“It was over some rhymes，” he explained. “I was giving my usual course of Advanced Emotional Engineering for Third Year Students. Twelve lectures， of which the seventh is about rhymes. ’On the Use of Rhymes in Moral Propaganda and Advertisement，’ to be precise. I always illustrate my lecture with a lot of technical examples. This time I thought I’d give them one I’d just written myself. Pure madness， of course； but I couldn’t resist it.” He laughed. “I was curious to see what their reactions would be. Besides，” he added more gravely， “I wanted to do a bit of propaganda； I was trying to engineer them into feeling as I’d felt when I wrote the rhymes. Ford！” He laughed again. “What an outcry there was！ The Principal had me up and threatened to hand me the immediate sack. l’m a marked man.”
“But what were your rhymes？” Bernard asked.
“They were about being alone.”
Bernard’s eyebrows went up.
“I’ll recite them to you， if you like.” And Helmholtz began：
“Yesterday’s committee， Sticks， but a broken drum， Midnight in the City， Flutes in a vacuum， Shut lips， sleeping faces， Every stopped machine， The dumb and littered places Where crowds have been：…All silences rejoice， Weep （loudly or low）， Speak–but with the voice Of whom， I do not know. Absence， say， of Susan’s， Absenee of Egeria’s Arms and respective bosoms， Lips and， ah， posteriors， Slowly form a presence； Whose？ and， I ask， of what So absurd an essence， That something， which is not， Nevertheless should populate Empty night more solidly Than that with which we copulate， Why should it seem so squalidly？
Well， I gave them that as an example， and they reported me to the Principal.”
“I’m not surprised，” said Bernard. “It’s flatly against all their sleep-teaching. Remember， they’ve had at least a quarter of a million warnings against solitude.”
“I know. But I thought I’d like to see what the effect would be.”
“Well， you’ve seen now.”
Helmholtz only laughed. “I feel，” he said， after a silence， “as though I were just beginning to have something to write about. As though I were beginning to be able to use that power I feel I’ve got inside me–that extra， latent power. Something seems to be coming to me.” In spite of all his troubles， he seemed， Bernard thought， profoundly happy.
Helmholtz and the Savage took to one another at once. So cordially indeed that Bernard felt a sharp pang of jealousy. In all these weeks he had never come to so close an intimacy with the Savage as Helmholtz immediately achieved. Watching them， listening to their talk， he found himself sometimes resentfully wishing that he had never brought them together. He was ashamed of his jealousy and alternately made efforts of will and took soma to keep himself from feeling it. But the efforts were not very successful； and between the soma-holidays there were， of necessity， intervals. The odius sentiment kept on returning.
At his third meeting with the Savage， Helmholtz recited his rhymes on Solitude.
“What do you think of them？” he asked when he had done.
The Savage shook his head. “Listen to this，” was his answer； and unlocking the drawer in which he kept his mouse-eaten book， he opened and read：
“Let the bird of loudest lay On the sole Arabian tree， Herald sad and trumpet be…”
Helmholtz listened with a growing excitement. At “sole Arabian tree” he started； at “thou shrieking harbinger” he smiled with sudden pleasure； at “every fowl of tyrant wing” the blood rushed up into his cheeks； but at “defunctive music” he turned pale and trembled with an unprecedented emotion. The Savage read on：
“Property was thus appall’d， That the self was not the same； Single nature’s double name Neither two nor one was call’d Reason in itself confounded Saw division grow together…”
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