The stranger actually laughed. ‘No, no, no. What nonsense. It’s just a place where you can get away. That’s all you need – to get away.’
Twenty minutes later, Tom was in bed; the stranger was giving instructions to a nurse. Tom had had an injection and was sinking happily into a doze. What joy, what peace. At last he had got away. But just as he closed his eyes, he muttered again, in protest, ‘This isn’t a breakdown, you know. It’s only – I got fed up with all the words, the nonsense.’
The stranger laid a large, cool hand on his head. ‘I know. I know.’ And he really seemed to know.
That was six weeks ago. Tom is now back at work, back with his family. He has been back a fortnight and already life is exactly the same as before. Louie no longer hovers about him with anxious affection; the children no longer come into the room on tiptoe and try to talk sympathetically about his long day at the office. He has found it especially trying to keep up this absurd kind of conversation. With the arrears at the office, he has been far too busy to want anything at home but peace. And why should Louie tell him about her day’s amusements or the children pretend to take an interest in a business of which they have never comprehended a detail? What nonsense. Thank God they’ve got over it. That first week back at home had almost driven him really mad.
And suddenly, at the club, talking to an old friend, he hears himself say, ‘Yes, I’ve been lucky, it’s been a wonderful marriage. Well, you know Louie, and the children stay so nice, so affectionate. You couldn’t find nicer, more affectionate children. After all, family life is everything, and mine has been a marvellous success.’ He stops, startled by some echo from that holiday, now almost forgotten. The word ‘nonsense’ has jumped into his brain.
Neither Tom nor his family has ever admitted that he has had a breakdown – it is called a holiday, a rest cure. And no nonsense about it. But if that wasn’t nonsense, what is this – all these words that he is uttering with such earnestness? But no, not nonsense – God forbid. More like a prayer.
Aldous Huxley
THE GIOCONDA SMILE
1
‘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 half-crown 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. Stopping 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 are 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 always tried to live up to the Leonardo standard. She smiled on in 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 a wave of his hand the flowers in the vases, the sunshine and greenery beyond the windows – ‘it’s good to be back in the country after a stuffy day of business in town.’
Miss Spence, who had sat down, pointed to a chair at her side.
‘No, really, I can’t sit down,’ Mr Hutton protested. ‘I must get back to see how poor Emily is. She was rather seedy this morning.’ He sat down, nevertheless. ‘It’s these wretched liver chills. She’s always getting them. Women – ’ He broke off and coughed, so as to hide the fact that he had uttered. He was about to say that women with weak digestions ought not to marry; but the remark was too cruel, and he didn’t really believe it. Janet Spence, moreover, was a believer in eternal flames and spiritual attachments. ‘She hopes to be well enough,’ he added, ‘to see you at luncheon tomorrow. Can you come? Do!’ He smiled persuasively. ‘It’s my invitation too, you know.’
She dropped her eyes, and Mr Hutton almost thought that he detected a certain reddening of the cheek. It was a tribute; he stroked his moustache.
‘I should like to come if you think Emily’s really well enough to have a visitor.’
‘Of course. You’ll do her good. You’ll do us both good. In married life three is often better company than two.’
‘Oh, you’re cynical.’
Mr Hutton always had a desire to say ‘Bow-wow-wow’ whenever that last word was spoken. It irritated him more than any other word in the language. But instead of barking be made haste to protest.
‘No, no. I’m only speaking a melancholy truth. Reality doesn’t always come up to the ideal, you know. But that doesn’t make me believe any the less in the ideal. Indeed, I believe in it passionately – the ideal of a matrimony between two people in perfect accord. I think it’s realizable. I’m sure it is.’
He paused significantly and looked at her with an arch expression. A virgin
of thirty-six, but still unwithered; she had her charms. And there was something really rather enigmatic about her. Miss Spence made no reply, but continued to smile. There were times when Mr Hutton got rather bored with the Gioconda. He stood up.
‘I must really be going now. Farewell, mysterious Gioconda.’ The smile grew intenser, focused itself, as it were, in a narrower snout. Mr Hutton made a Cinquecento gesture, and kissed her extended hand. It was the first time he had done such a thing; the action seemed not to be resented. ‘I look forward to tomorrow.’
‘Do you?’
For answer Mr Hutton once more kissed her hand, then turned to go. Miss Spence accompanied him to the porch.
‘Where’s your car?’ she asked.
‘I left it at the gate of the drive.’
‘I’ll come and see you off.’
‘No, no.’ Mr Hutton was playful, but determined. ‘You must do no such thing. I simply forbid you.’
‘But I should like to come,’ Miss Spence protested, throwing a rapid Gioconda at him.
Mr Hutton held up his hand. ‘No,’ he repeated, and then, with a gesture that was almost the blowing of a kiss, he started to run down the drive, lightly, on his toes, with long, bounding strides like a boy’s. He was proud of that run; it was quite marvellously youthful. Still, he was glad the drive was no longer. At the last bend, before passing out of sight of the house, he halted and turned round. Miss Spence was still standing on the steps, smiling her smile. He waved his hand, and this time quite definitely and overtly wafted a kiss in her direction. Then, breaking once more into his magnificent canter, he rounded the last dark promontory of trees. Once out of sight of the house he let his high paces decline to a trot, and finally to a walk. He took out his handkerchief and began wiping his neck inside his collar. What fools, what fools! Had there ever been such an ass as poor, dear Janet Spence? Never, unless it was himself. Decidedly he was the more malignant fool, since he, at least, was aware of his folly and still persisted in it. Why did he persist? Ah, the problem that was himself, the problem that was other people…
He had reached the gate. A large prosperous-looking motor was standing at the side of the road.
‘Home, M’Nab.’ The chauffeur touched his cap. ‘And stop at the cross-roads on the way, as usual,’ Mr Hutton added, as he opened the door of the car. ‘Well?’ he said, speaking into the obscurity that lurked within.
‘Oh, Teddy Bear, what an age you’ve been!’ It was a fresh and childish voice that spoke the words. There was the faintest hint of Cockney impurity about the vowel sounds.
Mr Hutton bent his large form and darted into the car with the agility of an animal regaining its burrow.
‘Have I?’ he said, as he shut the door. The machine began to move. ‘You must have missed me a lot if you found the time so long.’ He sat back in the low seat; a cherishing warmth enveloped him.
‘Teddy Bear… ’ and with a sigh of contentment a charming little head declined on to Mr Hutton’s shoulder. Ravished, he looked down sideways at the round, babyish face.
‘Do you know, Doris, you look like the pictures of Louise de Kéroual.’ He passed his fingers through a mass of curly hair.
‘Who’s Louise de Kera-whatever-it-is?’ Doris spoke from remote distances.
‘She was, alas! Fuit. We shall all be “was” one of these days. Meanwhile… ’
Mr Hutton covered the babyish face with kisses. The car rushed smoothly along. M’Nab’s back, through the front window, was stonily impressive, the back of a statue.
‘Your hands,’ Doris whispered. ‘Oh, you mustn’t touch me. They give me electric shocks.’
Mr Hutton adored her for the virgin imbecility of the words. How late in one’s existence one makes the discovery of one’s body!
‘The electricity isn’t in me, it’s in you.’ He kissed her again, whispering her name several times: Doris, Doris, Doris. The scientific appellation of the sea-mouse, he was thinking as he kissed the throat she offered him, white and extended like the throat of a victim awaiting the sacrificial knife. The sea-mouse was a sausage with iridescent fur: very peculiar. Or was Doris the sea-cucumber, which turns itself inside out in moments of alarm? He would really have to go to Naples again, just to see the aquarium. These sea creatures were fabulous, unbelievably fantastic.
‘Oh, Teddy Bear!’ (More zoology; but he was only a land animal. His poor little jokes!) ‘Teddy Bear, I’m so happy.’
‘So am I,’ said Mr Hutton. Was it true?
‘But I wish I knew if it were right. Tell me, Teddy Bear, is it right or wrong?’
‘Ah, my dear, that’s just what I’ve been wondering for the last thirty years.’
‘Be serious, Teddy Bear. I want to know if this is right; if it’s right that I should be here with you and that we should love one another, and that it should give me electric shocks when you touch me.’
‘Right? Well, it’s certainly good that you should have electric shocks rather than sexual repressions. Read Freud; repressions are the devil.’
‘Oh, you don’t help me. Why aren’t you ever serious? If only you knew how miserable I am sometimes, thinking it’s not right. Perhaps, you know, there is a hell, and all that. I don’t know what to do. Sometimes I think I ought to stop loving you.’
‘But could you?’ asked Mr Hutton, confident in the powers of his seduction and his moustache.
‘No. Teddy Bear, you know I couldn’t. But I could run away, I could hide from you, I could lock myself up and force myself not to come to you.’
‘Silly little thing!’ He tightened his embrace.
‘Oh, dear, I hope it isn’t wrong. And there are times when I don’t care if it is.’
Mr Hutton was touched. He had a certain protective affection for this little creature. He laid his cheek against her hair and so interlaced, they sat in silence, while the car, swaying and pitching a little as it hastened along, seemed to draw in the white road and the dusty hedges towards it devouringly.
‘Good-bye, good-bye.’
The car moved on, gathered speed, vanished round a curve, and Doris was left standing by the sign-post at the cross-roads, still dizzy and weak with the languor born of those kisses and the electrical touch of those gentle hands. She had to take a deep breath, to draw herself up deliberately, before she was strong enough to start her homeward walk. She had half a mile in which to invent the necessary lies.
Alone, Mr Hutton suddenly found himself the prey of an appalling boredom.
2
Mrs Hutton was lying on the sofa in her boudoir, playing patience. In spite of the warmth of the July evening a wood fire was burning on the hearth. A black Pomeranian, extenuated by the heat and the fatigues of digestion, slept before the blaze.
‘Phew! Isn’t it rather hot in here?’ Mr Hutton asked as he entered the room.
‘You know I have to keep warm, dear.’ The voice seemed breaking on the verge of tears. ‘I get so shivery.’
‘I hope you’re better this evening.’
‘Not much, I’m afraid.’
The conversation stagnated. Mr Hutton stood leaning his back against the mantelpiece. He looked down at the Pomeranian lying at his feet, and with the toe of his right boot he rolled the little dog over and rubbed its white-flecked chest and belly. The creature lay in an inert ecstasy. Mrs Hutton continued to play patience. Arrived at an impasse, she altered the position of one card, took back another, and went on playing. Her patiences always came out.
‘Dr Libbard thinks I ought to go to Llandrindod Wells this summer.’
‘Well, go, my dear – go, most certainly.’
Mr Hutton was thinking of the events of the afternoon: how they had driven, Doris and he, up to the hanging wood, had left the car to wait for them under the shade of the trees, and walked together out into the windless sunshine of the chalk down.
‘I’m to drink the waters for my liver, and he thinks I ought to have massage and electric treatment, too.’
Hat in hand, Dori
s had stalked four blue butterflies that were dancing together round a scabious flower with a motion that was like the flickering of blue fire. The blue fire burst and scattered into whirling sparks; she had given chase, laughing and shouting like a child.
‘I’m sure it will do you good, my dear.’
‘I was wondering if you’d come with me, dear.’
‘But you know I’m going to Scotland at the end of the month.’
Mrs Hutton looked up at him entreatingly. ‘It’s the journey,’ she said. ‘The thought of it is such a nightmare. I don’t know if I can manage it. And you know I can’t sleep in hotels. And then there’s the luggage and all the worries. I can’t go alone.’
‘But you won’t be alone. You’ll have your maid with you.’ He spoke impatiently. The sick woman was usurping the place of the healthy one. He was being dragged back from the memory of the sunlit down and the quick, laughing girl, back to this unhealthy, overheated room and its complaining occupant.
‘I don’t think I shall be able to go.’
‘But you must, my dear, if the doctor tells you to. And, besides, a change will do you good.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But Libbard thinks so, and he knows what he’s talking about.’
‘No, I can’t face it. I’m too weak. I can’t go alone.’ Mrs Hutton pulled a handkerchief out of her black silk bag, and put it to her eyes.
‘Nonsense, my dear, you must make the effort.’
‘I had rather be left in peace to die here.’ She was crying in earnest now.
‘O Lord! Now do be reasonable. Listen now, please.’ Mrs Hutton only sobbed more violently. ‘Oh, what is one to do?’ He shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room.
Mr Hutton was aware that he had not behaved with proper patience; but he could not help it. Very early in his manhood he had discovered that not only did he not feel sympathy for the poor, the weak, the diseased, and deformed; he actually hated them. Once, as an undergraduate, he spent three days at a mission in the East End. He had returned, filled with a profound and ineradicable disgust. Instead of pitying, he loathed the unfortunate. It was not, he knew, a very comely emotion, and he had been ashamed of it at first. In the end he had decided that it was temperamental, inevitable, and had felt no further qualms. Emily had been healthy and beautiful when he married her. He had loved her then. But now – was it his fault that she was like this?
The Penguin Book of English Short Stories Page 27