After the Fireworks

by Aldous Huxley

  In the face of the very defective sanitary arrangements of the prison, my Uncle Spencer did his best. He had a crowd of willing assistants; everybody was anxious to do something helpful. Nobody was more anxious than Emmy Wendle. The forced inaction of prison life, even when it was relieved by the jokes of the cheerful ones, by theatrical discussions and the facetious gallantry of the bank-clerk and the journalist, was disagreeable to her. And the prospect of being able to do something, and particularly (since it was war-time, after all) of doing something useful and charitable, was welcomed by her with a real satisfaction. She sat by the Dravidian’s mattress, talked to him, gave him what he asked for, did the disagreeable jobs that have to be done in the sick-room, ordered my Uncle Spencer and the others about, and seemed completely happy.

  For his part, my Uncle Spencer was delighted by what he regarded as a reversion to her true self. There could be no doubt about it now: Emmy was good, was kind, a ministering angel, and therefore (in spite of the professor’s heroic though profligate duke), therefore pure, therefore interesting, therefore worthy of all the love he could give her. He forgot the confession, or at least he ceased to attach importance to it; he was no longer haunted by the odious images which too much brooding over it evoked in his mind. What convinced him, perhaps, better than everything of her essential goodness, was the fact that she was once more kind to him. Her young energy, fully occupied in practical work which was not, however, sufficiently trying to overtax the strength or set the nerves on edge, did not have to vent itself in laughter and mockery, as it had done when she recovered from the mood of melancholy which had depressed it during the first days of her imprisonment. They were fellow-workers now.

  The Dravidian, meanwhile, grew worse and worse, weaker and weaker every day. The doctor was positively irritated.

  ‘The man has no business to be so ill as he is,’ he grumbled. ‘He’s not old, he isn’t an alcoholic or a syphilitic, his constitution is sound enough. He’s just letting himself die. At this rate he’ll never get past the crisis.’

  At this piece of news Emmy became grave. She had never seen death at close quarters—a defect in her education which my Uncle Spencer, if he had had the bringing up of her, would have remedied. For death was one of those Realities of Life with which, he thought, everyone ought to make the earliest possible acquaintance. Love, on the other hand, was not one of the desirable Realities. It never occurred to him to ask himself the reason for this invidious distinction. Indeed, there was no reason; it just was so.

  ‘Tell me, Uncle Spenny,’ she whispered, when the doctor had gone, ‘what does really happen to people when they die?’

  Charmed by this sign of Emmy’s renewed interest in serious themes, my Uncle Spencer explained to her what Alphonse at any rate thought would happen to him.

  At midday, over the repeated cabbage soup and the horrible boiled meat, the bank-clerk, with characteristically tasteless facetiousness, asked, ‘How’s our one little nigger boy?’

  Emmy looked at him with disgust and anger. ‘I think you’re perfectly horrible,’ she said. And, lowering her voice reverently, she went on, ‘The doctor says he’s going to die.’

  The bank-clerk was unabashed. ‘Oh, he’s going to kick the bucket, is he? Poor old blacky!’

  Emmy made no answer; there was a general silence. It was as though somebody had started to make an unseemly noise in a church.

  Afterwards, in the privacy of the little room, where, among the filing cabinets and the dusty papers, the Dravidian lay contentedly dying, Emmy turned to my Uncle Spencer and said, ‘You know, Uncle Spenny, I think you’re a wonderfully decent sort. I do, really.’

  My Uncle Spencer was too much overcome to say anything but ‘Emmy, Emmy,’ two or three times. He took her hand and, very gently, kissed it.

  That afternoon they went on talking about all the things that might conceivably happen after one were dead. Emmy told my Uncle Spencer all that she had thought when she got the telegram—two years ago it was, and she was working in a hall at Glasgow, one of her first engagements, too—saying that her father had suddenly died. He drank too much, her father did; and he wasn’t kind to mother when he wasn’t himself. But she had been very fond of him, all the same; and when that telegram came she wondered and wondered. . . .

  My Uncle Spencer listened attentively, happy in having this new glimpse of her past; he forgot the other incident which the beam of her confession had illumined for him.

  Late that evening, after having lain for a long time quite still, as though he were asleep, Alphonse suddenly stirred, opened his large black eyes, and began to talk, at first in the incomprehensible language which came from him in delirium, then, when he realized that his listeners did not understand him, more slowly and in his strange pidgin-French.

  ‘I have seen everything just now,’ he said, ‘everything.’

  ‘But what?’ they asked.

  ‘All that is going to happen. I have seen that this war will last a long time—a long time. More than fifty months.’ And he prophesied enormous calamities.

  My Uncle Spencer, who knew for certain that the war couldn’t possibly last more than three months, was incredulous. But Emmy, who had no preconceived ideas on war and a strong faith in oracles, stopped him impatiently when he wanted to bring the Dravidian to silence.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what’s going to happen to us.’ She had very little interest in the fate of civilization.

  ‘I am going to die,’ Alphonse began.

  My Uncle Spencer made certain deprecating little noises. ‘No, no,’ he protested.

  The Indian paid no attention to him. ‘I am going to die,’ he repeated. ‘And you,’ he said to my Uncle Spencer, ‘you will be let go and then again be put into prison. But not here. Somewhere else. A long way off. For a long time—a very long time. You will be very unhappy.’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot help it; even though you have been so good to me. That is what I see. But the man who deceived me’—he meant the journalist—‘he will very soon be set free and he will live in freedom, all the time. In such freedom as there will be here. And he who sits in the chair will at last go back to his own country. And he who sings will go free like the man who deceived me. And the small grey man will be sent to another prison in another country. And the fat woman with a red mouth will be sent to another country; but she will not be in prison. I think she will be married there—again.’ The portraits were recognizably those of the Russian countess and the professor of Latin. ‘And the man with carbuncles on his face’ (this was the bank-clerk, no doubt) ‘will be sent to another prison in another country; and there he will die. And the woman in black who is so sad . . .’

  But Emmy could bear to wait no longer. ‘What about me?’ she asked. ‘Tell me what you see about me.’

  The Dravidian closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. ‘You will be set free,’ he said. ‘Soon. And some day,’ he went on, ‘you will be the wife of this good man.’ He indicated my Uncle Spencer. ‘But not yet; not for a long time; till all this strife is at an end. You will have children . . . good fortune . . . .’ His words grew fainter; once more he closed his eyes. He sighed as though utterly exhausted. ‘Beware of fair strangers,’ he murmured, reverting to the old familiar formula. He said no more.

  Emmy and my Uncle Spencer were left looking at one another in silence.

  ‘What do you think, Uncle Spenny?’ she whispered at last. ‘Is it true?’

  Two hours later the Indian was dead.

  My Uncle Spencer slept that night, or rather did not sleep, in the living-room. The corpse lay alone among the archives. The words of the Indian continued to echo and re-echo in his mind: ‘Some day you will be the wife of this kind man.’ Perhaps, he thought, on the verge of death, the spirit already begins to try its wings in the new world. Perhaps already it has begun to know the fringes, as it were, of secrets that are to be revealed to it. To my Uncle Spencer there was nothing repugnant in the idea. There was room in his univers
e for what are commonly and perhaps wrongly known as miracles. Perhaps the words were a promise, a statement of future fact. Lying on his back, his eyes fixed on the dark blue starry sky beyond the open window, he meditated on that problem of fixed fate and free will, with which the devils in Milton’s hell wasted their infernal leisure. And like a refrain the words repeated themselves: ‘Some day you will be the wife of this good man.’ The stars moved slowly across the opening of the window. He did not sleep.

  In the morning an order came for the release of the journalist and the opera-singer. Joyfully they said good-bye to their fellow-prisoners; the door closed behind them. Emmy turned to my Uncle Spencer with a look almost of terror in her eyes; the Indian’s prophecies were already beginning to come true. But they said nothing to one another. Two days later the bank-clerk left for an internment camp in Germany.

  And then, one morning, my Uncle Spencer himself was sent for. The order came quite suddenly; they left him no time to take leave. He was examined by the competent authority, found harmless, and permitted to return to Longres, where, however, he was to live under supervision. They did not even allow him to go back to the prison and say good-bye; a soldier brought his effects from the Ministry; he was put on to the train, with orders to report to the commandant at Longres as soon as he arrived.

  Antonieke received her master with tears of joy. But my Uncle Spencer took no pleasure in his recovered freedom. Emmy Wendle was still a prisoner. True, she would soon be set free; but then, he now realized to his horror, she did not know his address. He had been released at such startlingly short notice that he had had no time to arrange with her about the possibilities of future meetings; he had not even seen her on the morning of his liberation.

  Two days after his return to Longres, he asked permission from the commandant, to whom he had to report himself every day, whether he might go to Brussels. He was asked why; my Uncle Spencer answered truthfully that it was to visit a friend in the prison from which he himself had just been released. Permission was at once refused.

  My Uncle Spencer went to Brussels all the same. The sentry at the door of the prison arrested him as a suspicious person. He was sent back to Longres; the commandant talked to him menacingly. The next week, my Uncle Spencer tried again. It was sheer insanity, he knew; but doing something idiotic was preferable to doing nothing. He was again arrested.

  This time they condemned him to internment in a camp in Germany. The Indian’s prophecies were being fulfilled with a remarkable accuracy. And the war did last for more than fifty months. And the carbuncular bank-clerk, whom he found again in the internment camp, did, in fact, die. . . .

  What made him confide in me—me, whom he had known as a child and almost fathered—I do not know. Or perhaps I do know. Perhaps it was because he felt that I should be more competent to advise him on this sort of subject than his brother—my father—or old Mr. Bullinger, the Dante scholar, or any other of his friends. He would have felt ashamed, perhaps, to talk to them about this sort of thing. And he would have felt, too, that perhaps it wouldn’t be much good talking to them, and that I, in spite of my youth, or even because of it, might actually be more experienced in these matters than they. Neither my father nor Mr. Bullinger, I imagine, knew very much about male impersonators.

  At any rate, whatever the cause, it was to me that he talked about the whole affair, that spring of 1919, when he was staying with us in Sussex, recuperating after those dreary months of confinement. We used to go for long walks together, across the open downs, or between the grey pillars of the beech-woods; and painfully overcoming reluctance after reluctance, proceeding from confidence to more intimate confidence, my Uncle Spencer told me the whole story.

  The story involved interminable discussions by the way. For we had to decide, first of all, whether there was any possible scientific explanation of prophecy; whether there was such a thing as an absolute future waiting to be lived through. And at much greater length, even, we had to argue about women—whether they were really ‘like that’ (and into what depths of cynicism my poor Uncle Spencer had learned, during the long, embittered meditations of his prison days and nights, to plunge and wallow!), or whether they were like the angels he had desired them to be.

  But more important than to speculate on Emmy’s possible character was to discover where she now was. More urgent than to wonder if prophecy could conceivably be reliable, was to take steps to fulfil this particular prophecy. For weeks my Uncle Spencer and I played at detectives.

  I have often fancied that we must have looked, when we made our inquiries together, uncommonly like the traditional pair in the stories—my Uncle Spencer, the bright-eyed, cadaverous, sharp-featured genius, the Holmes of the combination; and I, moon-faced and chubby, a very youthful Watson. But, as a matter of fact, it was I, if I may say so without fatuity, who was the real Holmes of the two. My Uncle Spencer was too innocent of the world to know how to set about looking for a vanished mistress; just as he was too innocent of science to know how or where to find out what there was to be discovered on any abstracter subject.

  It was I who took him to the British Museum and made him look up all the back numbers of the theatrical papers to see when Emmy had last advertised her desire to be engaged. It was I, the apparent Watson, who thought of the theatrical agencies and the stage doors of all the suburban music halls. Sleuth-like in aspect, innocent at heart, my Uncle Spencer followed, marvelling at my familiarity with the ways of the strange world.

  But I must temper my boasting by the confession that we were always entirely unsuccessful. No agency had heard of Emmy Wendle since 1914. Her card had appeared in no paper. The porters of music halls remembered her, but only as something antediluvian. ‘Emmy Wendle? Oh yes, Emmy Wendle . . .’ And scratching their heads, they strove by a mental effort to pass from the mere name to the person, like palæontologists reconstructing the whole diplodocus from the single fossil bone.

  Two or three times we were even given addresses. But the landladies of the lodging-houses where she had stayed did not even remember her; and the old aunt at Ealing, from whom we joyfully hoped so much, had washed her hands of Emmy two or three months before the war began. And the conviction she then had that Emmy was a bad girl was only intensified and confirmed by our impertinent inquiries. No, she knew nothing about Emmy Wendle, now, and didn’t want to know. And she’d trouble us to leave respectable people like herself in peace. And, defeated, we climbed back into our taxi, while the inhabitants of the squalid little street peered out at us and our vehicle, as though we had been visitors from another planet, and the metropolitan hackney carriage a fairy chariot.

  ‘Perhaps she’s dead,’ said my Uncle Spencer softly, after a long silence.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said brutally, ‘she’s found a husband and retired into private life.’

  My Uncle Spencer shut his eyes, sighed, and drew his hand across his forehead. What dreadful images filled his mind? He would almost have preferred that she should be dead.

  ‘And yet the Indian,’ he murmured, ‘he was always right . . .’

  And perhaps he may still be right in this. Who knows?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALDOUS HUXLEY (1894-1963) is the author of the classic novels Brave New World, Island, and Eyeless in Gaza, as well as such critically acclaimed nonfiction works as The Devils of Loudun, The Perennial Philosophy, and The Doors of Perception. Born in Surrey, England, and educated at Oxford, he died in Los Angeles, California.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  BOOKS BY ALDOUS HUXLEY

  NOVELS

  The Genius and the Goddess

  Ape and Essence

  Time Must Have a Stop

  After Many a Summer Dies the Swan

  Eyeless in Gaza

  Point Counter Point

  Those Barren Leaves

  Antic Hay

  Crome Yellow

  Brave New World

  Island

  E
SSAYS AND BELLES LETTRES

  Brave New World Revisited

  Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

  Heaven and Hell

  The Doors of Perception

  The Devils of Loudun

  Themes and Variations

  Ends and Means

  Texts and Pretexts

  The Olive Tree

  Music at Night

  Vulgarity in Literature

  Do What You Will

  Proper Studies

  Jesting Pilate

  Along the Road

  On the Margin

  Essays New and Old

  The Art of Seeing

  The Perennial Philosophy

  Science, Liberty and Peace

  SHORT STORIES AND NOVELLAS

  Collected Short Stories

  Brief Candles

  Two or Three Graces

  Limbo

  Little Mexican

  Mortal Coils

  After the Fireworks

  BIOGRAPH

  Grey Eminence

  POETRY

  The Cicadas

  Leda

  TRAVEL

  Beyond the Mexique Bay

  DRAMA

  Mortal Coils—A Play

  The World of Light

  The Discovery, Adapted from Francis Sheridan

  SELECTED WORKS

  Rotunda

  The World of Aldous Huxley

  CREDITS

  Cover design by Gregg Kulick

  Cover art: © DeAgostini/Getty Images and © DoverPictura

  BACK ADS

  COPYRIGHT

  AFTER THE FIREWORKS. Copyright © 1926, 1930, 1933 by Aldous Huxley. Foreword © 2016 Gary Giddins. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.