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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
?
"
