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"
Strumpet
!
Strumpet
!
"
he
shouted
at
every
blow
as
though
it
were
Lenina
(
and
how
frantically
,
without
knowing
it
,
he
wished
it
were
)
,
white
,
warm
,
scented
,
infamous
Lenina
that
he
was
dogging
thus
.
"
Strumpet
!
"
And
then
,
in
a
voice
of
despair
,
"
Oh
,
Linda
,
forgive
me
.
Forgive
me
,
God
.
I
’
m
bad
.
I
’
m
wicked
.
I
’
m
.
.
.
No
,
no
,
you
strumpet
,
you
strumpet
!
"
From
his
carefully
constructed
hide
in
the
wood
three
hundred
metres
away
,
Darwin
Bonaparte
,
the
Feely
Corporation
’
s
most
expert
big
game
photographer
had
watched
the
whole
proceedings
.
Patience
and
skill
had
been
rewarded
.
He
had
spent
three
days
sitting
inside
the
bole
of
an
artificial
oak
tree
,
three
nights
crawling
on
his
belly
through
the
heather
,
hiding
microphones
in
gorse
bushes
,
burying
wires
in
the
soft
grey
sand
.
Seventy
-
two
hours
of
profound
discomfort
.
But
now
me
great
moment
had
come
–
the
greatest
,
Darwin
Bonaparte
had
time
to
reflect
,
as
he
moved
among
his
instruments
,
the
greatest
since
his
taking
of
the
famous
all
-
howling
stereoscopic
feely
of
the
gorillas
’
wedding
.
"
Splendid
,
"
he
said
to
himself
,
as
the
Savage
started
his
astonishing
performance
.
"
Splendid
!
"
He
kept
his
telescopic
cameras
carefully
aimed
–
glued
to
their
moving
objective
;
clapped
on
a
higher
power
to
get
a
close
-
up
of
the
frantic
and
distorted
face
(
admirable
!
)
;
switched
over
,
for
half
a
minute
,
to
slow
motion
(
an
exquisitely
comical
effect
,
he
promised
himself
)
;
listened
in
,
meanwhile
,
to
the
blows
,
the
groans
,
the
wild
and
raving
words
that
were
being
recorded
on
the
sound
-
track
at
the
edge
of
his
film
,
tried
the
effect
of
a
little
amplification
(
yes
,
that
was
decidedly
better
)
;
was
delighted
to
hear
,
in
a
momentary
lull
,
the
shrill
singing
of
a
lark
;
wished
the
Savage
would
turn
round
so
that
he
could
get
a
good
close
-
up
of
the
blood
on
his
back
–
and
almost
instantly
(
what
astonishing
luck
!
)
the
accommodating
fellow
did
turn
round
,
and
he
was
able
to
take
a
perfect
close
-
up
.
"
Well
,
that
was
grand
!
"
he
said
to
himself
when
it
was
all
over
.
"
Really
grand
!
"
He
mopped
his
face
.
When
they
had
put
in
the
feely
effects
at
the
studio
,
it
would
be
a
wonderful
film
.
Almost
as
good
,
thought
Darwin
Bonaparte
,
as
the
Sperm
Whale
’
s
Love
-
Life
–
and
that
,
by
Ford
,
was
saying
a
good
deal
!
Twelve
days
later
The
Savage
of
Surrey
had
been
released
and
could
be
seen
,
heard
and
felt
in
every
first
-
class
feely
-
palace
in
Western
Europe
.
The
effect
of
Darwin
Bonaparte
’
s
film
was
immediate
and
enormous
.
On
the
afternoon
which
followed
the
evening
of
its
release
John
’
s
rustic
solitude
was
suddenly
broken
by
the
arrival
overhead
of
a
great
swarm
of
helicopters
.
He
was
digging
in
his
garden
–
digging
,
too
,
in
his
own
mind
,
laboriously
turning
up
the
substance
of
his
thought
.
Death
–
and
he
drove
in
his
spade
once
,
and
again
,
and
yet
again
.
And
all
our
yesterdays
have
lighted
fools
the
way
to
dusty
death
.
A
convincing
thunder
rumbled
through
the
words
.
He
lifted
another
spadeful
of
earth
.
Why
had
Linda
died
?
Why
had
she
been
allowed
to
become
gradually
less
than
human
and
at
last
.
.
.
He
shuddered
.
A
good
kissing
carrion
.
He
planted
his
foot
on
his
spade
and
stamped
it
fiercely
into
the
tough
ground
.
As
flies
to
wanton
boys
are
we
to
the
gods
;
they
kill
us
for
their
sport
.
Thunder
again
;
words
that
proclaimed
themselves
true
–
truer
somehow
than
truth
itself
.
And
yet
that
same
Gloucester
had
called
them
ever
-
gentle
gods
.
Besides
,
thy
best
of
rest
is
sleep
and
that
thou
oft
provok
’
st
;
yet
grossly
fear
’
st
thy
death
which
is
no
more
.
No
more
than
sleep
.
Sleep
.
Perchance
to
dream
.
His
spade
struck
against
a
stone
;
he
stooped
to
pick
it
up
.
For
in
that
sleep
of
death
,
what
dreams
?
.
.
.
A
humming
overhead
had
become
a
roar
;
and
suddenly
he
was
in
shadow
,
there
was
something
between
the
sun
and
him
.
He
looked
up
,
startled
,
from
his
digging
,
from
his
thoughts
;
looked
up
in
a
dazzled
bewilderment
,
his
mind
still
wandering
in
that
other
world
of
truer
-
than
?
truth
,
still
focused
on
the
immensities
of
death
and
deity
;
looked
up
and
saw
,
close
above
him
,
the
swarm
of
hovering
machines
.
Like
locusts
they
came
,
hung
poised
,
descended
all
around
him
on
the
heather
.
And
from
out
of
the
bellies
of
these
giant
grasshoppers
stepped
men
in
white
viscose
-
flannels
,
women
(
for
the
weather
was
hot
)
in
acetate
-
shantung
pyjamas
or
velveteen
shorts
and
sleeveless
,
half
-
unzippered
singlets
–
one
couple
from
each
.
In
a
few
minutes
there
were
dozens
of
them
,
standing
in
a
wide
circle
round
the
lighthouse
,
staring
,
laughing
,
clicking
their
cameras
,
throwing
(
as
to
an
ape
)
peanuts
,
packets
of
sex
-
hormone
chewing
-
gum
,
pan
-
glandular
petite
beurres
.
And
every
moment
–
for
across
the
Hog
’
s
Back
the
stream
of
traffic
now
flowed
unceasingly
–
their
numbers
increased
.
As
in
a
nightmare
,
the
dozens
became
scores
,
the
scores
hundreds
.
The
Savage
had
retreated
towards
cover
,
and
now
,
in
the
posture
of
an
animal
at
bay
,
stood
with
his
back
to
the
wall
of
the
lighthouse
,
staring
from
face
to
face
in
speechless
horror
,
like
a
man
out
of
his
senses
.
