Green Tunnels, Aldous Huxley
Green Tunnels
«In the Italian gardens of the thirteenth century….» Mr. Buzzacott interrupted himself to take another helping of the risotto which was being offered him. «Excellent risotto this,» he observed. «Nobody who was not born in Milan can make it properly. So they say.»
«So they say,» Mr. Topes repeated in his sad, apologetic voice, and helped himself in his turn.
«Personally,» said Mrs. Topes, with decision, «I find all Italian cooking abominable. I don’t like the oil—especially hot. No, thank you.» She recoiled from the proffered dish.
After the first mouthful Mr. Buzzacott put down his fork. «In the Italian gardens of the thirteenth century,» he began again, making with his long, pale hand a curved and flowery gesture that ended with a clutch at his beard, «a frequent and most felicitous use was made of green tunnels.»
«Green tunnels?» Barbara woke up suddenly from her tranced silence. «Green tunnels?»
«Yes, my dear,» said her father. «Green tunnels. Arched alleys covered with vines or other creeping plants. Their length was often very considerable.»
But Barbara had once more ceased to pay attention to what he was saying. Green tunnels—the word had floated down to her, through profound depths of reverie, across great spaces of abstraction, startling her like the sound of a strange-voiced bell. Green tunnels—what a wonderful idea.
She would not listen to her father explaining the phrase into dullness. He made everything dull; an inverted alchemist, turning gold into lead. She pictured caverns in a great aquarium, long vistas between rocks and scarcely swaying weeds and pale, discoloured corals; endless dim green corridors with huge lazy fishes loitering aimlessly along them.
Green-faced monsters with goggling eyes and mouths that slowly opened and shut. Green tunnels….
«I have seen them illustrated in illuminated manuscripts of the period,» Mr. Buzzacott went on; once more he clutched his pointed brown beard—clutched and combed it with his long fingers.
Mr. Topes looked up. The glasses of his round owlish spectacles flashed as he moved his head. «I know what you mean,» he said.
«I have a very good mind to have one, planted in my garden here.»
«It will take a long time to grow,» said Mr. Topes. «In this sand, so close to the sea, you will only be able to plant vines. And they come up very slowly very slowly indeed.» He shook his head and the points of light danced wildly in his spectacles. His voice drooped hopelessly, his grey moustache drooped, his whole person drooped. Then, suddenly, he pulled himself up. A shy, apologetic smile appeared on his face. He wriggled uncomfortably. Then, with a final rapid shake of the head, he gave vent to a quotation:
«But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.»
He spoke deliberately, and his voice trembled a little. He always found it painfully difficult to say something choice and out of the ordinary; and yet what a wealth of remembered phrase, what apt new coinages were always surging through his mind!
«They don’t grow so slowly as all that,» said Mr. Buzzacott confidently. He was only just over fifty, and looked a handsome thirty-five. He gave himself at least another forty years; indeed, he had not yet begun to contemplate the possibility of ever concluding.
«Miss Barbara will enjoy it, perhaps—your green tunnel.» Mr. Topes sighed and looked across the table at his host’s daughter.
Barbara was sitting with her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, staring in front of her. The sound of her own name reached her faintly. She turned her head in Mr. Topes’s direction and found herself confronted by the glitter of his round, convex spectacles. At the end of the green tunnel—she stared at the shining circles—hung the eyes of a goggling fish. They approached, floating, closer and closer, along the dim submarine corridor.
Confronted by this fixed regard, Mr. Topes looked away. What thoughtful eyes! He couldn’t remember ever to have seen eyes so full of thought. There were certain Madonnas of Montagna, he reflected, very like hen mild little blonde Madonnas with slightly snub noses and very, very young. But he was old; it would be many years, in spite of Buzzacott, before the vines grew up into a green tunnel. He took a sip of wine; then, mechanically, sucked his drooping grey moustache.
«Arthur!»
At the sound of his wife’s voice Mr. Topes started, raised his napkin to his mouth. Mrs. Topes did not permit the sucking of moustaches. It was only in moments of absent-mindedness that he ever offended, now.
«The Marchese Prampolini is coming here to take coffee,» said Mr. Buzzacott suddenly. «I almost forgot to tell you.»
«One of these Italian marquises, I suppose,» said Mrs. Topes, who was no snob, except in England. She raised her chin with a little jerk.
Mr. Buzzacott executed an upward curve of the hand in her direction. «I assure you, Mrs. Topes, he belongs to a very old and distinguished family. They are Genoese in origin. You remember their palace, Barbara? Built by Alessi.»
Barbara looked up. «Oh yes,» she said vaguely. «Alessi. I know.» Alessi: Aleppo—where a malignant and a turbaned Turk. And a turbaned; that had always seemed to her very funny.
«Several of his ancestors,» Mr. Buzzacott went on, «distinguished themselves as vice-roys of Corsica. They did good work in the suppression of rebellion. Strange, isn’t it»—he turned parenthetically to Mr. Topes—»the way in which sympathy is always on the side of rebels? What a fuss people made of Corsica! That ridiculous book of Gregorovius, for example. And the Irish, and the Poles, and all the rest of them. It always seems to me very superfluous and absurd.»
«Isn’t it, perhaps, a little natural?» Mr. Topes began timorously and tentatively, but his host went on without listening.
«The present marquis,» he said, «is the head of the local Fascisti. They have done no end of good work in this district in the way of preserving law and order and keeping the lower classes in their place.»
«Ah, the Fascisti,» Mrs. Topes repeated approvingly. «One would like to see something of the kind in England. What with all these strikes….»
«He has asked me for a subscription to the funds of the organisation. I shall give him one, of course.»
«Of course.» Mrs. Topes nodded. «My nephew, the one who was a major during the war, volunteered in the last coal strike. He was sorry, I know, that it didn’t come to a fight. ‘Aunt Annie,’ he said to me, when I saw him last, ‘if there had been a fight we should have knocked them out completely—completely.'»
In Aleppo, the Fascisti, malignant and turbaned, were fighting, under the palm trees. Weren’t they palm trees, those tufted green plumes?
«What, no ice to-day? Niente gelato?» inquired Mr. Buzzacott as the maid put down the compote of peaches on the table.
Concetta apologised. The ice-making machine in the village had broken down. There would be no ice till to-morrow.
«Too bad,» said Mr. Buzzacott. «Troppo male, Concetta.»
Under the palm trees, Barbara saw them: they pranced about, fighting. They were mounted on big dogs, and in the trees were enormous many-coloured birds.
«Goodness me, the child’s asleep.» Mrs. Topes was proffering the dish of peaches. «How much longer am I to hold this in front of your nose, Barbara?»
Barbara felt herself blushing. «I’m so sorry,» she mumbled, and took the dish clumsily.
«Day-dreaming. It’s a bad habit.»
«It’s one we all succumb to sometimes,» put in Mr. Topes deprecatingly, with a little nervous tremble of the head.
«You may, my dear,» said his wife. «I do not.»
Mr. Topes lowered his eyes to his plate and went on eating.
«The marchese should be here at any moment now,» said Mr. Buzzacott, looking at his watch. «I hope he won’t be late. I find I suffer so much from any postponement of my siesta. This Italian heat,» he added, with growing plaintiveness, «one can’t be too careful.»
«Ah, but when I was with my father in India,» began Mrs. Topes in a tone of superiority: «he was an Indian civilian, you know….»
Aleppo, India—always the palm trees. Cavalcades of big dogs, and tigers too.
Concetta ushered in the marquis. Delighted. Pleased to meet. Speak English? Yés, yéss. Pocchino. Mrs. Topes: and Mr. Topes, the distinguished antiquarian. Ah, of course; know his name very well. My daughter. Charmed. Often seen the signorina bathing. Admired the way she dives. Beautiful—the hand made a long, caressing gesture. These athletic English signorine. The teeth flashed astonishingly white in the brown face, the dark eyes glittered. She felt herself blushing again, looked away, smiled foolishly. The marquis had already turned back to Mr. Buzzacott.
«So you have decided to settle in our Carrarese.»
Well, not settled exactly; Mr. Buzzacott wouldn’t go so far as to say settled. A villine for the summer months. The winter in Rome. One was forced to live abroad. Taxation in England…. Soon they were all talking. Barbara looked at them. Beside the marquis they all seemed half dead. His face flashed as he talked; he seemed to be boiling with life. Her father was limp and pale, like something long buried from the light; and Mr. Topes was all dry and shrivelled; and Mrs. Topes looked more than ever like something worked by clockwork. They were talking about Socialism and Fascisti, and all that. Barbara did not listen to what they were saying; but she looked at them, absorbed.
Good-bye, good-bye. The animated face with its flash of a smile was turned like a lamp from one to another. Now it was turned on her. Perhaps one evening she would come, with her father, and the Signora Topes. He and his sister gave little dances sometimes. Only the gramophone, of course.
