [hjuːˌmɪli’eɪʃn] |
n.耻辱;丢脸 |
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