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CROME YELLOW
CROME YELLOW
By ALDOUS HUXLEY
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CROME YELLOW
CHAPTER I。
Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed。 All the
trainsthe few that there werestopped at all the stations。 Denis knew
the names of those stations by heart。 Bole； Tritton； Spavin Delawarr；
Knipswich for Timpany； West Bowlby； and； finally； Camlet…on…the…Water。
Camlet was where he always got out； leaving the train to creep indolently
onward； goodness only knew whither； into the green heart of England。
They were snorting out of West Bowlby now。 It was the next station；
thank Heaven。 Denis took his chattels off the rack and piled them neatly
in the corner opposite his own。 A futile proceeding。 But one must have
something to do。 When he had finished； he sank back into his seat and
closed his eyes。 It was extremely hot。
Oh； this journey！ It was two hours cut clean out of his life； two hours
in which he might have done so much； so muchwritten the perfect poem；
for example； or read the one illuminating book。 Instead of whichhis
gorge rose at the smell of the dusty cushions against which he was leaning。
Two hours。 One hundred and twenty minutes。 Anything might be
done in that time。 Anything。 Nothing。 Oh； he had had hundreds of
hours； and what had he done with them？ Wasted them； spilt the precious
minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible。 Denis groaned in the
spirit； condemned himself utterly with all his works。 What right had he
to sit in the sunshine； to occupy corner seats in third…class carriages； to be
alive？ None； none； none。
Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him。 He was
twenty…three； and oh！ so agonizingly conscious of the fact。
The train came bumpingly to a halt。 Here was Camlet at last。 Denis
jumped up； crammed his hat over his eyes； deranged his pile of baggage；
leaned out of the window and shouted for a porter； seized a bag in either
hand； and had to put them down again in order to open the door。 When at
last he had safely bundled himself and his baggage on to the platform； he
ran up the train towards the van。
〃A bicycle； a bicycle！〃 he said breathlessly to the guard。 He felt
himself a man of action。 The guard paid no attention； but continued
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CROME YELLOW
methodically to hand out； one by one； the packages labelled to Camlet。
〃A bicycle！〃 Denis repeated。 〃A green machine； cross…framed； name of
Stone。 S…T…O…N…E。〃
〃All in good time； sir；〃 said the guard soothingly。 He was a large；
stately man with a naval beard。 One pictured him at home； drinking tea；
surrounded by a numerous family。 It was in that tone that he must have
spoken to his children when they were tiresome。 〃All in good time； sir。〃
Denis's man of action collapsed； punctured。
He left his luggage to be called for later； and pushed off on his bicycle。
He always took his bicycle when he went into the country。 It was part of
the theory of exercise。 One day one would get up at six o'clock and
pedal away to Kenilworth； or Stratford…on…Avonanywhere。 And within
a radius of twenty miles there were always Norman churches and Tudor
mansions to be seen in the course of an afternoon's excursion。 Somehow
they never did get seen； but all the same it was nice to feel that the bicycle
was there； and that one fine morning one really might get up at six。
Once at the top of the long hill which led up from Camlet station； he
felt his spirits mounting。 The world； he found； was good。 The far…away
blue hills； the harvests whitening on the slopes of the ridge along which
his road led him； the treeless sky…lines that changed as he movedyes；
they were all good。 He was overcome by the beauty of those deeply
embayed combes； scooped in the flanks of the ridge beneath him。 Curves；
curves： he repeated the word slowly； trying as he did so to find some term
in which to give expression to his appreciation。 Curves no； that was
inadequate。 He made a gesture with his hand； as though to scoop the
achieved expression out of the air； and almost fell off his bicycle。 What
was the word to describe the curves of those little valleys？ They were as
fine as the lines of a human body； they were informed with the subtlety of
art。。。
Galbe。 That was a good word； but it was French。 Le galbe evase de
ses hanches： had one ever read a French novel in which that phrase
didn't occur？ Some day he would compile a dictionary for the use of
novelists。 Galbe； gonfle； goulu： parfum； peau； pervers； potele； pudeur：
vertu； volupte。
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CROME YELLOW
But he really must find that word。 Curves curves。。。Those little
valleys had the lines of a cup moulded round a woman's breast； they
seemed the dinted imprints of some huge divine body that had rested on
these hills。 Cumbrous locutions； these； but through them he seemed to be
getting nearer to what he wanted。 Dinted； dimpled； wimpledhis mind
wandered down echoing corridors of assonance and alliteration ever
further and further from the point。 He was enamoured with the beauty of
words。
Becoming once more aware of the outer world； he found himself on
the crest of a descent。 The road plunged down； steep and straight； into a
considerable valley。 There； on the opposite slope； a little higher up the
valley； stood Crome； his destination。 He put on his brakes； this view of
Crome was pleasant to linger over。 The facade with its three projecting
towers rose precipitously from among the dark trees of the garden。 The
house basked in full sunlight； the old brick rosily glowed。 How ripe and
rich it was； how superbly mellow！ And at the same time； how austere！
The hill was becoming steeper and steeper； he was gaining speed in spite
of his brakes。 He loosed his grip of the levers； and in a moment was
rushing headlong down。 Five minutes later he was passing through the
gate of the great courtyard。 The front door stood hospitably open。 He
left his bicycle leaning against the wall and walked in。 He would take
them by surprise。
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CROME YELLOW
CHAPTER II。
He took nobody by surprise； there was nobody to take。 All was quiet；
Denis wandered from room to empty room； looking with pleasure at the
familiar pictures and furniture； at all the little untidy signs of life that lay
scattered here and there。 He was rather glad that they were all out； it was
amusing to wander through the house as though one were exploring a dead；
deserted Pompeii。 What sort of life would the excavator reconstruct from
these remains； how would he people these empty chambers？ There was
the long gallery； with its rows of respectable and （though； of course； one
couldn't publicly admit it） rather boring Italian primitives； its Chinese
sculptures； its unobtrusive； dateless furniture。 There was the panelled
drawing… room； where the huge chintz…covered arm…chairs stood； oases of
comfort among the austere flesh…mortifying antiques。 There was the
morning…room； with its pale lemon walls； its painted Venetian chairs and
rococo tables； its mirrors； its modern pictures。 There was the library； cool；
spacious； and dark； book…lined from floor to ceiling； rich in portentous
folios。 There was the dining…room； solidly； portwinily English； with its
great mahogany table； its eighteenth…century chairs and sideboard； its
eighteenth…century picturesfa