Ape and Essence

by Aldous Huxley

  For answer the Chief administers two or three more cuts with the dog whip.

  "No, no -- please! Ow! I'll give it back. Stop!"

  The culprit inserts two fingers into his mouth and after a little fumbling draws forth the handsome diamond ring which the deceased brewer bought for himself, when business was so hearteningly good dur­ing the Second World War.

  "Put it there with the other things," commands the Chief and, as the man obeys, "Twenty-five lashes," he continues with grim relish, "that's what you're going to get this evening."

  Blubbering, the man begs for indulgence -- just for this once. Seeing that tomorrow is Belial Day. . . And after all he's old, he has worked faithfully all his life, has risen to the rank of a Deputy Supervisor. . . .

  The Chief cuts him short.

  "This is a Democracy," he says. "We're all equal before the Law. And the Law says that everything belongs to the Proletariat -- in other words, it all goes to the State. And what's the penalty for robbing the State?" The man looks up at him in speechless misery. "What's the penalty?" the Chief bellows, raising his whip.

  "Twenty-five lashes," comes the almost inaudible reply.

  "Good! Well, that settles that, doesn't it? And now what are the clothes like?"

  The younger and slimmer of the girls bends down and fingers the corpse's double-breasted black jacket.

  "Nice stuff," she says. "And no stains. He hasn't leaked or anything."

  "I'll try them on," says the Chief.

  With some difficulty they divest the cadaver of its trousers, coat and shirt, then drop it back into the grave and shovel the earth back over its one-piece undergarment. Meanwhile the Chief takes the clothes, sniffs at them critically, then doffs the pearl-grey jacket which once belonged to the Production Manager of Western-Shakespeare Pictures Incorporated, and slips his arms into the more conservative tailoring that goes with malt liquors and the Golden Rule.

  NARRATOR

  Put yourself in his place. You may not know it, but a complete scribbler, or first card-engine, consists of a breast, or small swift, and two swifts, with the accompanying workers, strippers, fancies, doffers, etc. And if you don't have any carding machinery or power looms, if you don't have any electric motors to run them, or any dynamos to generate the electricity, or any turbines to turn the dynamos, or any coal to raise steam, or any blast furnaces to make steel -- why then, obviously, you must depend for your fine cloth on the cemeteries of those who once enjoyed these advan­tages. And so long as the radioactivity persisted, there weren't even any cemeteries to exploit. For three generations the dwindling remnant of those who sur­vived the consummation of technological progress lived precariously in the wilderness. It is only during the last thirty years that it has been safe for them to enjoy the buried remains of le comfort moderne.

  Close shot of the Chief, grotesque in the borrowed jacket of a man whose arms were much shorter and whose belly was much larger than his own. The sound of approaching footsteps makes him turn his head.

  In a long shot from his viewpoint we see Dr. Poole, his hands tied behind his back, trudging wearily through the sand. Behind him walk his three captors. Whenever he stumbles or slackens his pace, they prick him in the rear with needle-sharp yucca leaves and laugh uproariously to see him wince.

  The Chief stares at them in astonished silence as they approach.

  "What in Belial's name?" he brings out at last.

  The little party comes to a halt at the foot of the mausoleum. The three members of Dr. Poole's escort bow to the Chief and tell their story. They had been fishing in their coracle off Redondo Beach; had sud­denly seen a huge, strange ship coming out of the mist; had immediately paddled back to shore to escape detection. From the ruins of an old house they had watched the strangers land. Thirteen of them. And then this man had come wandering with a woman to the very threshold of their hiding place. The woman had gone away again and, while the man was grubbing in the dirt with a tiny spade, they had jumped on him from behind, gagged him, bound him and now had brought him here for questioning.

  There is a long silence, broken finally by the Chief.

  "Do you speak English?"

  "Yes, I speak English," Dr. Poole stammers.

  "Good. Untie him; hoist him up."

  They hoist him -- so unceremoniously that he lands on all fours at the Chiefs feet.

  "Are you a priest?"

  "A priest?" Dr. Poole echoes in apprehensive aston­ishment. He shakes his head.

  "Then why don't you have a beard?"

  "I. . . I shave."

  "Oh, then you're not. . ." The Chief passes a finger across Dr. Poole's chin and cheek. "I see, I see. Get up."

  Dr. Poole obeys.

  "Where do you come from?"

  "New Zealand, sir."

  Dr. Poole swallows hard, wishes his mouth were less dry, his voice less tremulous with terror.

  "New Zealand? Is that far?"

  "Very far."

  "You came in a big ship? With sails?"

  Dr. Poole nods and adopting that lecture-room man­ner, which is always his refuge when personal contacts threaten to become too difficult, proceeds to explain why they weren't able to cross the Pacific under steam.

  "There would have been no place to refuel. It's only for coastwise traffic that our shipping companies are able to make use of steamers."

  "Steamers?" the Chief repeats, his face alight with interest. "You still have steamers? But that must mean you didn't have the Thing?"

  Dr. Poole looks puzzled.

  "I don't quite catch your meaning," he says. "What thing?"

  "The Thing. You know -- when He took over." Raising his hands to his forehead, he makes the sign of the horns with extended forefingers. Devoutly,

  his subjects follow suit.

  "You mean the Devil?" says Dr. Poole dubiously.

  The other nods.

  "But, but. . . I mean, really. . ."

  NARRATOR

  Our friend is a good Congregationalist, but, alas, on the liberal side. Which means that he has never given the Prince of this world his ontological due. To put it brutally, he doesn't believe in Him.

  "Yes, He got control," the Chief explains. "He won the battle and took possession of everybody. That was when they did all this."

  With a wide, comprehensive gesture he takes in the desolation that was once Los Angeles. Dr. Poole's ex­pression brightens with understanding.

  "Oh, I see. You mean the Third World War. No, we were lucky; we got off without a scratch. Owing to its peculiar geographical situation," he adds professorially, "New Zealand was of no strategic importance to. . ."

  The Chief cuts short a promising lecture.

  "Then you've still got trains?" he questions.

  "Yes, we've still got trains," Dr. Poole answers, a little irritably. "But, as I was saying. . ."

  "And the engines really work?"

  "Of course they work. As I was saying. . ."

  Startlingly the Chief lets out a whoop of delight and claps him on the shoulder.

  "Then you can help us to get it all going again. Like in the good old days before. . ." He makes the sign of horns. "We'll have trains, real trains." And in an ecstasy of joyous anticipation, he draws Dr. Poole toward him, puts an arm round his neck and kisses him on both cheeks.

  Shrinking with an embarrassment that is reinforced by disgust (for the great man seldom washes and is horribly foul-mouthed) Dr. Poole disengages him­self.

  "But I'm not an engineer," he protests. "I'm a bot­anist."

  "What's that?"

  "A botanist is a man who knows about plants."

  "War plants?" the Chief asks hopefully.

  "No, no, just plants. Things with leaves and stalks and flowers -- though of course," he adds hastily, "one mustn't forget the cryptogams. And as a matter of fact the cryptogams are my special pets. New Zealand, as you probably know, is particularly rich in crypto­gams. . ."
/>   "But what about the engines?"

  "Engines?" Dr. Poole repeats contemptuously. "I tell you, I don't know the difference between a steam tur­bine and a diesel."

  "Then you can't do anything to help us get the trains running again?"

  "Not a thing."

  Without a word the Chief raises his right leg, places his foot against the pit of Dr. Poole's stomach, then sharply straightens the bent knee.

  Close shot of Dr. Poole, as he raises himself, shaken and bruised, but with no bones broken, from the heap of sand onto which he has fallen. Over the shot we hear the Chief shouting to his retainers.

  Medium shot of the gravediggers and fishermen, as they come running in response to the summons.

  The Chief points down at Dr. Poole.

  "Bury him."

  "Alive or dead?" asks the plumper of the girls in her rich contralto voice.

  The Chief looks down at her. Shot from his view­point. With an effort he turns away. His lips move. He is repeating the relevant passage from the Shorter Catechism. "What is the nature of woman? Answer: Woman is the vessel of the Unholy Spirit, the source of all deformity, the enemy of the race, the. . ."

  "Alive or dead?" the plump girl repeats.

  The Chief shrugs his shoulders.

  "As you like," he answers with studied indifference.

  The plump girl claps her hands.

  "Goody, goody!" she cries and turns to her com­panions. "Come on, boys. Let's have some fun."

  They close in on Dr. Poole, lift him screaming from the ground and drop him feet first into the half-filled grave of the Managing Director of the Golden Rule Brewing Corporation. While the plump girl holds him down, the men shovel the loose dry earth into place. In a very short time he is buried up to the waist.

  On the sound track the victim's screams and the excited laughter of the executioners taper off into a silence that is broken by the voice of the Narrator.

  NARRATOR

  Cruelty and compassion come with the chromosomes;

  All men are merciful and all are murderers.

  Doting on dogs, they build their Dachaus;

  Fire whole cities and fondle the orphans;

  Are loud against lynching, but all for Oakridge;

  Full of future philanthropy, but today the NKVD.

  Whom shall we persecute, for whom feel pity?

  It is all a matter of the moment's mores,

  Of words on wood pulp, of radios roaring,

  Of Communist kindergartens or first communions.

  Only in the knowledge of his own Essence

  Has any man ceased to be many monkeys.

  The laughter and the pleas for mercy return to the sound track. Then, suddenly, we hear the Chief.

  "Stand back," he shouts. "I can't see."

  They obey. In silence the Chief looks down at Dr. Poole.

  "You know all about plants," he says at last. "Why don't you grow some roots down there?'

  The sally is greeted by enormous guffaws.

  "Why don't you put out some nice little pink flowers?"

  We are shown a close-up of the botanist's agonised face.

  "Mercy, mercy. . ."

  The voice breaks, grotesquely; there is another burst of hilarity.

  "I could be useful to you. I could show you how to get better crops. You'd have more to eat."

  "More to eat?" the Chief repeats with sudden in­terest. Then he frowns savagely. "You're lying!"

  "I'm not. I swear by Almighty God."

  There is a murmur of shocked protest.

  "He may be almighty in New Zealand," says the Chief. "But not here -- not since the Thing happened."

  "But I know I can help you."

  "Are you ready to swear by Belial?"

  Dr. Poole's father was a clergyman and he himself is a regular churchgoer; but it is with heartfelt fervour that he does what is asked of him.

  "By Belial. I swear by Almighty Belial."

  Everyone makes the sign of the horns. There is a long silence.

  "Dig him up."

  "Oh, Chief," the plump girl protests. "That isn't fair!"

  "Dig him up, you vessel of Unholiness!"

  His tone carries immediate conviction; they dig with such fervour that in less than a minute Dr. Poole is out of his grave and standing rather unsteadily, at the foot of the mausoleum.

  "Thank you," he manages to say; then his knees give way and he collapses.

  There is a chorus of contemptuously good-humoured laughter.

  The Chief leans from his marble perch. "Here, you there, the red-headed vessel." He hands the girl a bottle. "Make him drink some of this," he orders. "He's got to be able to walk. We're going back to Headquarters."

  She sits down beside Dr. Poole, raises his limp body, props the wobbling head against the interdictions on her bosom, and administers the restorative.

  Dissolve to a street. Four of the bearded men are carrying the Chief in a litter. The others straggle behind, moving slowly through the drifted sand. Here and there, under the porches of ruined filling stations, in the gaping doorways of office buildings, lie heaps of human bones.

  Medium close shot of Dr. Poole. Still holding the bottle in his right hand, he walks a little unsteadily, singing "Annie Laurie" to himself, with intense feeling. Drunk on an empty stomach -- the empty stomach, moreover, of a man whose mother has always had conscientious objections to alcohol -- the strong red wine has taken prompt effect.

  "And for bonny Annie Laurie

  I'd lay me doon and dee. . ."

  In the middle of the final phrase, the two girl grave-diggers enter the shot. Approaching the singer from behind, the plump one gives him a friendly slap on the back. Dr. Poole starts, turns around, and looks suddenly apprehensive. But her smile is reassuring.

  "I'm Flossie," she says. "And I hope you're not cross with me because I wanted to bury you?"

  "Oh, no, no, not a bit," Dr. Poole assures her in the tone of one who says he has no objection to the young lady lighting a cigarette.

  "It's not that I had anything against you," Flossie assures him.

  "Of course not."

  "I just wanted a laugh, that's all."

  "Quite, quite."

  "People look so screamingly funny when they're being buried."

  "Screamingly," Dr. Poole agrees, and forces a nervous giggle.

  Feeling the need for more courage, he fortifies him­self with another swig from the bottle.

  "Well, see you later," says the plump girl. "I've got to go and talk to the Chief about lengthening the sleeves of his new jacket."

  She gives him another slap on the back and hurries away.

  Dr. Poole is left alone with her companion. He steals a glance at her. She is eighteen; she has red hair and dimples, a charming face and a slender adolescent body.

  "My name's Loola," she volunteers. "What's yours?"

  "Alfred," Dr. Poole replies. "My mother was a great admirer of In Memoriam," he adds by way of explana­tion.

  "Alfred," the red-headed girl repeats. "I shall call you Alfie. I'll tell you something, Alfie: I don't really like these public burials. I don't know why I should be different from other people, but they don't make me laugh. I can't see anything funny about them."

  "I'm glad to hear it," says Dr. Poole.

  "You know, Alfie," she resumes, after a little silence, "you're really a very lucky man."

  "Lucky?"

  Loola nods.

  "First of all you're dug up -- and I've never seen that happen before -- and now you walk straight into the Purification Ceremonies."

  "Purification Ceremonies?"

  "Yes, it's Belial Day tomorrow -- Belial Day," she insists in response to the blank look of incomprehen­sion on the other's face. "Don't tell me you don't know what happens on Belial Eve."

  Dr. Poole shakes his head.

  "But when do you have your Purification?"

&nbs
p; "Well, we take a bath every day," says Dr. Poole, who has just been reminded, yet once more, that Loola most decidedly doesn't.

  "No, no," she says impatiently. "I mean the Puri­fication of the Race."

  "Of the Race?"

  "Hell, your priests don't let the deformed babies go on living, do they?"

  There is a silence; then Dr. Poole counters with a question of his own.

  "Are there many deformed babies born here?"

  She nods affirmatively.

  "Ever since the Thing -- ever since He's been in charge."

  She makes the sign of the horns. "They say that before that, there weren't any."

  "Did anyone ever tell you about the effect of gamma rays?"

  "Gamma rays? What's a gamma ray?"

  "It's the reason for all those deformed children."

  "You're not trying to suggest that it wasn't Belial, are you?" Her tone is one of indignant suspicion; she looks at him as St Dominic might have eyed an Albigensian heretic.

  "No, no, of course not," Dr. Poole hastens to assure her. "He's the primary cause -- that goes without say­ing." Clumsily and inexpertly, he makes the sign of the horns. "I was merely suggesting the nature of the secondary causes -- the means He used to carry out His. . . His providential purpose, if you see what I mean."

  His words and, still more, his pious gesture allay Loola's suspicions. Her face clears; she gives him her most charming smile. The dimples in her cheeks come to life like a pair of adorable little creatures fitfully leading a secret and autonomous existence in inde­pendence of the rest of Loola's face. Dr. Poole returns her smile, but almost instantly looks away, blushing as he does so to the roots of his hair.

  NARRATOR

  Out of the enormity of his respect for his mother, our poor friend here is still, at thirty-eight, a bache­lor. Too full of an unnatural piety to marry, he has spent half a lifetime surreptitiously burning. Feeling that it would be a sacrilege to ask a virtuous young gentlewoman to share his bed, he inhabits, under the carapace of academic respectability, a hot and furtive world, where erotic phantasies beget an agonising repentance and adolescent desires forever struggle with the maternal precepts. And now here is Loola -- Loola without the least pretension to education or good breeding, Loola au naturel with a musky redolence which, on second thought, has something really rather fascinating about it. What wonder if he reddens and (against his will, for he longs to go on looking at her) averts his eyes.