Island - Aldous Huxley [101]
The parrot uttered a succession of low chuckles, then leaned forward from its perch on Vijaya’s finger and very gently nibbled at the child’s tiny ear.
“Such a good bird,” Shanta whispered, taking up the refrain. “Such a good bird.”
“Dr. Andrew picked up the idea,” said Vijaya, “while he was serving as a naturalist on the Melampus. From a tribe in northern New Guinea. Neolithic people; but like you Christians and us Buddhists, they believed in love. And unlike us and you, they’d invented some very practical ways of making their belief come true. This technique was one of their happiest discoveries. Stroke the baby while you’re feeding him; it doubles his pleasure. Then, while he’s sucking and being caressed, introduce him to the animal or person you want him to love. Rub his body against theirs; let there be a warm physical contact between child and love object. At the same time repeat some word like ‘good.’ At first he’ll understand only your tone of voice. Later on, when he learns to speak, he’ll get the full meaning. Food plus caress plus contact plus ‘good’ equals love. And love equals pleasure, love equals satisfaction.”
“Pure Pavlov.”
“But Pavlov purely for a good purpose. Pavlov for friendliness and trust and compassion. Whereas you prefer to use Pavlov for brainwashing, Pavlov for selling cigarettes and vodka and patriotism. Pavlov for the benefit of dictators, generals and tycoons.”
Refusing any longer to be left out in the cold, the yellow mongrel had joined the group and was impartially licking every piece of sentient matter within its reach—Shanta’s arm, Vijaya’s hand, the parrot’s feet, the baby’s backside. Shanta drew the dog closer and rubbed the child against its furry flank.
“And this is a good good dog,” she said. “Dog Toby, good good dog Toby.”
Will laughed. “Oughtn’t I to get into the act?”
“I was going to suggest it,” Shanta answered, “only I was afraid you’d think it was beneath your dignity.”
“You can take my place,” said Vijaya. “I must go and see about our lunch.”
Still carrying the parrot, he walked out through the door that led into the kitchen. Will pulled up his chair and, leaning forward, began to stroke the child’s tiny body.
“This is another man,” Shanta whispered. “A good man, baby. A good man.”
“How I wish it were true!” he said with a rueful little laugh.
“Here and now it is true.” And bending down again over the child, “He’s a good man,” she repeated. “A good good man.”
He looked at her blissful, secretly smiling face, he felt the smoothness and warmth of the child’s tiny body against his fingertips. Good, good, good…He too might have known this goodness—but only if his life had been completely different from what in fact, in senseless and disgusting fact, it was. So never take yes for an answer, even when, as now, yes is self-evident. He looked again with eyes deliberately attuned to another wavelength of value, and saw the caricature of a Memling altarpiece. “Madonna with Child, Dog, Pavlov and Casual Acquaintance.” And suddenly he could almost understand, from the inside, why Mr. Bahu so hated these people. Why he was so bent—in the name, as usual and needless to say, of God—on their destruction.
“Good,” Shanta was still murmuring to her baby, “good, good, good.”
Too good—that was their crime. It simply wasn’t permissible. And yet how precious it was! And how passionately he wished that he might have had a part in it! “Pure sentimentality!” he said to himself; and then aloud, “Good, good, good,” he echoed ironically. “But what happens when the child grows a little bigger and discovers that a lot of things and people are thoroughly bad, bad, bad?”
“Friendliness evokes friendliness,” she answered.
“From the friendly—yes. But not from the greedy, not from the power lovers, not from the frustrated and embittered. For them, friendliness is just weakness, just an invitation to exploit, to bully,