Promptuarium mysteriorum fidei, ora pro nobis. Your small-clothes sound to me very like one of my old litanies, Theodore. You are too stout, Porteous, to be able to appreciate the idea. We Gumbrils are all a bony lot. In either case, I shall make money, which is more, I may say, than you or any other Gumbril have ever done. You can be grateful to your intolerable Aunt Flo for having left you that three hundred a year.
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Promptuarium mysteriorum fidei, ora pro nobis. Your small-clothes sound to me very like one of my old litanies, Theodore. You are too stout, Porteous, to be able to appreciate the idea.
We Gumbrils are all a bony lot. In either case, I shall make money, which is more, I may say, than you or any other Gumbril have ever done. You can be grateful to your intolerable Aunt Flo for having left you that three hundred a year. Only his amusement. He seems to flit like a butterfly in search of honey, or rather money.
Look at this really delightful little idea I had this afternoon. Porteous and himself could look at it. Gumbril Senior got up from his chair and, standing behind them, leant over to elucidate and explain. And the flat roofs of the wings are used as gardens—you see? The west is a library, and it has an arcaded loggia along the front.
You see? And you get the perpendiculars with coigns and raised panels. All in brick it is. This is the garden front; the entrance front will be admirable too. Do you like it? His father sighed and taking the sketch put it back in his pocket. Porteous got up from his chair. Porteous repeated; and carefully he buttoned up his double-breasted coat, carefully, as though he were adjusting an instrument of precision, he took out and replaced his monocle. Then, very erect and neat, very soldierly and pillar-boxical, he marched towards the door.
Gumbril Senior came upstairs again into the big room on the first floor smoothing down his hair, which the impetuosity of his ascent had once more disarranged. But his father turned the irrelevance into relevance. It was a symbol, a proud flag. The monocle made a kind of difference, you understand. Gumbril repeated with vehemence. My business is architecture. Not properly. I have my talent, I have my imagination.
He opened the door of what should have been, in a well-ordered house, the Best Bedroom, and slipped into the darkness. He stepped in.
The only furniture in the room consisted of a couple of long trestle tables. On these, on the mantelpiece and all over the floor, were scattered confusedly, like the elements of a jumbled city, a vast collection of architectural models. There were cathedrals, there were town halls, universities, public libraries, there were three or four elegant little sky-scrapers, there were blocks of offices, huge warehouses, factories, and finally dozens of magnificent country mansions, complete with their terraced gardens, their noble flights of steps, their fountains and ornamental waters and grandly bridged canals, their little rococo pavilions and garden houses.
His long grey hair floated wispily about his head, his spectacles flashed, and behind them his eyes shone with emotion. And look how splendidly the pilasters carry up the vertical lines. And then the solidity of it, the size, the immense, impending bleakness of it! The lights and shadows vacillated wildly through all the city of palaces and domes as he brandished the lamp in ecstasy above his head.
How magnificently and surprisingly it flowers out of the bare walls! Like the colossal writing of 31Darius, like the figures graven in the bald face of the precipice over Behistun—unexpected and beautiful and human, human in the surrounding emptiness.
You seem to allow very few windows in this vast palazzo. Windows are the curse of architecture in this country. No need to look out on the dirty world or to let the dirty world look in on you.
But look inside. Gumbril Junior leaned and looked, like his father. Look there at the treble tiers of arcades, the vaulted cloisters for your cool peripatetic meditations, the central Triton spouting white water into a marble pool, the 32mosaic work on the floor and flowering up the walls, brilliant against the white stucco. And now you must come and have a look at the garden front. There was suddenly a crash; the wire had twitched a cathedral from off the table.
It lay on the floor in disastrous ruin as though shattered by some appalling cataclysm. He put down the lamp and ran to see how irreparable the disaster had been. Tenderly he picked up the pieces and replaced them on the table. In the old days these creatures built their own hovels, and very nice and suitable they were too.
A little, no doubt, you can protest a little; you can give your cottage decent proportions and avoid sordidness and vulgarity. Model cottages, indeed! Gumbril snorted with indignation. For the Romans themselves had lived their own actual lives, sordidly and extravagantly in the middle of a vulgar empire.
Alberti and his followers in the Renaissance lived the ideal Roman life. They put Plutarch into their architecture. They took the detestable real Cato, the Brutus of history, and made of them Roman heroes to walk as guides and models before them. The grim, enormous apse He could not put into words what he felt when he thought of them. Gumbril Junior looked at his watch. Bojanus, is mine.
A very small man, dressed in a frock-coat, popped out from a canyon that opened, a mere black crevice, between two stratified precipices of mid-season suitings, and advancing into the open space before the door bowed with an old-world grace, revealing a nacreous scalp thinly mantled with long damp creepers of brown hair. Bojanus looked up archly with a sideways cock of his head that tilted the rigid points of his waxed moustache. Or a new suit?
Gumbril, look—how shall I say? He resented Mr. And he had fancied that he really looked rather elegant and distinguished but, after all, he always looked that, even in rags —no, that he looked positively neat, like Mr.
Porteous, positively soldierly in his black jacket and his musical comedy trousers and his patent leather shoes. He regarded himself, trying to see his clothes—garments, Mr.
Bojanus had called them; garments, good Lord! Yes, it was all horribly negleejay. He felt depressed; but looking at Mr. That frock-coat, for example. It was like something in a very modern picture—such a smooth, unwrinkled cylinder about the chest, such a sense of pure and abstract conic-ness in the sleekly rounded skirts! Nothing could have been less negleejay. He was reassured. Bojanus listened with attention.
Gumbril, to wear these I am exploiting the invention commercially, you see. I see, Mr. Bojanus shook his head. Bojanus went on shaking his head.
Gumbril, I am a great admirer of Lenin But then I have so little to lose to Lenin. I can afford to admire him. But you, Mr. Bojanus, you, the prosperous bourgeois—oh, purely in the economic sense of the word, Mr.
Bojanus accepted the explanation with one of his old-world bows. Gumbril, if I may be allowed to say so, you are wrong. Bojanus removed his hand from his bosom and employed it to emphasize the points of his discourse.
Gumbril, 37his class-speech, his class-education. Gumbril; mark my words. Gumbril, why then Bojanus went through the gestures of pointing a rifle and pulling the trigger; he clicked his tongue against his teeth to symbolize the report He himself had envied his securer friends their power of ignoring the humanity of those who were not of their class.
Gumbril had been brought 38up among these blessed beings; but he was not one of them.
Review: Antic Hay by Aldous Huxley
Huxley wanted to dance with Nancy Cunard but she likened his advances to being crawled over by slugs. Gumbril Jr is a teacher but hates it, just as Huxley did when he had been a teacher at Eton. No, this was really impossible. There were thirteen weeks in the summer term, there would be thirteen in the autumn and eleven or twelve in the spring; and then another summer of thirteen, and so it would go on for ever. For ever.
Antic Hay Quotes
He published over 50 books, novels, travel books, histories, poems, plays, screenplays, and essays on philosophy, arts, sociology, religion, and morals. The interior of Hotelli Punkaharju in September His grandfather. From to he attended Balliol College, Oxford, where he excelled academically and edited literary journals. Huxley was considered a prodigy, being exceptionally intelligent and creative. This is where the reader is set off on a journey to the midst and minds of intellectuals and members of the London cultural elite in turbulent times in the after math of World War I.
Learn how and when to remove this template message Antic Hay is a comic novel by Aldous Huxley , published in The story takes place in London , and depicts the aimless or self-absorbed cultural elite in the sad and turbulent times following the end of World War I. The book follows the lives of a diverse cast of characters in bohemian , artistic and intellectual circles. The book was condemned for its cynicism and for its immorality because of its open debate on sex. The novel was banned for a while in Australia and burned in Cairo. With it he is able to overcome his shyness and approach women in public places with a bold directness. However he is then left with the problem of how he reveals his real self to the women he befriends.