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From
her
dim
crimson
cellar
Lenina
Crowne
shot
up
seventeen
stories
,
turned
to
the
right
as
she
stepped
out
of
the
lift
,
walked
down
a
long
corridor
and
,
opening
the
door
marked
GIRLS
’
DRESSING
-
ROOM
,
plunged
into
a
deafening
chaos
of
arms
and
bosoms
and
underclothing
.
Torrents
of
hot
water
were
splashing
into
or
gurgling
out
of
a
hundred
baths
.
Rumbling
and
hissing
,
eighty
vibro
?
vacuum
massage
machines
were
simultaneously
kneading
and
sucking
the
firm
and
sunburnt
flesh
of
eighty
superb
female
specimens
.
Every
one
was
talking
at
the
top
of
her
voice
.
A
Synthetic
Music
machine
was
warbling
out
a
super
-
cornet
solo
.
"
Hullo
,
Fanny
,
"
said
Lenina
to
the
young
woman
who
had
the
pegs
and
locker
next
to
hers
.
Fanny
worked
in
the
Bottling
Room
,
and
her
surname
was
also
Crowne
.
But
as
the
two
thousand
million
inhabitants
of
the
plant
had
only
ten
thousand
names
between
them
,
the
coincidence
was
not
particularly
surprising
.
Lenina
pulled
at
her
zippers
-
downwards
on
the
jacket
,
downwards
with
a
double
-
handed
gesture
at
the
two
that
held
trousers
,
downwards
again
to
loosen
her
undergarment
.
Still
wearing
her
shoes
and
stockings
,
she
walked
off
towards
the
bathrooms
.
Home
,
home
–
a
few
small
rooms
,
stiflingly
over
-
inhabited
by
a
man
,
by
a
periodically
teeming
woman
,
by
a
rabble
of
boys
and
girls
of
all
ages
.
No
air
,
no
space
;
an
understerilized
prison
;
darkness
,
disease
,
and
smells
.
(
The
Controller
’
s
evocation
was
so
vivid
that
one
of
the
boys
,
more
sensitive
than
the
rest
,
turned
pale
at
the
mere
description
and
was
on
the
point
of
being
sick
.
)
Lenina
got
out
of
the
bath
,
toweled
herself
dry
,
took
hold
of
a
long
flexible
tube
plugged
into
the
wall
,
presented
the
nozzle
to
her
breast
,
as
though
she
meant
to
commit
suicide
,
pressed
down
the
trigger
.
A
blast
of
warmed
air
dusted
her
with
the
finest
talcum
powder
.
Eight
different
scents
and
eau
-
de
-
Cologne
were
laid
on
in
little
taps
over
the
wash
-
basin
.
She
turned
on
the
third
from
the
left
,
dabbed
herself
with
chypre
and
,
carrying
her
shoes
and
stockings
in
her
hand
,
went
out
to
see
if
one
of
the
vibro
?
vacuum
machines
were
free
.
And
home
was
as
squalid
psychically
as
physically
.
Psychically
,
it
was
a
rabbit
hole
,
a
midden
,
hot
with
the
frictions
of
tightly
packed
life
,
reeking
with
emotion
.
What
suffocating
intimacies
,
what
dangerous
,
insane
,
obscene
relationships
between
the
members
of
the
family
group
!
Maniacally
,
the
mother
brooded
over
her
children
(
her
children
)
.
.
.
brooded
over
them
like
a
cat
over
its
kittens
;
but
a
cat
that
could
talk
,
a
cat
that
could
say
,
"
My
baby
,
my
baby
,
"
over
and
over
again
.
"
My
baby
,
and
oh
,
oh
,
at
my
breast
,
the
little
hands
,
the
hunger
,
and
that
unspeakable
agonizing
pleasure
!
Till
at
last
my
baby
sleeps
,
my
baby
sleeps
with
a
bubble
of
white
milk
at
the
corner
of
his
mouth
.
My
little
baby
sleeps
.
.
.
"
