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美丽新世界|Brave New World

第五章|Chapter Five

属类: 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 阅读:[24065]
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到八点钟的时候,天空慢慢暗下来了。斯托克波吉斯俱乐部塔楼里的扩音器开始广播要关闭球场了,那声音是人类不可能发出的男高音。列宁娜和亨利停止打球,走回俱乐部。从内分泌和外分泌托拉斯的场地上,传来了成千上万头奶牛的哞哞叫声,这些牛群为法恩海姆皇家工厂提供原材料,即荷尔蒙和牛奶。

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暮色中,到处都是直升机不间断的轰鸣声。每两分半钟,一声铃响和哨声就宣告一列轻型单轨火车的出发,这些火车将低种姓的高尔夫球手们从各自的球场运回城市。

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列宁娜和亨利爬进飞机,出发了。在八百米的高空,亨利将螺旋桨的转速降低,有那么一两分钟,他们似乎悬停在空中,下面是渐渐暗淡的风景。伯恩海姆的桦树林就像一潭黑色的大水池,一直延伸向西方天空的明亮边缘。天际线变得红彤彤的,落日最后的余晖渐渐淡下去了,先是橙红色,之后变成黄色,再稍后是水汪汪的淡绿色。向北望去,比树林更高更远的地方,是内分泌和外分泌工厂,二十层楼的每个窗户都灯火通明。下面是高尔夫俱乐部的大楼——低种姓人的营房般的巨大建筑,分隔墙的另一边,是留给阿尔法和贝塔成员的较小的房子。那些低种姓的人正走在通往单轨火车站的路上,黑压压的,如蚂蚁一般。一列闪着灯光的火车从车站的玻璃顶棚下面疾驰而出。顺着火车在黑暗的平原上向东南方向的行驶路线,他们两个人的目光不禁被斯劳火葬场的庞大建筑吸引住了。为了这些夜行飞机的安全着想,火葬场的四个高高的烟囱都打开了探照灯,点亮了紫红色的警示信号。这是一个地标。

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“为什么那些烟囱旁边都有像阳台那样的东西?”列宁娜问道。

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“磷回收。”亨利简单地解释,“在沿着烟囱上升的过程中,气体会经历四种不同的工序。过去,每次焚化死人的时候,五氧化二磷都流失了。现在,他们可以回收其中的百分之九十八。每具成年人的尸体可以回收一千五百多克磷,这样,仅仅在英格兰,每年就可以回收将近四百吨的磷。”亨利说话的时候既高兴又得意,全心全意地为这个成就感到高兴,好像这全是他个人创造的成就,“想想我们死后还能为社会所用,真是开心呀,能够帮助植物生长。”

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这时,列宁娜的眼睛已经移向别处了,她正在垂直向下俯瞰单轨火车站。“确实开心,”她表示同意,“可奇怪的是,阿尔法和贝塔并不比下面那些丑陋矮小的伽马、德尔塔和艾普西隆更能帮助植物生长呀。”

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“所有人在生理和化学成分上都是平等的。”亨利简洁地说,“另外,即使是艾普西隆们也做着不可或缺的贡献。”

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“即使是一个艾普西隆……”列宁娜突然记起,有一次,那时她还是个小女孩,还在学校读书,睡到半夜她醒来了,第一次意识到那些睡觉时一直萦绕在她耳边的窃窃私语。她眼前再次浮现出那道月光、那排白色的小床;耳边再次响起那个轻柔的声音(那些话就在那里,清清楚楚,难以忘却,重复了那么多个夜晚):“每个人都为别人工作。我们离不开任何人。即使是艾普西隆也有用。我们离不开艾普西隆们。每个人都为别人工作。我们离开别人是不行的……”列宁娜回想起当时的恐惧和惊讶,在醒着的半个小时里她有种种猜测,然后,听着那没完没了的重复,她的心情逐渐平复,平复,平复,然后睡眠悄然来临……

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“我想,艾普西隆们不太介意自己是艾普西隆吧。”她说。

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“当然不介意了。怎么可能介意呢?他们又不知道作为其他种姓的人会是什么样。当然,我们会介意的,但那是因为我们所受到的条件训练不同。并且,我们的遗传从一开始就和他们不一样。”

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“我很高兴我不是艾普西隆。”列宁娜肯定地说。

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“如果你是艾普西隆的话,”亨利说,“你所受的训练会让你同样心怀感激的,你会因为不是阿尔法或贝塔而感到高兴。”他将前进的推进器挂上挡,驾驶飞机朝伦敦飞去。在他们身后,在西方,天空中的深红色和橙红色几乎全部消逝了,暗黑的厚重云团爬向了天际。他们飞过火葬场的时候,从烟囱里冒出的热气流令飞机陡然上升,过了这里,飞到远处下沉的冷空气里后,飞机才突然下降。

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“多么奇妙的颠簸起伏!”列宁娜开心地笑了。

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但是,亨利的语气一度还是有点伤感。“你知道刚才那个起伏意味着什么吗?”他说,“那就是说,某个人最终消失了,确确实实地消失了,随着一股热气升上去了。我都有点好奇,想知道那是谁,是男人还是女人,是阿尔法还是艾普西隆……”他叹口气,然后,他果断地换上了快活的语气,“无论怎样,”他总结道,“有一件事,我们是肯定的,不管他是谁,他活着的时候都很幸福。现在每个人都很幸福。”

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“是的,现在每个人都很幸福。”列宁娜应和着。连续十二年,他们每天晚上都听到这句话,每次重复一百五十遍。

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他们降落在威斯敏斯特区亨利居住的一座四十层公寓楼的楼顶上,然后直接去了餐厅。在餐厅,和一大群喧闹快活的人一起,他们吃了一顿丰盛的晚餐。随咖啡一起端上来的还有唆麻。列宁娜吃了两个半克的药片,亨利吃了三个。九点二十分,他们穿过街道,来到新开张的威斯敏斯特歌舞厅。这是个几乎无云的夜晚,天空中看不见月亮,只有点点星光。不过,幸好列宁娜和亨利两人都没有注意到这个有点令人压抑的情景。高空的电子灯光标示牌有效地遮住了外界的黑暗。“卡尔文·斯托普和他的十六位色克斯管演奏员(1)共同登台。”在新威斯敏斯特歌舞厅的门面上,巨大的字母闪耀着诱人的光:“伦敦最好的色香乐队;最新的合成音乐。”

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(1) sexophonist,作者模仿saxophonist(萨克斯管演奏者)造的词。
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他俩走了进去。里面的空气很热,并且因为龙涎香和檀香香气的缘故,有点让人透不过气来。在大厅圆拱形的天花板上,配色机已经绘制了一幅热带的日落图。十六位色克斯管演奏员正在吹奏一支喜闻乐见的老曲子:“世界上没有一个瓶子,比得上我那个可爱的小瓶子。”四百对舞伴正在锃亮的地板上跳着五步舞,列宁娜和亨利很快就加入,成为第四百零一对。色克斯管呜咽着,如同月光下猫咪在动听地吟唱着,女低音部和男高音部也在呻吟着,好像他们在经历着一次小小的死亡。在丰富的和声伴奏下,他们颤抖的合唱声逐渐升高,达到高潮,声音愈来愈大,直到最后,随着乐队指挥一挥手,顿时,从空中传来这仙乐的横扫一切的最后余音,将十六个人世间的乐手几乎吹到九霄云外。A降调如雷鸣般地怒吼,之后在几乎完全的寂静中,在几乎完全的黑暗中,声音似乎变得透明了起来,一丝一丝地逐渐减弱,下滑,以四分音的梯级,减弱,下滑,最后,主旋律变成一种微弱的私语(背景中依然搏动着五四拍的节奏)萦绕其间,把一种强烈的期盼赋予了那片刻的黑暗。终于,这期盼得到了满足。突然,爆炸般地,旭日高升,同时,十六人乐队开始放声高歌:

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“我的瓶子哦,你是我长久以来的企盼!

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我的瓶子,为什么要把我换瓶?

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在你的怀里,天空是那么蔚蓝,

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天上永远是阳光灿烂;

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世界上没有一个瓶子哦,

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能比我的那个更可爱、更完美。”

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列宁娜和亨利与另外四百对舞伴一起,围着威斯敏斯特歌舞厅在跳五步舞,但是,他们二人同时也在另一个世界里转着,转着,那是个温暖的、色彩斑斓的世界,是唆麻假日里那个无限友好的世界。人们都多么善良,多么好看,多么有趣啊!“我的瓶子哦,你是我长久以来的企盼……”但是,列宁娜和亨利已经拥有了他们所期盼的东西……他们就在瓶子的怀抱里呢,就在此时此刻,在明媚的天气和永远蔚蓝的天空下,一起安全地待在他们的瓶子里。当十六人乐队最后精疲力竭,放下色克斯管后,合成音乐器还在播放着最新的悠缓的马尔萨斯布鲁斯。他们二人简直就像两个同卵双胞胎的胚胎,互相拥抱着,一起在代血浆大海的浪涛中轻轻摇荡着。

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“晚安,亲爱的朋友们。晚安,亲爱的朋友们。”扩音器里传出亲切悦耳的声音,这礼貌掩盖着命令,“晚安,亲爱的朋友们……”与其他人一样,列宁娜和亨利顺从地离开了大楼。令人压抑的星星已经在天际走了一大段路,但是,虽然空中那些阻隔视野的招牌大多已经消失了,两个年轻人依然高高兴兴,丝毫没有意识到身处暗夜。

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还差半个小时到关门时间时,他俩又吞服了第二剂唆麻,对二人来说,在现实世界和脑中的虚幻世界之间,唆麻竖起了一道不可逾越的高墙。犹如身处瓶子的怀抱,他俩穿过街道;犹如身处瓶子的怀抱,他俩搭乘电梯来到亨利位于二十八层的公寓。可是,尽管列宁娜依然处在瓶子的怀抱中,尽管她第二次服用了唆麻,她也没有忘记按照规定必须要采取的所有避孕措施。多年密集的睡眠教育,从十二岁到十七岁,每周三次的马尔萨斯操练,让采取这些措施几乎成为某种自动的、不可避免的程序,就像眨眼睛一样。

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“哦,这提醒我了,”她从卫生间回来后说,“范妮·克朗想知道,你送给我的这种可爱的绿色代摩洛哥皮革的腰带,是从哪里买到的?”

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隔周的周四是伯纳德参加团结礼拜仪式的日子。在“爱神之家”(按照第二条规则,赫尔姆霍茨刚刚入选其委员会)早早吃了晚饭后,他同朋友道了别,在楼顶叫了架出租飞机,告诉飞行员他要去福帝森社区唱堂(2)。飞机上升了几百米,然后向东飞行,拐过弯后,浮现在伯纳德眼前的恢宏壮丽的建筑就是会堂了。会堂灯光如炽,高达三百二十米的白色代大理石建筑闪闪发光,将路德盖特山上映照得一片雪白;在楼顶直升机平台的四个角上,各摆放着一块巨大的T字形石头,在黑夜中闪耀着深红色的光;二十四个金色大喇叭鸣奏着庄严的合成音乐。

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(2) singery,这里模仿教堂译成“唱堂”。
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“倒霉,来晚了。”伯纳德第一眼看到会堂的大亨利钟(3)时,心里想。确实,他还在付出租飞机钱时,大亨利钟就敲响了。“福帝,”所有的金色喇叭里传出了洪亮的低音,“福帝,福帝,福帝……”连着鸣响九次。伯纳德向电梯跑去。

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(3) Big Henry,模仿伦敦的Big Ben(大本钟),翻译成“大亨利钟”。
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大楼的底层是一个宽敞的礼堂,可以举行福帝日庆祝活动和其他群众性社区歌唱活动。上面的每一层都各有一百个房间,总共有七千个房间,供团结小组做每两周一次的礼拜仪式。伯纳德下降到第三十三层,匆匆跑过走廊,站在3210房间门口,犹豫了一会儿,然后,他鼓足勇气,推开门走了进去。

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感谢福帝!他不是最后一个到的。摆放在圆桌周围的十二把椅子有三把还空着。他溜到最近的一把椅子上坐下,尽量不引起他人的注意,同时准备好冲着来得更晚的人皱眉头,不管那两人是谁。

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他左边的女孩转过身来。“你今天下午玩什么了?”她问他,“障碍高尔夫还是电磁高尔夫?”

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伯纳德看看她(福帝呀!是摩根娜·罗斯柴尔德),红着脸,告诉她,自己两种都没有玩。摩根娜吃惊地盯着他。一阵尴尬的沉默。

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然后,她突然转过身去,跟她左边那个更喜欢运动的男子聊天去了。

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“这个团结礼拜仪式可真是开了个好头啊。”伯纳德痛苦地想,预见到自己实现救赎的努力会再次失败。如果他在溜到最近的椅子上之前,先看一眼就好了!他本可以坐在菲菲·布莱德拉夫和琼娜·迪塞尔之间的,可他却糊里糊涂地把自己杵在了摩根娜旁边。摩根娜!福帝呀!她那两道粗黑的眉头,确切地说,那一道眉毛,因为她的眉头在鼻子上方几乎连到了一起。福帝!他的右边是克拉拉·德特丁。必须承认,克拉拉的眉毛没有长到一起,可是,她的胸脯也太丰满了点吧。而菲菲和琼娜都绝对刚刚好:丰满,金发,个头不太大……现在,那个大笨蛋,汤姆·川口,坐在了她俩中间的椅子上。

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最后到的是撒柔吉尼·恩格斯。

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“你迟到了,”小组长严厉地说,“以后不能再这样了。”撒柔吉尼道着歉,溜进了吉姆·波卡诺夫斯基和赫伯特·巴库宁中间的座位。本小组的人都来齐了,团结圈儿圆满了,完美无缺。男人,女人,男人,不断地互相交替,围着桌子绕成圆圈。十二个人都准备着,要与大家合为一体,等待着连接在一起,融合到一起,在更大的生命中失去各自不同的个体身份。

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组长站了起来,划了个T字,打开合成音乐,播放出轻柔、不知疲倦的鼓点和各种乐器的合奏,既有管乐,也有弦乐,一遍遍地重复着第一首团结赞美诗那简洁的旋律。洪亮、不可逃避的声音萦绕着,萦绕着,一遍,又一遍,听到这搏动的声音的并不是耳朵,而是下腹部;这重复来重复去的和鸣,各种呜呜声和叮当声,缠绕的不是头脑,而是渴望同情的五脏六腑。

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组长又划了个T字,坐下了。仪式开始了。捐献的唆麻片放在了桌子中间。草莓冰激凌味的唆麻爱之杯,从一个人的手上传递到下一个人的手上,大家嘴上念叨着祈祷语“我为我的消失而干杯”,十二次的痛饮。之后,在合成管弦乐的伴奏下,大家唱起了第一首团结赞美诗。

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“福帝,我们是十二个;

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哦,让我们成为一体吧,

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成为社会之河中的水滴,

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哦,让我们一起跑吧,

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快得像您那闪亮的轿车。”

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十二段充满渴望的诗节。爱之杯再次传递一圈。“我为更伟大的生命而干杯”是这次的祈祷语。所有人都喝了。音乐依旧不知疲倦地演奏着,鼓点响着,呜呜呜,叮叮当,乐器的和鸣声缠绕回响,几乎要将五脏六腑融化掉。大家唱起了第二首团结赞美诗。

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“来吧,更伟大的生命,社会之友,

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毁灭十二个,合成为一个!

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我们渴望消亡,只有那时,

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我们的大我才能生成。”

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还是十二个诗节。此时,唆麻开始显效了。眼睛发亮了,脸蛋变红了,内心的博爱之光照亮了每个人的脸颊,每个人的脸上都洋溢着幸福、友好的微笑。就连伯纳德都觉得自己有点融化了。当摩根娜·罗斯柴尔德扭过脸冲着他微笑时,他也尽力报以微笑。但是,那道眉毛,那道合二为一的黑眉毛,哎呀,还在那里,他无法忽视它的存在,再怎么努力都做不到。融化的程度还不够。如果他坐在菲菲和琼娜中间的话,可能……爱之杯第三次开始传递了,“我为他即将来临而干杯。”摩根娜·罗斯柴尔德说,这次轮到她启动这个圆圈仪式。她的声音高亢兴奋。她一番痛饮,把杯子递给伯纳德。“我为他即将来临而干杯。”伯纳德重复一遍,真心地希望能够感觉到“他”马上就要来临,可是,那道眉毛还是纠缠着他,对他而言,那个伟大的来临还遥远得可怕呢。他喝了之后,将杯子传给克拉拉·德特丁。“这次又失败了。”他自言自语,“我就知道会这样的。”但是,他仍然尽可能地微笑着。爱之杯又传了一圈。组长举起一只手,发出信号,合唱爆发为第三首团结赞美诗。

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“感受吧,更伟大的生命到来了!

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欢乐吧,在欢乐中消逝!

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融化在鼓点的音乐中!

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我就是你,你就是我。”

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一首诗接着一首诗,随着大家越来越激动,声音开始颤抖。伟大生命即将降临之感充斥在空气中,如同充了电一般刺激、紧张。组长关掉音乐,随着最后一段的最后一个音符消失,出现了绝对的寂静,过度期待造成的寂静,它战栗着,爬行着,如同带了电的生命。组长伸出一只手,突然,一个声音,一个深沉洪亮的声音,比人类的任何声音都更悦耳、更丰富、更温暖的声音,因为爱、渴望和同情而颤抖的声音,一个美妙、神秘、超自然的声音,在他们上方说话了,非常缓慢地:“哦,福帝,福帝,福帝。”声音逐渐减弱,声调逐渐降低。听到这声音的人们顿时激动万分,感觉到一股温暖从太阳穴辐射到身体的每个角落。泪水涌入他们的眼睛,他们的心、他们的五脏六腑似乎都在涌动,如同拥有了独立的生命。“福帝哦!”他们在融化,“福帝!”他们融化了,消失了。然后,令人吃惊地,这声音突然换了一种语气:“听!”声音如同喇叭。“听!”他们聆听着。停顿了一会儿后,声音降为细语,但不知怎么回事,这细语却比最高亢的呼喊更具有穿透力。“更伟大的生命的脚步声。”声音继续着,重复着,“更伟大的生命的脚步声。”细语声几乎听不见了,“楼梯上响起了更伟大的生命的脚步声。”再一次的沉寂,刚刚松懈了一点的期待又一次绷紧了,越来越紧,几乎到了崩溃的边缘。更伟大的生命的脚步声,哦,他们听到了,他们听见了,轻轻地沿楼梯走下来了,沿着看不见的楼梯,“他”越走越近了。更伟大的生命的脚步声。突然,崩溃的一刻到来了。摩根娜·罗斯柴尔德跳了起来,眼睛瞪着,嘴巴大张着。

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“我听见他了,”她喊道,“我听见他了。”

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“他来了。”撒柔吉尼·恩格斯喊叫着。

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“是的,他来了,我听见了。”菲菲·布莱德拉夫和汤姆·川口同时站了起来。

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“哦,哦,哦!”琼娜含混不清地作证。

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“他来了!”吉姆·波卡诺夫斯基大叫。

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组长身体前倾,轻轻一按开关,顿时响起镲钹和铜管乐发烧般的呓语,一阵咚咚咚、锵锵锵。

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“哦,他来了!”克拉拉·德特丁尖叫起来,“啊咿!”好像有人在割她的喉咙。

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伯纳德感到他也该做点什么,于是跳了起来,喊叫着:“我听见他了,他来了。”这不是真话。他什么都没有听到,对他而言,谁都没有来。没有人,尽管音乐轰鸣,尽管周围的人越来越兴奋。但是,他挥舞着手臂,和他们中最激动的人一起喊叫着。看到其他人开始摇摆、跺脚、拖着步子跳起舞来,他也开始跟着摇摆跳舞。

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他们转着圈跳着,围成了一个圈,每个人都把双手放在前面一个跳舞者的腰胯部,一圈又一圈,一起喊叫着,随着音乐的节奏,他们跺着脚,双手拍打着前面人的屁股。十二个人的手同时在拍打,犹如一个人;十二个屁股拍得啪啪作响,十二个人合为一人,十二合一。“我听见他了,我听见他来了。”音乐节奏加快了,跺脚更快了,加快,加快,敲击节奏的手也加快了。突然,传来一个响亮的合成低音,宣布救赎的到来,社会团结的实现,十二合一的到来,以及更伟大的生命的现身。“狂欢吧,狂欢吧。”这声音唱着,咚咚的鼓点继续敲打出狂热的节奏。

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“狂欢吧,福帝呀,玩乐吧,

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亲吻姑娘吧,合二为一;

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小伙姑娘合二为一,

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一切才能安宁;

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狂欢吧,释放吧。”

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“狂欢吧,”跳舞的人跟着这祈祷词般的叠句唱了起来,“狂欢吧,福帝呀,玩乐吧,亲吻姑娘吧……”他们唱着唱着,灯光逐渐暗下来,暗下来,同时,灯光变暖了,变得更丰富,也更红了,最后,他们几乎是在胚胎库里那种朦胧的暗红色中舞蹈了。“狂欢吧……”舞蹈者在胚胎库里那种血红色的黑暗中又继续转了一会儿,击打着,不知疲倦地击打着节奏。“狂欢吧……”然后,圆圈渐渐动摇了,散开了,人们两两一起躺倒在四周围成一圈的长沙发上,长沙发将圆桌和椅子套在中间,一圈套一圈。“狂欢吧……”那个低沉的声音温柔地低吟着,轻唱着,在朦胧的暗红色中,好像有只巨大的黑鸽子正在此刻颠鸾倒凤的这些人上空盘旋着,爱意绵绵。

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他们站在楼顶上,大亨利钟刚刚敲过十一点。夜是平静的、温暖的。

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“刚才多么美妙啊,不是吗?”菲菲·布莱德拉夫说,“多么美妙啊!”她望着伯纳德,一脸的狂喜,这种狂喜里没有一丁点激动或兴奋的痕迹,因为兴奋是不满足的表现。她的狂喜是心满意足后的狂喜,是平静的狂喜。她获得的安宁,不仅出于空洞的满足和满足后的无聊,而且是来自平衡的生命,来自安宁和平衡的精力,这是丰富、生动的安宁。团结礼拜仪式不仅索取,而且给予,取走就是为了补充。她完整了,完美了,不再仅仅是她自己。“难道你不认为刚才非常美妙吗?”她还在追问,看着伯纳德的脸,眼睛亮得出奇。

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“是啊,我觉得非常美妙。”他在撒谎,眼睛望向了别处。对他而言,她那张容光焕发的脸既是对他的指责,又是颇具讽刺性的提醒,提醒着他的与众不同。此刻,他和仪式刚开始的时候没有什么两样,依然是那么悲惨,那么孤立,或者说,因为他那未得到满足的空虚,或者说他那死板的满足,他感到更加孤立了。当其他人都已融入那更伟大的生命时,他仍然是孤立的,未得到救赎,即使在摩根娜的怀抱中,他也是孤独的,或者说更加孤独了,确实如此,感觉比他生命中的任何时刻都更加孤独无望。当他从那朦胧的暗红色中醒来,再次为普通电灯照耀时,他越发地意识到自我的存在,这令他痛苦难耐。他难受极了,或许(她闪闪发亮的眼睛在指责他),这全是他自己的错。“太美妙了。”他重复了一遍,但是,他能回忆起来的只有摩根娜的那道眉毛。

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By eight o’clock the light was failing. The loud speaker in the tower of the Stoke Poges Club House began, in a more than human tenor, to announce the closing of the courses. Lenina and Henry abandoned their game and walked back towards the Club. From the grounds of the Internal and External Secretion Trust came the lowing of those thousands of cattle which provided, with their hormones and their milk, the raw materials for the great factory at Farnham Royal.

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An incessant buzzing of helicopters filled the twilight. Every two and a half minutes a bell and the screech of whistles announced the departure of one of the light monorail trains which carried the lower-caste golfers back from their separate course to the metropolis.

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Lenina and Henry climbed into their machine and started off. At eight hundred feet Henry slowed down the helicopter screws, and they hung for a minute or two poised above the fading landscape. The forest of Burnham Beeches stretched like a great pool of darkness towards the bright shore of the western sky. crimson at the horizon, the last of the sunset faded, through orange, upwards into yellow and a pale watery green. Northwards, beyond and above the trees, the Internal and External Secretions factory glared with a fierce electric brilliance from every window of its twenty stories. Beneath them lay the buildings of the Golf Club—the huge lower-caste barracks and, on the other side of a dividing wall, the smaller houses reserved for Alpha and Beta members. The approaches to the monorail station were black with the ant-like pullulation of lower-caste activity. From under the glass vault a lighted train shot out into the open. Following its south-easterly course across the dark plain their eyes were drawn to the majestic buildings of the Slough Crematorium. For the safety of night-flying planes, its four tall chimneys were flood-lighted and tipped with crimson danger signals. It was a landmark.

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“Why do the smoke-stacks have those things like balconies around them?” enquired Lenina.

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“Phosphorus recovery,” explained Henry telegraphically. “On their way up the chimney the gases go through four separate treatments. P2O5 used to go right out of circulation every time they cremated some one. Now they recover over ninety-eight per cent of it. More than a kilo and a half per adult corpse. Which makes the best part of four hundred tons of phosphorus every year from England alone.” Henry spoke with a happy pride, rejoicing wholeheartedly in the achievement, as though it had been his own. “Fine to think we can go on being socially useful even after we’re dead. Making plants grow.”

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Lenina, meanwhile, had turned her eyes away and was looking perpendicularly downwards at the monorail station. “Fine,” she agreed. “But queer that Alphas and Betas won’t make any more plants grow than those nasty little Gammas and Deltas and Epsilons down there.”

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“All men are physico-chemically equal,” said Henry sententiously. “Besides, even Epsilons perform indispensable services.”

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“Even an Epsilon…” Lenina suddenly remembered an occasion when, as a little girl at school, she had woken up in the middle of the night and become aware, for the first time, of the whispering that had haunted all her sleeps. She saw again the beam of moonlight, the row of small white beds; heard once more the soft, soft voice that said (the words were there, unforgotten, unforgettable after so many night-long repetitions): “Every one works for every one else. We can’t do without any one. Even Epsilons are useful. We couldn’t do without Epsilons. Every one works for every one else. We can’t do without any one…” Lenina remembered her first shock of fear and surprise; her speculations through half a wakeful hour; and then, under the influence of those endless repetitions, the gradual soothing of her mind, the soothing, the smoothing, the stealthy creeping of sleep….

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“I suppose Epsilons don’t really mind being Epsilons,” she said aloud.

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“Of course they don’t. How can they? They don’t know what it’s like being anything else. We’d mind, of course. But then we’ve been differently conditioned. Besides, we start with a different heredity.”

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“I’m glad I’m not an Epsilon,” said Lenina, with conviction.

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“And if you were an Epsilon,” said Henry, “your conditioning would have made you no less thankful that you weren’t a Beta or an Alpha.” He put his forward propeller into gear and headed the machine towards London. Behind them, in the west, the crimson and orange were almost faded; a dark bank of cloud had crept into the zenith. As they flew over the Crematorium, the plane shot upwards on the column of hot air rising from the chimneys, only to fall as suddenly when it passed into the descending chill beyond.

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“What a marvellous switchback!” Lenina laughed delightedly.

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But Henry’s tone was almost, for a moment, melancholy. “Do you know what that switchback was?” he said. “It was some human being finally and definitely disappearing. Going up in a squirt of hot gas. It would be curious to know who it was—a man or a woman, an Alpha or an Epsilon….” He sighed. Then, in a resolutely cheerful voice, “Anyhow,” he concluded, “there’s one thing we can be certain of; whoever he may have been, he was happy when he was alive. Everybody’s happy now.”

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“Yes, everybody’s happy now,” echoed Lenina. They had heard the words repeated a hundred and fifty times every night for twelve years.

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Landing on the roof of Henry’s forty-story apartment house in Westminster, they went straight down to the dining-hall. There, in a loud and cheerful company, they ate an excellent meal. Soma was served with the coffee. Lenina took two half-gramme tablets and Henry three. At twenty past nine they walked across the street to the newly opened Westminster Abbey Cabaret. It was a night almost without clouds, moonless and starry; but of this on the whole depressing fact Lenina and Henry were fortunately unaware. The electric sky-signs effectively shut off the outer darkness. “CALVIN STOPES AND HIS SIXTEEN SEXOPHONISTS.” From the fa?ade of the new Abbey the giant letters invitingly glared. “LONDON’S FINEST SCENT AND COLOUR ORGAN. ALL THE LATEST SYNTHETIC MUSIC.”

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They entered. The air seemed hot and somehow breathless with the scent of ambergris and sandalwood. On the domed ceiling of the hall, the colour organ had momentarily painted a tropical sunset. The Sixteen Sexophonists were playing an old favourite: “There ain’t no Bottle in all the world like that dear little Bottle of mine.” Four hundred couples were five-stepping round the polished floor. Lenina and Henry were soon the four hundred and first. The sexophones wailed like melodious cats under the moon, moaned in the alto and tenor registers as though the little death were upon them. Rich with a wealth of harmonics, their tremulous chorus mounted towards a climax, louder and ever louder—until at last, with a wave of his hand, the conductor let loose the final shattering note of ether-music and blew the sixteen merely human blowers clean out of existence. Thunder in A flat major. And then, in all but silence, in all but darkness, there followed a gradual deturgescence, a diminuendo sliding gradually, through quarter tones, down, down to a faintly whispered dominant chord that lingered on (while the five-four rhythms still pulsed below) charging the darkened seconds with an intense expectancy. And at last expectancy was fulfilled. There was a sudden explosive sunrise, and simultaneously, the Sixteen burst into song:

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“Bottle of mine, it’s you I’ve always wanted!

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Bottle of mine, why was I ever decanted?

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Skies are blue inside of you,

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The weather’s always fine;

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For

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There ain ’t no Bottle in all the world

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Like that dear little Bottle of mine.”

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Five-stepping with the other four hundred round and round Westminster Abbey, Lenina and Henry were yet dancing in another world—the warm, the richly coloured, the infinitely friendly world of soma-holiday. How kind, how good-looking, how delightfully amusing every one was! “Bottle of mine, it’s you I’ve always wanted…” But Lenina and Henry had what they wanted…They were inside, here and now—safely inside with the fine weather, the perennially blue sky. And when, exhausted, the Sixteen had laid by their sexophones and the Synthetic Music apparatus was producing the very latest in slow Malthusian Blues, they might have been twin embryos gently rocking together on the waves of a bottled ocean of blood-surrogate.

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“Good-night, dear friends. Good-night, dear friends.” The loud speakers veiled their commands in a genial and musical politeness. “Good-night, dear friends…”

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Obediently, with all the others, Lenina and Henry left the building. The depressing stars had travelled quite some way across the heavens. But though the separating screen of the sky-signs had now to a great extent dissolved, the two young people still retained their happy ignorance of the night.

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Swallowing half an hour before closing time, that second dose of soma had raised a quite impenetrable wall between the actual universe and their minds. Bottled, they crossed the street; bottled, they took the lift up to Henry’s room on the twenty-eighth floor. And yet, bottled as she was, and in spite of that second gramme of soma, Lenina did not forget to take all the contraceptive precautions prescribed by the regulations. Years of intensive hypnopaedia and, from twelve to seventeen, Malthusian drill three times a week had made the taking of these precautions almost as automatic and inevitable as blinking.

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“Oh, and that reminds me,” she said, as she came back from the bathroom, “Fanny Crowne wants to know where you found that lovely green morocco-surrogate cartridge belt you gave me.”

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Alternate Thursdays were Bernard’s Solidarity Service days. After an early dinner at the Aphroditaeum (to which Helrnholtz had recently been elected under Rule Two) he took leave of his friend and, hailing a taxi on the roof, told the man to fly to the Fordson Community Singery. The machine rose a couple of hundred metres, then headed eastwards, and as it turned, there before Bernard’s eyes, gigantically beautiful, was the Singery. Flood-lighted, its three hundred and twenty metres of white Carrara-surrogate gleamed with a snowy incandescence over Ludgate Hill; at each of the four corners of its helicopter platform an immense T shone crimson against the night, and from the mouths of twenty-four vast golden trumpets rumbled a solemn synthetic music.

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“Damn, I’m late,” Bernard said to himself as he first caught sight of Big Henry, the Singery clock. And sure enough, as he was paying off his cab, Big Henry sounded the hour. “Ford,” sang out an immense bass voice from all the golden trumpets. “Ford, Ford, Ford…” Nine times. Bernard ran for the lift.

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The great auditorium for Ford’s Day celebrations and other massed Community Sings was at the bottom of the building. Above it, a hundred to each floor, were the seven thousand rooms used by Solidarity Groups for their fortnightly services. Bernard dropped down to floor thirty-three, hurried along the corridor, stood hesitating for a moment outside Room 3210, then, having wound himself up, opened the door and walked in.

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Thank Ford! he was not the last. Three chairs of the twelve arranged round the circular table were still unoccupied. He slipped into the nearest of them as inconspicuously as he could and prepared to frown at the yet later comers whenever they should arrive.

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Turning towards him, “What were you playing this afternoon?” the girl on his left enquired. “Obstacle, or Electro-magnetic?”

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Bernard looked at her (Ford! it was Morgana Rothschild) and blushingly had to admit that he had been playing neither. Morgana stared at him with astonishment. There was an awkward silence.

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Then pointedly she turned away and addressed herself to the more sporting man on her left.

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“A good beginning for a Solidarity Service,” thought Bernard miserably, and foresaw for himself yet another failure to achieve atonement. If only he had given himself time to look around instead of scuttling for the nearest chair! He could have sat between Fifi Bradlaugh and Joanna Diesel. Instead of which he had gone and blindly planted himself next to Morgana. Morgana! Ford! Those black eyebrows of hers—that eyebrow, rather—for they met above the nose. Ford! And on his right was Clara Deterding. True, Clara’s eyebrows didn’t meet. But she was really too pneumatic. Whereas Fifi and Joanna were absolutely right. Plump, blonde, not too large…And it was that great lout, Tom Kawaguchi, who now took the seat between them.

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The last arrival was Sarojini Engels.

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“You’re late,” said the President of the Group severely. “Don’t let it happen again.”

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Sarojini apologized and slid into her place between Jim Bokanovsky and Herbert Bakunin. The group was now complete, the solidarity circle perfect and without flaw. Man, woman, man, in a ring of endless alternation round the table. Twelve of them ready to be made one, waiting to come together, to be fused, to lose their twelve separate identities in a larger being.

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The President stood up, made the sign of the T and, switching on the synthetic music, let loose the soft indefatigable beating of drums and a choir of instruments—near-wind and super-string—that plangently repeated and repeated the brief and unescapably haunting melody of the first Solidarity Hymn. Again, again—and it was not the ear that heard the pulsating rhythm, it was the midriff; the wail and clang of those recurring harmonies haunted, not the mind, but the yearning bowels of compassion.

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The President made another sign of the T and sat down. The service had begun. The dedicated soma tablets were placed in the centre of the table. The loving cup of strawberry ice-cream soma was passed from hand to hand and, with the formula, “I drink to my annihilation,” twelve times quaffed. Then to the accompaniment of the synthetic orchestra the First Solidarity Hymn was sung.

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“Ford, we are twelve; oh, make us one,

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Like drops within the Social River,

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Oh, make us now together run

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As swiftly as thy shining Flivver.”

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Twelve yearning stanzas. And then the loving cup was passed a second time. “I drink to the Greater Being” was now the formula. All drank. Tirelessly the music played. The drums beat. The crying and clashing of the harmonies were an obsession in the melted bowels. The Second Solidarity Hymn was sung.

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“Come, Greater Being, Social Friend,

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Annihilating Twelve-in-One!

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We long to die, for when we end,

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Our larger life has but begun.”

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Again twelve stanzas. By this time the soma had begun to work. Eyes shone, cheeks were flushed, the inner light of universal benevolence broke out on every face in happy, friendly smiles. Even Bernard felt himself a little melted. When Morgana Rothschild turned and beamed at him, he did his best to beam back. But the eyebrow, that black two-in-one—alas, it was still there; he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t, however hard he tried. The melting hadn’t gone far enough. Perhaps if he had been sitting between Fifi and Joanna…For the third time the loving cup went round; “I drink to the imminence of His Coming,” said Morgana Rothschild, whose turn it happened to be to initiate the circular rite. Her tone was loud, exultant. She drank and passed the cup to Bernard. “I drink to the imminence of His Coming,” he repeated, with a sincere attempt to feel that the Coming was imminent; but the eyebrow continued to haunt him, and the Coming, so far as he was concerned, was horribly remote. He drank and handed the cup to Clara Deterding. “It’ll be a failure again,” he said to himself. “I know it will.” But he went on doing his best to beam.

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The loving cup had made its circuit. Lifting his hand, the President gave a signal; the chorus broke out into the Third Solidarity Hymn.

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“Feel how the Greater Being comes!

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Rejoice and, in rejoicings, die!

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Melt in the music of the drums!

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For I am you and you are I.”

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As verse succeeded verse the voices thrilled with an ever intenser excitement. The sense of the Coming’s imminence was like an electric tension in the air. The President switched off the music and, with the final note of the final stanza, there was absolute silence—the silence of stretched expectancy, quivering and creeping with a galvanic life. The President reached out his hand; and suddenly a Voice, a deep strong Voice, more musical than any merely human voice, richer, warmer, more vibrant with love and yearning and compassion, a wonderful, mysterious, supernatural Voice spoke from above their heads. Very slowly, “Oh, Ford, Ford, Ford,” it said diminishingly and on a descending scale. A sensation of warmth radiated thrillingly out from the solar plexus to every extremity of the bodies of those who listened; tears came into their eyes; their hearts, their bowels seemed to move within them, as though with an independent life. “Ford!” they were melting, “Ford!” dissolved, dissolved. Then, in another tone, suddenly, startlingly. “Listen!” trumpeted the voice. “Listen!” They listened. After a pause, sunk to a whisper, but a whisper, somehow, more penetrating than the loudest cry. “The feet of the Greater Being,” it went on, and repeated the words: “The feet of the Greater Being.” The whisper almost expired. “The feet of the Greater Being are on the stairs.” And once more there was silence; and the expectancy, momentarily relaxed, was stretched again, tauter, tauter, almost to the tearing point. The feet of the Greater Being—oh, they heard them, they heard them, coming softly down the stairs, coming nearer and nearer down the invisible stairs. The feet of the Greater Being. And suddenly the tearing point was reached. Her eyes staring, her lips parted. Morgana Rothschild sprang to her feet.

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“I hear him,” she cried. “I hear him.”

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“He’s coming,” shouted Sarojini Engels.

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“Yes, he’s coming, I hear him.” Fifi Bradlaugh and Tom Kawaguchi rose simultaneously to their feet.

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“Oh, oh, oh!” Joanna inarticulately testified.

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“He’s coming!” yelled Jim Bokanovsky.

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The President leaned forward and, with a touch, released a delirium of cymbals and blown brass, a fever of tom-tomming.

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“Oh, he’s coming!” screamed Clara Deterding. “Aie!” and it was as though she were having her throat cut.

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Feeling that it was time for him to do something, Bernard also jumped up and shouted: “I hear him; He’s coming.” But it wasn’t true. He heard nothing and, for him, nobody was coming. Nobody—in spite of the music, in spite of the mounting excitement. But he waved his arms, he shouted with the best of them; and when the others began to jig and stamp and shuffle, he also jigged and shuffled.

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Round they went, a circular procession of dancers, each with hands on the hips of the dancer preceding, round and round, shouting in unison, stamping to the rhythm of the music with their feet, beating it, beating it out with hands on the buttocks in front; twelve pairs of hands beating as one; as one, twelve buttocks slabbily resounding. Twelve as one, twelve as one. “I hear him, I hear him coming.” The music quickened; faster beat the feet, faster, faster fell the rhythmic hands. And all at once a great synthetic bass boomed out the words which announced the approaching atonement and final consummation of solidarity, the coming of the Twelve-in-One, the incarnation of the Greater Being. “Orgy-porgy,” it sang, while the tom-toms continued to beat their feverish tattoo:

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“Orgy-porgy, Ford and fun,

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Kiss the girls and make them One.

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Boys at One with girls at peace;

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Orgy-porgy gives release.”

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“Orgy-porgy,” the dancers caught up the liturgical refrain, “Orgy-porgy, Ford and fun, kiss the girls…” And as they sang, the lights began slowly to fade—to fade and at the same time to grow warmer, richer, redder, until at last they were dancing in the crimson twilight of an Embryo Store. “Orgy-porgy…” In their blood-coloured and foetal darkness the dancers continued for a while to circulate, to beat and beat out the indefatigable rhythm. “Orgy-porgy…” Then the circle wavered, broke, fell in partial disintegration on the ring of couches which surrounded—circle enclosing circle—the table and its planetary chairs. “Orgy-porgy…” Tenderly the deep Voice crooned and cooed; in the red twilight it was as though some enormous negro dove were hovering benevolently over the now prone or supine dancers.

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They were standing on the roof; Big Henry had just sung eleven. The night was calm and warm.

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“Wasn’t it wonderful?” said Fifi Bradlaugh. “Wasn’t it simply wonderful?” She looked at Bernard with an expression of rapture, but of rapture in which there was no trace of agitation or excitement—for to be excited is still to be unsatisfied. Hers was the calm ecstasy of achieved consummation, the peace, not of mere vacant satiety and nothingness, but of balanced life, of energies at rest and in equilibrium. A rich and living peace. For the Solidarity Service had given as well as taken, drawn off only to replenish. She was full, she was made perfect, she was still more than merely herself. “Didn’t you think it was wonderful?” she insisted, looking into Bernard’s face with those supernaturally shining eyes.

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“Yes, I thought it was wonderful,” he lied and looked away; the sight of her transfigured face was at once an accusation and an ironical reminder of his own separateness. He was as miserably isolated now as he had been when the service began—more isolated by reason of his unreplenished emptiness, his dead satiety. Separate and unatoned, while the others were being fused into the Greater Being; alone even in Morgana’s embrace—much more alone, indeed, more hopelessly himself than he had ever been in his life before. He had emerged from that crimson twilight into the common electric glare with a self-consciousness intensified to the pitch of agony. He was utterly miserable, and perhaps (her shining eyes accused him), perhaps it was his own fault. “Quite wonderful,” he repeated; but the only thing he could think of was Morgana’s eyebrow.

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

Secretion

[sɪ’kriːʃn]

n.分泌;分泌物;藏匿

metropolis

[mə’trɒpəlɪs]

n.大都市;重要中心;首府

crimson

[’krɪmzn]

adj.深红色的

wholehearted

[ˌhəʊl’hɑːtɪd]

adj.全心全意的;诚恳的

epsilon

[’epsɪlɒn]

n.希腊语字母之第五字;【数】小的正数

creep

[kriːp]

vi.蹑手蹑脚地走;爬

heredity

[hə’redəti]

n.遗传;遗传特征

Epsilon

[’epsɪlɒn]

n.希腊语字母之第五字;【数】小的正数

Crematorium

[ˌkremə’tɔːriəm]

n.火葬场

switchback

[’swɪtʃbæk]

n.在Z形路轨向原来的方向返驶;之字形路线;【英】云霄飞车;改变角度

Anyhow

[’enihaʊ]

adv.无论如何;不管怎样

echo

[’ekəʊ]

①[C][U]回声;反响;共鸣;

SYNTHETIC

[sɪn’θetɪk]

adj.合成的;综合的

simultaneous

[ˌsɪml’teɪniəs]

adj.同时发生的;同步的

decant

[dɪ’kænt]

v.轻轻倒出;移入其他容器

embryo

[’embriəʊ]

n.胚胎;萌芽

politeness

[pə’laɪtnəs]

n.礼貌;优雅

ignorance

[’ɪɡnərəns]

n.无知;愚昧

Malthusian

[mæl’θjuːzɪən]

adj.马尔萨斯人口论的;马尔萨斯主义的

cartridge

[’kɑːtrɪdʒ]

n.弹药筒

synthetic

[sɪn’θetɪk]

adj.合成的;综合的

trumpet

[’trʌmpɪt]

n.喇叭;喇叭声;喇叭手

fortnightly

[’fɔːtnaɪtli]

a. 每两星期一次(的);

comer

[’kʌmə(r)]

n.来者;有成功希望的人

astonishment

[ə’stɒnɪʃmənt]

n.惊讶;令人惊讶的事物

lout

[laʊt]

n.笨人

Engels

[’eŋəls]

n.1. 恩格斯

fuse

[fjuːz]

n.保险丝

compassion

[kəm’pæʃn]

n.怜悯;同情

Hymn

[hɪm]

n.赞美诗;圣歌

Flivver

[’flɪvə]

n.廉价小汽车

annihilate

[ə’naɪəleɪt]

v.消灭;歼灭;彻底消除;使无效;废止

Rejoice

[rɪ’dʒɔɪs]

v.(使)高兴;(使)欢喜

taut

[tɔːt]

adj.拉紧的;绷紧的;紧张的;整洁的

inarticulate

[ˌɪnɑː’tɪkjələt]

adj.不善言辞的;含糊其辞的;非言语能表达的;说不出话的

brass

[brɑːs]

n.黄铜(制品);铜管(乐器)

shuffle

[’ʃʌfl]

v.拖曳;搅乱;推诿;洗牌;移来移去

tattoo

[tə’tuː]

v.(在皮肤上)刺图案

warmer

[’wɔːmə(r)]

n.取暖器;加热工人

twilight

[’twaɪlaɪt]

n.黄昏;微光;含糊不清;衰落时期

Embryo

[’embriəʊ]

n.胚胎;萌芽

waver

[’weɪvə(r)]

v.动摇;摇曳;犹豫;颤抖

enclose

[ɪn’kləʊz]

vt.圈起;围住;附上;封入

coo

[kuː]

vi. (鸽) 咕咕地叫;轻声而温情地说话;

hover

[’hɒvə(r)]

v.盘旋;徘徊;靠近(某事物),维持在某种不确定的状态

benevolent

[bə’nevələnt]

adj.仁慈的;乐善好施的

prone

[prəʊn]

adj.易于 ... 的;有 ... 倾向的;俯卧的

agitation

[ˌædʒɪ’teɪʃn]

n.激动;鼓动;搅动

excite

[ɪk’saɪt]

vt.使兴奋;使激动;刺激;激起

equilibrium

[ˌiːkwɪ’lɪbriəm]

n.平衡;均衡

Solidarity

[ˌsɒlɪ’dærəti]

n.团结

supernatural

[ˌsuːpə’nætʃrəl]

adj.超自然的;神奇的

transfigure

[træns’fɪɡə(r)]

vt.使变形;使改观;美化

ironic

[aɪ’rɒnɪk]

adj.说反话的;讽刺的

miserably

[’mɪzrəbli]

adv.悲惨地;糟糕地

hopeless

[’həʊpləs]

adj.没有希望的;绝望的;无可救药的

glare

[ɡleə(r)]

n.闪耀光;刺眼

agony

[’æɡəni]

n.极度的痛苦;挣扎

utterly

[’ʌtəli:]

adv.完全;全然;绝对

miserable

[’mɪzrəbl]

adj.痛苦的;悲惨的;贫乏的;狼狈的

separateness

[’sepərɪtnɪs]

n.分离;独立;个性

unreplenished

[ˌʌnrɪ’plenɪʃt]

adj.未(再)装满(或备足)的未补充(或添加)的.未充分提供的.

emptiness

[’emptinəs]

n.空虚;空旷;空地

satiety

[sə’taɪəti]

n.饱足;满足

crimson

[’krɪmzn]

adj.深红色的

intensify

[ɪn’tensɪfaɪ]

vt.增强;强化;加剧

简典