Read Online Antic Hay by Aldous Huxley - Free Book Online

The ordinary man can’t leave them. He takes; and what’s that but slavery? And so you see, Mr Gumbril,’ Mr Bojanus smiled with a kind of roguish triumph, ‘you see that even in the ‘ypothetical case of a man with indefinite leisure, there still would be no freedom . . . And the case, as I have said, is purely ‘ypothetical; at any rate so far as concerns the sort of people who want a revolution. And as for the sort of people who do enjoy leisure, even now – why I think, Mr Gumbril, you and I know enough about the Best People to know that freedom, except possibly sexual freedom, is not their strongest point. And sexual freedom – what’s that?’ Mr Bojanus dramatically inquired. ‘You and I, Mr Gumbril,’ he answered confidentially, ‘we know. It’s an ’orrible, ’ideous slavery. That’s what it is. Or am I wrong, Mr Gumbril?’
    â€˜Quite right, quite right, Mr Bojanus,’ Gumbril hastened to reply.
    â€˜From all of which,’ continued Mr Bojanus, ‘it follows that, except for a few, a very few people like you and me, Mr Gumbril, there’s no such thing as liberty. It’s an ’oax, Mr Gumbril. An ’orrible plant. And if I may be allowed to say so,’ Mr Bojanus lowered his voice, but still spoke with emphasis, ‘a bloody swindle.’
    â€˜But in that case, Mr Bojanus, why are you so anxious to have a revolution?’ Gumbril inquired.
    Thoughtfully, Mr Bojanus twisted to a finer point his waxed moustaches. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘it would be a nice change. I was always one for change and a little excitement. And then there’s the scientific interest. You never quite know ’ow an experiment will turn out, do you, Mr Gumbril? I remember when I was a boy, my old dad – a great gardener he was, a regular floriculturist, you might say, Mr Gumbril – he tried the experiment of grafting a sprig of Gloire de Dijon on to a black currant bush. And, would you believe it? the roses came out black, coal black, Mr Gumbril. Nobody would ever have guessed that if the thing had never been tried. And that’s what I say about the revolution. You don’t know what’ll come of it till you try. Black roses, blue roses –’oo knows, Mr Gumbril, ’oo knows?’
    â€˜Who indeed?’ Gumbril looked at his watch. ‘About those trousers . . .’ he added.
    â€˜Those garments,’ corrected Mr Bojanus. ‘Ah, yes. Should we say next Tuesday?’
    â€˜Let us say next Tuesday.’ Gumbril opened the shop door. ‘Good morning, Mr Bojanus.’
    Mr Bojanus bowed him out, as though he had been a prince of the blood.
    The sun was shining and at the end of the street between the houses the sky was blue. Gauzily the distances faded to a soft, rich indistinctness; there were veils of golden muslin thickening down the length of every vista. On the trees in the Hanover Square gardens the young leaves were still so green that they seemed to be alight, green fire, and the sooty trunks looked blacker and dirtier than ever. It would have been a pleasant and apposite thing if a cuckoo had started calling. But though the cuckoo was silent it was a happy day. A day, Gumbril reflected, as he strolled idly along, to be in love.
    From the world of tailors Gumbril passed into that of the artificial-pearl merchants, and with a still keener appreciation of the amorous qualities of this clear spring day, he began a leisured march along the perfumed pavements of Bond Street. He thought with a profound satisfaction of those sixty-three papers on the Risorgimento. How pleasant it was to waste time! And Bond Street offered so many opportunities for wasting it agreeably. He trotted round the Spring Exhibition at the Grosvenor and came out, a little regretting, he had to confess, his eighteenpence for admission. After that, he pretended that he wanted to buy a grand