Those Barren Leaves Aldous Huxley (best biographies to read txt) đ
- Author: Aldous Huxley
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Downstairs in the great saloon the three men were sitting over their red wine. Mr. Cardan had already twice refilled his glass. Calamy was within sight of the bottom of his first tumbler; young Lord Hovendenâs was still more than half full. He was not a very accomplished drinker and was afraid of being sick if he swallowed too much of this young and generous brew.
âBored, youâre just bored. Thatâs all it is,â Mr. Cardan was saying. He looked at Calamy over the top of his glass and took another sip, as though to his health. âYou havenât met anyone of late who took your fancy; thatâs all. Unless, of course, itâs a case of catarrh in the bile ducts.â
âItâs neither,â said Calamy, smiling.
âOr perhaps itâs the first great climacteric. You donât happen to be thirty-five, I suppose? Five times sevenâ âa most formidable age. Though not quite so serious as sixty-three. Thatâs the grand climacteric.â Mr. Cardan shook his head. âThank the Lord, I got past it without dying, or joining the Church of Rome, or getting married. Thank the Lord; but you?â
âIâm thirty-three,â said Calamy.
âA most harmless time of life. Then itâs just boredom. Youâll meet some little ravishment and all the zest will return.â
Young Lord Hovenden laughed in a very ventriloquial, man-of-the-worldly fashion.
Calamy shook his head. âBut I donât really want it to return,â he said. âI donât want to succumb to any more little ravishments. Itâs too stupid; itâs too childish. I used to think that there was something rather admirable and enviable about being an homme Ă bonnes fortunes. Don Juan has an honoured place in literature; itâs thought only natural that a Casanova should complacently boast of his successes. I accepted the current view, and when I was lucky in loveâ âand Iâve always been only too deplorably fortunateâ âI used to think the more highly of myself.â
âWe have all thought the same,â said Mr. Cardan. âThe weakness is a pardonable one.â
Lord Hovenden nodded and took a sip of wine to show that he entirely agreed with the last speaker.
âPardonable, no doubt,â said Calamy. âBut when one comes to think it over, not very reasonable. For, after all, thereâs nothing really to be very proud of, thereâs nothing very much to boast about. Consider first of all the other heroes who have had the same sort of successesâ âmore notable, very probably, and more numerous than oneâs own. Consider them. What do you see? Rows of insolent grooms and pugilists; leather-faced ruffians and disgusting old satyrs; louts with curly hair and no brains, and cunning little pimps like weasels; soft-palmed young epicenes and hairy gladiatorsâ âa vast army composed of the most odious specimens of humanity. Is one to be proud of belonging to their numbers?â
âWhy not?â asked Mr. Cardan. âOne should always thank God for whatever native talents one possesses. If your talent happens to lie in the direction of higher mathematics, praise God; and if in the direction of seduction, praise God just the same. And thanking God, when one comes to examine the process a little closely, is very much the same as boasting or being proud. I see no harm in boasting a little of oneâs Casanovesque capacities. You young men are always so damned intolerant. You wonât allow anyone to go to heaven, or hell, or nowhere, whichever the case may be, by any road except the one you happen to approve of.â ââ ⊠You should take a leaf out of the Indiansâ book. The Indians calculate that there are eighty-four thousand different types of human beings, each with its own way of getting through life. They probably underestimate.â
Calamy laughed. âI only speak for my type,â he said.
âAnd Hovenden and I for ours,â said Mr. Cardan. âDonât we, Hovenden?â
âOh yes. Yes, of course,â Lord Hovenden answered; and for some reason he blushed.
âProceed,â said Mr. Cardan, refilling his glass.
âWell then,â Calamy went on, âbelonging to the species I do belong to, I canât take much satisfaction in these successes. The more so when I consider their nature. For either youâre in love with the woman or you arenât; either youâre carried away by your inflamed imagination (for, after all, the person youâre really violently in love with is always your own invention and the wildest of fancies) or by your senses and your intellectual curiosity. If you arenât in love, itâs a mere experiment in applied physiology, with a few psychological investigations thrown in to make it a little more interesting. But if you are, it means that you become enslaved, involved, dependent on another human being in a way thatâs positively disgraceful, and the more disgraceful the more there is in you to be enslaved and involved.â
âIt wasnât Browningâs opinion,â said Mr. Cardan.
âThe woman yonder, thereâs no use in life
But just to obtain her.â
âBrowning was a fool,â said Calamy.
But Lord Hovenden was silently of opinion that Browning was quite right. He thought of Ireneâs face, looking out of the little window in the copper bell.
âBrowning belonged to another species,â Mr. Cardan corrected.
âA foolish species, I insist,â said Calamy.
âWell, to tell the truth,â Mr. Cardan admitted, closing his winking eye a little further, âI secretly agree with you about that. Iâm not really as entirely tolerant as I should like to be.â
Calamy was frowning pensively over his own affairs, and without discussing the greater or less degree of Mr. Cardanâs tolerance he went on. âThe question is, at the end of it all: whatâs the way out? whatâs to be done about it? For itâs obvious, as you say, that the little ravishments will turn up again. And appetite grows with fasting. And philosophy,
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