After the Fireworks by Aldous Huxley Page A

again.
    â€œHence my concern about your education.” He beckoned her through the turnstile into the museum. “A purely selfish concern,” he added, smiling down at her. “Because I don’t want the most charming of my young friends to grow into a monster, whom I shall be compelled to flee from. So resign yourself to the Etruscans.”
    â€œI resign myself,” said Pamela, laughing. His words had made her feel happy and excited. “You can begin.” And in a theatrical voice, like that which used to make Ruth go off into such fits of laughter, “I am all ears,” she added, “as they say in the Best Books.” She pulled off her hat and shook out the imprisoned hair.
    To Fanning, as he watched her, the gesture brought a sudden shock of pleasure. The impatient, exuberant youthfulness of it! And the little head, so beautifully shaped, so gracefully and proudly poised on its long neck! And her hair was drawn back smoothly from the face to explode in a thick tangle of curls on the nape of the neck. Ravishing!
    â€œAll ears,” she repeated, delightedly conscious of the admiration she was receiving.
    â€œAll ears.” And almost meditatively. “But do you know,” he went on, “I’ve never even seen your ears. May I?” And without waiting for her permission, he lifted up the soft, goldy-brown hair that lay in a curve, drooping, along the side of her head.
    Pamela’s face violently reddened; but she managed none the less to laugh. “Are they as long and furry as you expected?” she asked.
    He allowed the lifted hair to fall back into its place and, without answering her question, “I’ve always,” he said, looking at her with a smile which she found disquietingly enigmatic and remote, “I’ve always had a certain fellow-feeling for those savages who collect ears and thread them on strings, as necklaces.”
    â€œBut what a horror!” she cried out.
    â€œYou think so?” He raised his eyebrows.
    But perhaps, Pamela was thinking, he was a sadist. In that book of Krafft-Ebbing’s there had been a lot about sadists. It would be queer, if he were . . .
    â€œBut what’s certain,” Fanning went on in another, business-like voice, “what’s only too certain is that ears aren’t culture. They’ve got too much to do with us. With me, at any rate. Much too much.” He smiled at her again. Pamela smiled back at him, fascinated and obscurely a little frightened; but the fright was an element in the fascination. She dropped her eyes. “So don’t let’s waste any more time,” his voice went on. “Culture to right of us, culture to left of us. Let’s begin with this culture on the left. With the vases. They really have absolutely nothing to do with us.”
    He began and Pamela listened. Not very attentively, however. She lifted her hand and, under the hair, touched her ear. “A fellow-feeling for those savages.” She remembered his words with a little shudder. He’d almost meant them. And “ears aren’t culture. Too much to do with us. With me. Much too much.” He’d meant that too, genuinely and wholeheartedly. And his smile had been a confirmation of the words; yes, and a comment, full of mysterious significance. What had he meant? But surely it was obvious what he had meant. Or wasn’t it obvious?
    The face she turned towards him wore an expression of grave attention. And when he pointed to a vase and said, “Look,” she looked, with what an air of concentrated intelligence! But as for knowing what he was talking about! She went on confusedly thinking that he had a fellow-feeling for those savages, and that her ears had too much to do with him, much too much, and that perhaps he was in love with her, perhaps also that he was like those people in Krafft-Ebbing, perhaps . . . ; and it seemed to her that her blood must have turned into