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双语·美丽新世界 第十六章

所属教程:译林版·美丽新世界

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2022年04月30日

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The room into which the three were ushered was the Controller's study.

“His fordship will be down in a moment.” The Gamma butler left them to themselves.

Helmholtz laughed aloud.

“It's more like a caffeine-solution party than a trial,” he said, and let himself fall into the most luxurious of the pneumatic arm-chairs. “Cheer up, Bernard,” he added, catching sight of his friend's green unhappy face. But Bernard would not be cheered; without answering, without even looking at Helmholtz, he went and sat down on the most uncomfortable chair in the room, carefully chosen in the obscure hope of somehow deprecating the wrath of the higher powers.

The Savage meanwhile wandered restlessly round the room, peering with a vague superficial inquisitiveness at the books in the shelves, at the sound-track rolls and reading-machine bobbins in their numbered pigeon-holes. On the table under the window lay a massive volume bound in limp black leather-surrogate, and stamped with large golden T's. He picked it up and opened it. MY LIFE AND WORK, BY OUR FORD. The book had been published at Detroit by the Society for the Propagation of Fordian Knowledge. Idly he turned the pages, read a sentence here, a paragraph there, and had just come to the conclusion that the book didn't interest him, when the door opened, and the Resident World Controller for Western Europe walked briskly into the room.

Mustapha Mond shook hands with all three of them; but it was to the Savage that he addressed himself. “So you don't much like civilization, Mr. Savage,” he said.

The Savage looked at him. He had been prepared to lie, to bluster, to remain sullenly unresponsive; but, reassured by the good-humoured intelligence of the Controller's face, he decided to tell the truth, straightforwardly. “No.” He shook his head.

Bernard started and looked horrified. What would the Controller think? To be labelled as the friend of a man who said that he didn't like civilization—said it openly and, of all people, to the Controller—it was terrible. “But, John,” he began. A look from Mustapha Mond reduced him to an abject silence.

“Of course,” the Savage went on to admit, “there are some very nice things. All that music in the air, for instance…”

“Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about my ears and sometimes voices.”

The Savage's face lit up with a sudden pleasure. “Have you read it too?” he asked. “I thought nobody knew about that book here, in England.”

“Almost nobody. I'm one of the very few. It's prohibited, you see. But as I make the laws here, I can also break them. With impunity, Mr. Marx,” he added, turning to Bernard. “Which I'm afraid you can't do.”

Bernard sank into a yet more hopeless misery.

“But why is it prohibited?” asked the Savage. In the excitement of meeting a man who had read Shakespeare he had momentarily forgotten everything else.

The Controller shrugged his shoulders. “Because it's old; that's the chief reason. We haven't any use for old things here.”

“Even when they're beautiful?”

“Particularly when they're beautiful. Beauty's attractive, and we don't want people to be attracted by old things. We want them to like the new ones.”

“But the new ones are so stupid and horrible. Those plays, where there's nothing but helicopters flying about and you feel the people kissing.” He made a grimace. “Goats and monkeys!” Only in Othello's word could he find an adequate vehicle for his contempt and hatred.

“Nice tame animals, anyhow,” the Controller murmured parenthetically.

“Why don't you let them see Othello instead?”

“I've told you; it's old. Besides, they couldn't understand it.”

Yes, that was true. He remembered how Helmholtz had laughed at Romeo and Juliet. “Well then,” he said, after a pause, “something new that's like Othello, and that they could understand.”

“That's what we've all been wanting to write,” said Helmholtz, breaking a long silence.

“And it's what you never will write,” said the Controller. “Because, if it were really like Othello nobody could understand it, however new it might be. And if were new, it couldn't possibly be like Othello.”

“Why not?”

“Yes, why not?” Helmholtz repeated. He too was forgetting the unpleasant realities of the situation. Green with anxiety and apprehension, only Bernard remembered them; the others ignored him. “Why not?”

“Because our world is not the same as Othello's world. You can't make flivvers without steel—and you can't make tragedies without social instability. The world's stable now. People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can't get. They're well off; they're safe; they're never ill; they're not afraid of death; they're blissfully ignorant of passion and old age; they're plagued with no mothers or fathers; they've got no wives, or children, or lovers to feel strongly about; they're so conditioned that they practically can't help behaving as they ought to behave. And if anything should go wrong, there's soma. Which you go and chuck out of the window in the name of liberty, Mr. Savage. Liberty!” He laughed. “Expecting Deltas to know what liberty is! And now expecting them to understand Othello! My good boy!”

The Savage was silent for a little. “All the same,” he insisted obstinately, “Othello's good, Othello's better than those feelies.”

“Of course it is,” the Controller agreed. “But that's the price we have to pay for stability. You've got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We've sacrificed the high art. We have the feelies and the scent organ instead.”

“But they don't mean anything.”

“They mean themselves; they mean a lot of agreeable sensations to the audience.”

“But they're…they're told by an idiot.”

The Controller laughed. “You're not being very polite to your friend, Mr. Watson. One of our most distinguished Emotional Engineers…”

“But he's right,” said Helmholtz gloomily. “Because it is idiotic. Writing when there's nothing to say…”

“Precisely. But that requires the most enormous ingenuity. You're making flivvers out of the absolute minimum of steel—works of art out of practically nothing but pure sensation.”

The Savage shook his head. “It all seems to me quite horrible.”

“Of course it does. Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the over-compensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand.”

“I suppose not,” said the Savage after a silence. “But need it be quite so bad as those twins?” He passed his hand over his eyes as though he were trying to wipe away the remembered image of those long rows of identical midgets at the assembling tables, those queued-up twin-herds at the entrance to the Brentford monorail station, those human maggots swarming round Linda's bed of death, the endlessly repeated face of his assailants. He looked at his bandaged left hand and shuddered. “Horrible!”

“But how useful! I see you don't like our Bokanovsky Groups; but, I assure you, they're the foundation on which everything else is built. They're the gyroscope that stabilizes the rocket plane of state on its unswerving course.” The deep voice thrillingly vibrated; the gesticulating hand implied all space and the onrush of the irresistible machine. Mustapha Mond's oratory was almost up to synthetic standards.

“I was wondering,” said the Savage, “why you had them at all—seeing that you can get whatever you want out of those bottles. Why don't you make everybody an Alpha Double Plus while you're about it?”

Mustapha Mond laughed. “Because we have no wish to have our throats cut,” he answered. “We believe in happiness and stability. A society of Alphas couldn't fail to be unstable and miserable. Imagine a factory staffed by Alphas—that is to say by separate and unrelated individuals of good heredity and conditioned so as to be capable (within limits) of making a free choice and assuming responsibilities. Imagine it!” he repeated.

The Savage tried to imagine it, not very successfully.

“It's an absurdity. An Alpha-decanted, Alpha-conditioned man would go mad if he had to do Epsilon Semi-Moron work—go mad, or start smashing things up. Alphas can be completely socialized—but only on condition that you make them do Alpha work. Only an Epsilon can be expected to make Epsilon sacrifices, for the good reason that for him they aren't sacrifices; they're the line of least resistance. His conditioning has laid down rails along which he's got to run. He can't help himself; he's foredoomed. Even after decanting, he's still inside a bottle—an invisible bottle of infantile and embryonic fixations. Each one of us, of course,” the Controller meditatively continued, “goes through life inside a bottle. But if we happen to be Alphas, our bottles are, relatively speaking, enormous. We should suffer acutely if we were confined in a narrower space. You cannot pour upper-caste champagne-surrogate into lower-caste bottles. It's obvious theoretically. But it has also been proved in actual practice. The result of the Cyprus experiment was convincing.”

“What was that?” asked the Savage.

Mustapha Mond smiled. “Well, you can call it an experiment in rebottling if you like. It began in A.F. 473. The Controllers had the island of Cyprus cleared of all its existing inhabitants and re-colonized with a specially prepared batch of twenty-two thousand Alphas. All agricultural and industrial equipment was handed over to them and they were left to manage their own affairs. The result exactly fulfilled all the theoretical predictions. The land wasn't properly worked; there were strikes in all the factories; the laws were set at naught, orders disobeyed; all the people detailed for a spell of low-grade work were perpetually intriguing for high-grade jobs, and all the people with high-grade jobs were counter-intriguing at all costs to stay where they were. Within six years they were having a first-class civil war. When nineteen out of the twenty-two thousand had been killed, the survivors unanimously petitioned the World Controllers to resume the government of the island. Which they did. And that was the end of the only society of Alphas that the world has ever seen.”

The Savage sighed, profoundly.

“The optimum population,” said Mustapha Mond, “is modelled on the iceberg—eight-ninths below the water line, one-ninth above.”

“And they're happy below the water line?”

“Happier than above it. Happier than your friend here, for example.” He pointed.

“In spite of that awful work?”

“Awful? They don't find it so. On the contrary, they like it. It's light, it's childishly simple. No strain on the mind or the muscles. Seven and a half hours of mild, unexhausting labour, and then the soma ration and games and unrestricted copulation and the feelies. What more can they ask for? True,” he added, “they might ask for shorter hours. And of course we could give them shorter hours. Technically, it would be perfectly simple to reduce all lower-caste working hours to three or four a day. But would they be any the happier for that? No, they wouldn't. The experiment was tried, more than a century and a half ago. The whole of Ireland was put on to the four-hour day. What was the result? Unrest and a large increase in the consumption of soma; that was all. Those three and a half hours of extra leisure were so far from being a source of happiness, that people felt constrained to take a holiday from them. The Inventions Office is stuffed with plans for labour-saving processes. Thousands of them.” Mustapha Mond made a lavish gesture. “And why don't we put them into execution? For the sake of the labourers; it would be sheer cruelty to afflict them with excessive leisure. It's the same with agriculture. We could synthesize every morsel of food, if we wanted to. But we don't. We prefer to keep a third of the population on the land. For their own sakes—because it takes longer to get food out of the land than out of a factory. Besides, we have our stability to think of. We don't want to change. Every change is a menace to stability. That's another reason why we're so chary of applying new inventions. Every discovery in pure science is potentially subversive; even science must sometimes be treated as a possible enemy. Yes, even science.”

Science? The Savage frowned. He knew the word. But what it exactly signified he could not say. Shakespeare and the old men of the pueblo had never mentioned science, and from Linda he had only gathered the vaguest hints: science was something you made helicopters with, something that caused you to laugh at the Corn Dances, something that prevented you from being wrinkled and losing your teeth. He made a desperate effort to take the Controller's meaning.

“Yes,” Mustapha Mond was saying, “that's another item in the cost of stability. It isn't only art that's incompatible with happiness; it's also science. Science is dangerous; we have to keep it most carefully chained and muzzled.”

“What?” said Helmholtz, in astonishment. “But we're always saying that science is everything. It's a hypnopaedic platitude.”

“Three times a week between thirteen and seventeen,” put in Bernard.

“And all the science propaganda we do at the College…”

“Yes; but what sort of science?” asked Mustapha Mond sarcastically. “You've had no scientific training, so you can't judge. I was a pretty good physicist in my time. Too good—good enough to realize that all our science is just a cookery book, with an orthodox theory of cooking that nobody's allowed to question, and a list of recipes that mustn't be added to except by special permission from the head cook. I'm the head cook now. But I was an inquisitive young scullion once. I started doing a bit of cooking on my own. Unorthodox cooking, illicit cooking. A bit of real science, in fact.” He was silent.

“What happened?” asked Helmholtz Watson.

The Controller sighed. “Very nearly what's going to happen to you young men. I was on the point of being sent to an island.”

The words galvanized Bernard into a violent and unseemly activity. “Send me to an island?” He jumped up, ran across the room, and stood gesticulating in front of the Controller. “You can't send me. I haven't done anything. It was the others. I swear it was the others.” He pointed accusingly to Helmholtz and the Savage. “Oh, please don't send me to Iceland. I promise I'll do what I ought to do. Give me another chance. Please give me another chance.” The tears began to flow. “I tell you, it's their fault,” he sobbed. “And not to Iceland. Oh please, your fordship, please…” And in a paroxysm of abjection he threw himself on his knees before the Controller. Mustapha Mond tried to make him get up; but Bernard persisted in his grovelling; the stream of words poured out inexhaustibly. In the end the Controller had to ring for his fourth secretary.

“Bring three men,” he ordered, “and take Mr. Marx into a bedroom. Give him a good soma vaporization and then put him to bed and leave him.”

The fourth secretary went out and returned with three green-uniformed twin footmen. Still shouting and sobbing, Bernard was carried out.

“One would think he was going to have his throat cut,” said the Controller, as the door closed. “Whereas, if he had the smallest sense, he'd understand that his punishment is really a reward. He's being sent to an island. That's to say, he's being sent to a place where he'll meet the most interesting set of men and women to be found anywhere in the world. All the people who, for one reason or another, have got too self-consciously individual to fit into community-life. All the people who aren't satisfied with orthodoxy, who've got independent ideas of their own. Every one, in a word, who's any one. I almost envy you, Mr. Watson.”

Helmholtz laughed. “Then why aren't you on an island yourself?”

“Because, finally, I preferred this,” the Controller answered. “I was given the choice: to be sent to an island, where I could have got on with my pure science, or to be taken on to the Controllers' Council with the prospect of succeeding in due course to an actual Controllership. I chose this and let the science go.” After a little silence, “Sometimes,” he added, “I rather regret the science. Happiness is a hard master—particularly other people's happiness. A much harder master, if one isn't conditioned to accept it unquestioningly, than truth.” He sighed, fell silent again, then continued in a brisker tone, “Well, duty's duty. One can't consult one's own preference. I'm interested in truth, I like science. But truth's a menace, science is a public danger. As dangerous as it's been beneficent. It has given us the stablest equilibrium in history. China's was hopelessly insecure by comparison; even the primitive matriarchies weren't steadier than we are. Thanks, I repeat, to science. But we can't allow science to undo its own good work. That's why we so carefully limit the scope of its researches—that's why I almost got sent to an island. We don't allow it to deal with any but the most immediate problems of the moment. All other enquiries are most sedulously discouraged. It's curious,” he went on after a little pause, “to read what people in the time of Our Ford used to write about scientific progress. They seemed to have imagined that it could be allowed to go on indefinitely, regardless of everything else. Knowledge was the highest good, truth the supreme value; all the rest was secondary and subordinate. True, ideas were beginning to change even then. Our Ford himself did a great deal to shift the emphasis from truth and beauty to comfort and happiness. Mass production demanded the shift. Universal happiness keeps the wheels steadily turning; truth and beauty can't. And, of course, whenever the masses seized political power, then it was happiness rather than truth and beauty that mattered. Still, in spite of everything, unrestricted scientific research was still permitted. People still went on talking about truth and beauty as though they were the sovereign goods. Right up to the time of the Nine Years' War. That made them change their tune all right. What's the point of truth or beauty or knowledge when the anthrax bombs are popping all around you? That was when science first began to be controlled—after the Nine Years' War. People were ready to have even their appetites controlled then. Anything for a quiet life. We've gone on controlling ever since. It hasn't been very good for truth, of course. But it's been very good for happiness. One can't have something for nothing. Happiness has got to be paid for. You're paying for it, Mr. Watson—paying because you happen to be too much interested in beauty. I was too much interested in truth; I paid too.”

“But you didn't go to an island,” said the Savage, breaking a long silence.

The Controller smiled. “That's how I paid. By choosing to serve happiness. Other people's—not mine. It's lucky,” he added, after a pause, “that there are such a lot of islands in the world. I don't know what we should do without them. Put you all in the lethal chamber, I suppose. By the way, Mr. Watson, would you like a tropical climate? The Marquesas, for example; or Samoa? Or something rather more bracing?”

Helmholtz rose from his pneumatic chair. “I should like a thoroughly bad climate,” he answered. “I believe one would write better if the climate were bad. If there were a lot of wind and storms, for example…”

The Controller nodded his approbation. “I like your spirit, Mr. Watson. I like it very much indeed. As much as I officially disapprove of it.” He smiled. “What about the Falkland Islands?”

“Yes, I think that will do,” Helmholtz answered. “And now, if you don't mind, I'll go and see how poor Bernard's getting on.”

三个人被领进的那个房间是控制官的书房。

“福下一会儿就下来。”伽马男管家将他们留在房里,离开了。

赫尔姆霍茨放声大笑。

“更像是请我们来参加咖啡聚会,而不像是审判啊。”他重重地坐进了那张最舒服的充气扶手椅。“高兴点,伯纳德。”他看到了他朋友那张铁青色的阴沉的脸,又说道。可是,伯纳德就是高兴不起来,他没有理睬赫尔姆霍茨,甚至连看都没有看他一眼,径直走过去,坐在了房间里最不舒服的那张椅子上,这是他刻意的选择,心里暗暗希望这样能够稍微平息一些来自上级的怒火。

与此同时,野蛮人正在房间里不安地溜达,带着茫然的、浅浅的好奇心瞅一眼书架上的书籍,看一眼编了号的小隔架上的录音带和阅读机上的线轴。在窗边的写字台上,放着一本柔软的黑色代皮革装帧的厚书,上面烫着巨大的金色T字。他拿起来,打开看看。《我的一生及事业》,我主福特著。这本书由福帝知识宣传协会在底特律出版。他懒懒地翻开书页,这里读一句,那里读一段,得出结论:他对这部书不感兴趣。就在这时,门开了,驻西欧的世界控制官步履轻快地走入房间。

穆斯塔法·蒙德与他们三个人一一握手,不过,他的话是对着野蛮人说的。“那么,你不太喜欢文明,野蛮人先生。”他说。

野蛮人看着他,他本来准备或者撒谎,或者吹牛,或者怒气冲冲地一言不发,可是,看着控制官脸上那善解人意的表情,他感到了安慰,决定说实话,坦言相告。“不喜欢。”他摇摇头。

伯纳德吓得一愣,满脸恐慌。控制官会怎么想呢?被人当成那个说不喜欢文明的人的朋友,约翰不仅是堂而皇之地说,而且偏偏是对控制官说的,太可怕了。“可是,约翰……”他刚开口,穆斯塔法·蒙德的一个眼神立刻让他可怜兮兮地闭上了嘴巴。

“当然了,”野蛮人接着承认,“这里有一些非常好的东西,比如,那些空气中的音乐……”

“有时成千的叮叮咚咚的乐器在我耳边鸣响,有时……听见了那种歌声……(1)”

突然,野蛮人的脸庞快活地放着光。“你也读过吗?”他问,“我以为在这里,在英国,没有人知道那本书呢。”

“几乎没有人。我是为数不多的人之一。你知道,那是本禁书。不过,因为我制定法律,我也能以身试法,并且具有豁免权,马克斯先生,”他补充道,转身面对伯纳德,“恐怕你就做不到。”

伯纳德陷入了更加无望的痛苦。

“可是,为什么要禁止这本书呢?”野蛮人问。因为遇到了一个读过莎士比亚的人,他激动万分,暂时忘记了其他所有事情。

控制官耸了耸肩。“因为它太古老了,这是主要原因。我们这里不需要古旧的东西。”

“即使这些东西非常美,也不需要?”

“尤其当它们非常美时。美丽会吸引人,我们不想让人们受到古旧东西的吸引。我们要让他们喜欢新东西。”

“可是新东西是那么愚蠢、那么可怕。比如那些戏,里面除了飞来飞去的直升机,以及你能感觉到人们在亲吻之外,一无是处。”他做了个鬼脸,“山羊和猴子!(2)”只有用《奥赛罗》里的话,他才能充分表达他的鄙视与憎恶。

“总归是善良驯服的动物。”控制官喃喃自语地补充道。

“你为什么不让他们看《奥赛罗》呢?”

“我告诉过你了,那太老了。另外,他们也看不懂。”

是的,这是真的。他想起了赫尔姆霍茨一边听着《罗密欧与朱丽叶》一边哈哈大笑的情景。“那么,”他停顿了一会儿,说,“一些像《奥赛罗》这样的新剧,一些他们可以看得懂的。”

“那就是我们一直想写的东西。”赫尔姆霍茨打破了长时间的沉默,说话了。

“也是你们永远写不出的东西,”控制官说,“因为,如果它真像《奥赛罗》,那么没有人看得懂,不管它有多新。况且,如果它是新的,就不可能像《奥赛罗》。”

“为什么不可能呢?”

“是啊,为什么呢?”赫尔姆霍茨也问道。他也忘记了目前处境里那些不妙的现实。只有伯纳德还记得,因为焦虑和害怕,他的脸呈铁青色。可是,别人都不理睬他。“为什么不可能呢?”

“因为我们的世界与《奥赛罗》中的世界不同。没有钢铁,你就造不出汽车;没有社会动荡,你也就写不出悲剧。当前的世界是稳定的,人们都很幸福,他们想要什么就有什么,他们永远不会想要得不到的东西。他们富裕,他们安全,他们不会生病,他们不害怕死亡,他们不懂激情和老年,这是多么幸福的事情!他们没有爸爸妈妈来添麻烦,他们没有妻子,没有孩子,没有情人,这样他们就不会产生什么激烈的感情。自小受到的条件训练让他们不得不按照规定的套路行事。如果出了什么问题的话,总还有唆麻。野蛮人先生,你却以自由的名义把唆麻都扔到窗外了。自由!”他哈哈大笑,“指望德尔塔们懂什么是自由啊!还指望他们懂什么《奥赛罗》!我的好孩子!”

野蛮人沉默了片刻。“可不管怎样,”他固执地说,“《奥赛罗》很好,比那些感官电影好得多。”

“当然是了,”控制官同意,“可是,这就是我们为维持稳定所必须付出的代价。你必须在幸福和人们过去说的高雅艺术这两者之间做出抉择。我们牺牲了高雅艺术。我们用感官电影和香味器取而代之。”

“可那些东西没有任何意义。”

“其意义就在于它们本身。对观众来讲,它们意味着许多美妙的感觉。”

“可是,它们……它们不过就是白痴讲的故事(3)。”

控制官不禁笑了。“对你的朋友,华生先生,你可不够客气啊。他是我们最杰出的情感工程师之一……”

“可他说得没错,”赫尔姆霍茨郁闷地说,“确实很愚蠢,没什么可写的,又不得不写……”

“正是如此。这就需要最巨大的聪明才智了。好比你在用最少量的钢铁制造汽车,除了纯粹的感觉外,你几乎不用什么东西,却在创造艺术品。”

野蛮人摇摇头。“在我看来,这一切都太恐怖了。”

“当然恐怖了。与苦难带给人们的过度补偿相比,实际的幸福总是显得廉价而肮脏。另外,稳定当然远不如动荡那么激动人心,心满意足也比不上与命运作殊死斗争那么光彩照人,当然,稳定也不及抗拒诱惑或者绝望地屈服于激情或疑虑那么引人入胜。幸福从来不是伟大的。”

“我想是这样的,”沉默了一会儿,野蛮人说,“可是,那些多胞胎简直糟糕透顶,果真必须如此吗?”他的手抹了一把眼睛,好像要把他记忆里不快的影子擦掉,装配台旁边排成长队的一模一样的侏儒们,在布莱特福德单轨车站入口处排队的两群人,琳达死亡时在她床边蠕动的人蛆,攻击他的无穷无尽的千篇一律的脸。他看了看自己已经包扎起来的左手,不寒而栗。“太可怕了!”

“可是多么有用啊!我看得出来,你不喜欢我们的波卡诺夫斯基组别,不过,我向你保证,他们就是一切得以建立的根基。他们就是将国家这架火箭飞机不偏不倚地稳定在航线上的陀螺仪啊。”他洪亮的声音令人激动地震颤着,他的手做着手势,比划着整个宇宙和机器不可阻挡的来临。穆斯塔法·蒙德的演讲几乎可以达到合成声音的标准。

“我在纳闷,”野蛮人说,“你们为什么要这些多胞胎?你们想从那些瓶子里得到什么就得到什么,既然做,为什么不把每个人都做成阿尔法++呢?”

穆斯塔法·蒙德哈哈大笑。“因为我们不想让人把喉咙割断,”他回答,“我们相信幸福与稳定。一个全由阿尔法组成的社会一定会陷入动荡与苦难。想象一个全由阿尔法组成的工厂,也就是说,工厂的每个人都是独立的、毫无关联的个体,血统良好,他们受过的条件训练让他们几乎可以(在一定限度之内)自由地做出任何决定,承担任何责任。想象一下吧!”他又重复了一遍。

野蛮人试着去想象这种情形,可是毫无结果。

“这太荒唐了。一个换瓶时是阿尔法、也受过阿尔法训练的人,如果让他去做艾普西隆半白痴的工作,他会疯掉的——或者会发疯,或者会开始搞破坏。阿尔法们可以进行完全社会化,不过,前提是,你得让他们做阿尔法的工作。只有艾普西隆们才能做出艾普西隆的牺牲,原因就在于,对他们来讲,那根本不算是牺牲,而是阻力最小的行动路线。他受的条件训练已经为他铺好了轨道,他必须沿着这条轨道向前跑。他不得不这么做,这是事先注定的。即使换瓶以后,他也仍旧像是处在瓶子里,一个看不见的瓶子,被固定在那些幼稚的胚胎时期形成的习惯之中。当然,我们每个人都是这样的,”控制官沉思着,继续说,“一生都在瓶子里。不过,如果我们碰巧是阿尔法,我们的瓶子,相对来讲,会非常大。如果把我们拘束在一个狭小的空间中,我们会非常痛苦。你不能将高种姓的代香槟倒入低种姓的瓶子。这在理论上是不言自明的,可是,还必须经过实践的检验。塞浦路斯实验的结果非常令人信服。”

“那是什么实验?”野蛮人问。

穆斯塔法·蒙德微微一笑。“你可以把它叫作重新装瓶实验。这个实验开始于福特纪元473年。控制官们让人将塞浦路斯岛上的居民全部清出去,重新迁入了特别准备的两万两千个阿尔法,发给他们全套的农业与工业设备,然后他们就自己管理自己的事务了。实验的结果跟所有的理论预计完全吻合。土地耕作不当,所有的工厂都在闹罢工,法律被视为儿戏,命令被违抗。所有被分派做一段时间低级工作的人都在不断地算计着如何获得高级工作,所有做高级工作的人则在反算计,如何不计代价地保住现有工作。不到六年的时间,他们之间就爆发了全面内战。当初那两万两千人中,有一万九千人都死掉了,那些幸存者一致向控制官们请愿,要求政府重新接管岛屿,于是政府重新介入。世界上唯一一个由阿尔法构成的社会就这样寿终正寝了。”

野蛮人深深地叹了口气。

“最佳人口结构,”穆斯塔法·蒙德说,“基于冰山理论,九分之八在水面以下,九分之一露在水面之上。”

“在水面以下的人幸福吗?”

“比水面以上的人还要幸福。比如,比你的这个朋友还幸福。”他指了指赫尔姆霍茨。

“尽管他们在做着那么可怕的工作?”

“可怕?他们并不这么觉得。正相反,他们喜欢这样的工作,这工作很轻松,简单得近乎幼稚,对他们的头脑和肌肉都不是负担。每天七个半小时强度低、不累人的劳作,之后就是定量唆麻、游戏、不受限制的性交和感官电影。他们还有什么可求的?确实,”他补充道,“他们可能会要求更短的工时。当然,我们可以缩短他们的工时。从技术上说,将低种姓的工作时间缩减到每天三到四个小时,那是极其简单的事情。可是,他们会因此更加幸福吗?不,他们不会的。曾经做过这个实验,那是在一个半世纪之前。整个爱尔兰都实行一天四个小时的工作制。结果如何呢?是动荡不安和唆麻消耗量的大幅增加,仅此而已。每天多出来的那三个半小时的休闲时间远非幸福的来源,结果人们反而不得不去度假逃离开这种空闲。发明办公室里堆满了各种节省劳力的计划,成千上万个,”穆斯塔法·蒙德做个了大手笔的手势,“我们为什么不去实施这些计划呢?是为了那些劳动者,如果再强加给他们过度的休闲时间,那纯粹就是残忍。农业也是一样的。如果需要的话,我们可以合成每一口食物,但是,我们不那么做。我们宁愿让三分之一的人口继续耕作田地,这是为他们好,因为从土地上种出粮食比在工厂里生产所花的时间要长一些。另外,我们必须考虑稳定的问题。我们不想要变化。每一种变化都是对稳定的威胁。这也是我们对待新发明的应用是如此谨慎的另一个原因。纯科学上的每一项新发现都具有潜在的颠覆性,我们有时候甚至必须要把科学当成可能的敌人。是的,就连科学也是潜在的敌人。”

科学?野蛮人皱了皱眉。他知道这个词,可是,这个词到底是什么意思,他说不上来。莎士比亚和村庄里的老年人从来都没有提到过科学,从琳达那里,他也只是听过最模糊的暗示:科学就是你用来制造直升机的东西,让你对着玉米舞大笑的东西,防止你长皱纹或掉牙齿的东西。他尽力想弄明白控制官的意思。

“是的,”穆斯塔法·蒙德说,“那是稳定的另一个代价。不仅仅只有艺术与幸福是互不相容的,科学与幸福也是格格不入的。科学是危险的,我们必须小心地给科学戴上锁链,套上笼头。”

“什么?”赫尔姆霍茨吃惊地说,“可是,我们一直在说,科学就等于一切呀。都是睡眠教育里的那些陈词滥调。”

“十三点到十七点,每周三次。”伯纳德插嘴说。

“还有,我们在学院里听到那么多关于科学的宣传……”

“是的,不过,是什么样的科学呢?”穆斯塔法·蒙德挖苦地说,“你们没有受过科学训练,因此,你们不能进行判断。我曾经是个很好的物理学家,绝对好的物理学家,好得可以意识到,我们所有的科学只不过是一本烹饪书,有一种传统的、不允许任何人加以质疑的烹饪理论,还有一套得不到主厨的特别允许就不得有任何添加的菜谱。我现在是主厨。但我曾经是个好奇的年轻洗碗工。我自己开始悄悄地做点烹调,不太正统的烹调,不合法的烹调,实际上,那是真正的科学。”他陷入沉默。

“后来发生了什么?”赫尔姆霍茨·华生问。

控制官叹了口气。“跟你们这些年轻人将要面临的事差不多,我差点要被遣送到一个岛屿上。”

这句话就像把伯纳德电击了一下,他马上不由自主地做出了猛烈而不合乎礼仪的举动。“把我遣送到一个岛上?”他跳了起来,跑过房间,站在控制官面前,指手画脚,“您不能把我送到那里去。我什么都没有做,是别人做的,我发誓,是别人做的。”他谴责般地指着赫尔姆霍茨和野蛮人,“哦,请不要把我送到冰岛。我发誓,我以后会做应该做的事情。再给我一个机会吧。请再给我一次机会。”他的眼泪流了出来,“我告诉您,是他们的错,”他哭泣着说,“不要让我去冰岛,哦,求您了,福下,求您了……”一阵悲惨的情绪袭来,他突然跪倒在控制官面前。穆斯塔法·蒙德试着让他站起来,可是,伯纳德固执地赖在地上,嘴里持续不断地嘟囔着。最后,控制官不得不按铃,叫四等秘书过来。

“带三个人过来,”他命令,“把马克斯先生带到一间卧室去。给他一剂唆麻气雾剂,然后把他放到床上,留他一个人在那儿。”

四等秘书离开了,又带着三个穿绿色制服的仆从回来了,把还在喊叫着、哭泣着的伯纳德给抬了出去。

“还以为有人要割他的喉咙呢,”门儿关上后,控制官说,“不过,如果他还有一丁点理智的话,他应该明白,对他的惩罚其实是一种奖励。他将被遣送到一个岛屿上,也就是说,将他送到一个能够遇到世界上最有趣的男男女女的地方。所有那些人,出于这个或那个原因,都变得过分个体化,不再能够融入集体生活,所有那些人,都是不满足于正统、产生了自己独立想法的人。每个人都是,或者说,每个人都还算个人物。我几乎要羡慕你了,华生先生。”

赫尔姆霍茨笑了。“那么,为什么你自己不去一个岛屿上呢?”

“因为,最终考虑之后,我选择了这里,”控制官回答,“当时给了我选择,或者去岛屿,在那里我可以继续我的纯科学研究,或者在控制官委员会就职,这样有朝一日会有希望继任,当上控制官。我选择了这个,放弃了科学。”沉默了一小会儿,他补充道,“有时候,我非常后悔放弃了科学。幸福是个难伺候的主人,尤其是他人的幸福。比真理更难伺候,幸亏人们受过条件训练,不加质疑地接受了现在的幸福。”他叹了口气,又陷入沉默,之后,他语调更加轻松地说,“唉,职责就是职责。我们没办法跟自己的喜好讨价还价。我对真理感兴趣,我喜欢科学,可是,真理是个威胁,科学会给公众带来危险,它既有益,又危险。它给了我们历史上最稳定、最平衡的社会。相较而言,中国就极度不稳定;就连最原始的君主制都不如我们现在的社会稳定。我再重复一遍,这都归功于科学。可是,我们不能放任科学破坏它自己取得的成就。为此,我们才小心谨慎地限制科学研究的领域——为此,我差一点被送到岛屿上去。我们只允许科学解决那些当前最急需的问题。所有其他方面的探索都要加以遏制。”停顿一会儿,他又接着说,“读一读福帝时代人们写的关于科学进步的文章,是很有意思的。他们似乎认为,不论出现什么情况,科学进步是可以无休无止地进行下去的。知识是最大的善,真理是最高价值,所有其他的都是第二位的、从属的。确实,即使在那时候,人们的观念就已经在发生变化。我们的福帝就做了大量的工作,试图将重心从真和美转移到舒适与幸福之上。大规模生产需要这种转变。是普遍的幸福推动着历史的轮子不停地转动,真和美却做不到。当然,任何时候,只要群众获得了政治权力,最重要的就是幸福,而非真和美。不过,尽管如此,在那个时候,还是允许无限制的科学研究。人们仍旧在谈论着真和美,好像那就是至高无上的善。直到发生了九年战争。战争使得人们完全换了一个腔调。如果炭疽炸弹在你的身边不断爆炸,真或者美,或者知识,又有什么意义呢?九年战争之后,首次开始对科学进行控制。人们甚至愿意对自己的胃口稍加控制,愿意做任何事,只要能换来安宁的生活。从此,我们就一直在控制科学发展。当然,这对寻求真理没有好处,但是,对获得幸福却大有益处。要获得就要付出,总是要为幸福付出代价的。华生先生,你现在就要付出代价了,因为你恰巧对美太感兴趣了。我当时对真理过分感兴趣,我也付出了代价。”

“可是你并没有去岛上啊。”野蛮人说,打破了长时间的沉默。

控制官微微一笑。“那就是我所付出的代价呀,通过选择为幸福服务,为其他人的幸福服务,而不是我个人的幸福。”他停顿了一会儿,补充道,“很幸运,世界上有那么多的岛屿。我都不知道,如果没有这些岛屿,我们该怎么办。我想,那就得把你们投入毒气室了。顺便问一下,华生先生,你喜欢热带气候吗?比如,马克萨斯群岛,或者萨摩亚群岛?或者更令人心旷神怡的地方?”

赫尔姆霍茨从充气椅上站了起来。“我喜欢极端恶劣的气候。”他回答,“我认为,在恶劣的气候下才能写出更优秀的作品。比如,如果经常有暴风骤雨……”

控制官点了点头,表示赞许。“我喜欢你的精神,华生先生,我真的非常喜欢。尽管以官方身份来讲,我非常不赞许这样的精神。”他微笑着说,“福克兰群岛怎么样?”

“好的,我觉得那里可以。”赫尔姆霍茨回答,“现在,如果你不介意的话,我想去看看可怜的伯纳德怎么样了。”

————————————————————

(1) 引自《暴风雨》,两个计划谋杀的角色听到空中传来奇怪的声音,停住了脚步,卡利班则鼓励他们继续,因为岛上总是充满各种怪异的声音。

(2) 引自《奥赛罗》,伊阿古挑拨离间,以动物作比喻,试图向奥赛罗说明苔丝狄蒙娜的淫荡。

(3) 引自《麦克白》,麦克白的著名台词,表达人生无意义的想法。

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