Mortal Coils

Mortal Coils
By Aldous Huxley

NEW YORK - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY THE CENTURY CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY SMART SET COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS
I: THE GIOCONDA SMILE
II: PERMUTATIONS AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES
III: THE TILLOTSON BANQUET
IV: GREEN TUNNELS
V: NUNS AT LUNCHEON

I: THE GIOCONDA SMILE
"MISS SPENCE will be down directly, sir."
"Thank you," said Mr. Hutton, without turning round. Janet Spence's
parlourmaid was so ugly ugly on purpose, it always seemed to him,
malignantly, criminally ugly that he could not bear to look at her more
than was necessary. The door closed. Left to himself, Mr. Hutton got

up and began to wander round the room, looking with meditative eyes
at the familiar objects it contained.
Photographs of Greek statuary, photographs of the Roman Forum,
coloured prints of Italian masterpieces, all very safe and well known.
Poor, dear Janet, what a prig what an intellectual snob! Her real taste
was illustrated in that water-colour by the pavement artist, the one she
had paid half a crown for (and thirty-five shillings for the frame). How
often he had heard her tell the story, how often expatiate on the
beauties of that skilful imitation of an oleograph! "A real Artist in the
streets," and you could hear the capital A in Artist as she spoke the
words. She made you feel that part of his glory had entered into Janet
Spence when she tendered him that halfcrown for the copy of the
oleograph. She was implying a compliment to her own taste and
penetration. A genuine Old Master for half a crown. Poor, dear Janet!
Mr. Hutton came to a pause in front of a small oblong mirror. Stooping
a little to get a full view of his face, he passed a white, well-manicured
finger over his moustache. It was as curly, as freshly auburn as it had
been twenty years ago. His hair still retained its colour, and there was
no sign of baldness yet only a certain elevation of the brow.
"Shakespearean," thought Mr. Hutton, with a smile, as he surveyed the
smooth and polished expanse of his forehead.
Others abide our question, thou art free.... Footsteps in the sea...
Majesty... Shakespeare, thou shouldst be living at this hour. No, that
was Milton, wasn't it? Milton, the Lady of Christ's. There was no lady
about him. He was what the women would call a manly man. That was
why they liked him for the curly auburn moustache and the discreet
redolence of tobacco. Mr. Hutton smiled again; he enjoyed making fun
of himself. Lady of Christ's? No, no. He was the Christ of Ladies. Very
pretty, very pretty. The Christ of Ladies. Mr. Hutton wished there were
somebody he could tell the joke to. Poor, dear Janet wouldn't appreciate
it, alas!
He straightened himself up, patted his hair, and resumed his
peregrination. Damn the Roman Forum; he hated those dreary
photographs.

Suddenly he became aware that Janet Spence was in the room, standing
near the door. Mr. Hutton started, as though he had been taken in some
felonious act. To make these silent and spectral appearances was one of
Janet Spence's peculiar talents. Perhaps she had been there all the time,
had seen him looking at himself in the mirror. Impossible! But, still, it
was disquieting.
"Oh, you gave me such a surprise," said Mr. Hutton, recovering his
smile and advancing with outstretched hand to meet her.
Miss Spence was smiling too: her Gioconda smile, he had once called it,
in a moment of half-ironical flattery. Miss Spence had taken the
compliment seriously, and had always tried to live up to the Leonardo
standard. She smiled on his silence while Mr. Hutton shook hands; that
was part of the Gioconda business.
"I hope you're well," said Mr. Hutton. "You look it."
What a queer face she had! That small mouth pursed forward by the
Gioconda expression into a little snout with a round hole in the middle
as though for whistling it was like a penholder seen from the front.
Above the mouth a well-shaped nose, finely aquiline. Eyes large,
lustrous, and dark, with the largeness, lustre, and darkness that seems to
invite sties and an occasional bloodshot suffusion. They were fine eyes,
but unchangingly grave. The penholder might do its Gioconda trick, but
the eyes never altered in their earnestness. Above them, a pair of boldly
arched, heavily pencilled black eyebrows lent a surprising air of power,
as of a Roman matron, to the upper portion of the face. Her hair was
dark and equally Roman; Agrippina from the brows upward.
"I thought I'd just look in on my way home," Mr. Hutton went on. "Ah,
it's good to be back here--" he indicated with