Lover's Leap Page 2

  As soon as she was gone I left too and walked the whole way home. It is a long way, a long way at least to walk in London: it must have taken me quite an hour. But I was in a state of such supreme well-being that the idea of taking a bus or a tube was unthinkable. How could I have sat still with that fountain of happiness leaping inside me? It seemed to me as I strode along the empty streets under the cold, motionless lamplight, and it seems to me still as I sit here going over it all again, that my life is filled to the brim. The cold, empty life of yesterday and all the weeks and months before, has gone, vanished like a dead leaf, a puff of smoke. For that glimpse of her standing there in the doorway in her furs with that unforgettable look in her eyes, is securely and utterly mine and I am satisfied. It seems almost too much, a threatened interruption of my ecstasy, that she should be coming here on Thursday—yes, to-morrow; for it is now half past one of Wednesday morning. The thought of her coming brings a disturbance, a tinge of anxiety into the steady glow that burns in me now. Her coming will rouse new conflicts, new troubles in me. I both long for it and dread it. When I know her better, when we have become friends and this yawning gap between my feelings for her and our actual relationship has narrowed to a width that can be bridged, I shall feel more secure. But now, when I turn my eyes for a moment from the golden light of my happiness, it seems to me that my new life is full of dangers. Well, all the better. It’s been a damned sight too safe hitherto.

  Next evening. She has been here. She went away twenty minutes ago and this sitting-room and the studio are still full of her. There is the chair she sat in, and I feel that I must leave it where it is, drawn up to the table from its usual place; leave the cushion just as she leaned against it, so as not to disturb her spirit which still lingers here and will linger till Mrs. Batten comes to-morrow morning and drives it away by setting everything to rights. I have just had another cup of tea, out of her cup, and I have sat, since she went, intently going over everything she said and did, everything I said and did while she was here. All this, I know, is the invariable behaviour of lovers: I am feeling and acting in strict accordance with the convention. If it were told me of anyone else or I read it in a novel, I should call it damned sentimental nonsense. But to the lover himself the sneers of the world outside mean nothing: strong in the reality of his feelings, he is impervious to them. Yet who would admit as much? Not I. I shall go on laughing derisively: I shall never admit that I know these things to be genuine, except perhaps some day to Rose, if ever I show her this diary. But that may never happen, for we may never be anything more than friends. Yes, I must face that possibility. And yet why should I, at present? May not the very belief that failure is possible bring it to pass? Love, it seems, carries with it a blind confidence in its own power. I don’t attract women; I discovered that long ago; but, for all that, I can’t believe that my feelings for Rose will awaken no response in her. It is certain, at least, that she likes me. We got on extraordinarily well this afternoon as soon as the first difficult moments were over. It was thanks to her, not to me, that they were over so soon; for she, of course, was quite self-possessed. Why should she not have been? She had none of my difficulties to fight against, no conflict to appease such as mine between the actual bodily Rose Bentley and that other Rose which belongs to me only. It is hard to keep a hold on reality when one is in the state I am in now, and when she arrived this afternoon and reality faced me, the bathos of our meeting chilled me to the heart. Not that she was less beautiful than I remembered: on the contrary her beauty came to me with the shock of a new and delicious discovery, as though the face in my memory had faded already in these two days from the brightness of the original. No, it was the screen of cold convention, dividing us as soon as we met, that chilled me, the cool friendliness of our actual footing, genuine, no doubt, for her but bewilderingly false for me. It is terrible to have to disguise my feelings all the time I am with her: it sucks all spontaneity out of my behaviour and leaves me a mere performing puppet. But as we become friendlier the necessity to disguise will become less crippling, because there will be at each meeting a little less to disguise, a few more feelings that may be revealed. In fact it is so already. I managed, on the whole, to behave fairly well. How I longed to give her the Still Life which she admired most of all the paintings I showed her—and rightly, too, because it’s certainly the best. But I didn’t. No, that would never have done. It would have embarrassed her and placed us, for her, in an uncomfortably false position; though for me it would have been the only impulse I betrayed while she was here. Yes, I must check my impulses, I must studiously keep our relationship false for me so that it may not become false for her. I must be crafty, diplomatic, calculating, until some unconscious sign from her shows me that I can venture on some small betrayal of myself.

  And yet isn’t this rather a craven and disingenuous scheme? The romantic lover would have presented the picture, declared his love loudly and eloquently, and taken her by storm. It sounds gloriously simple, but I suspect it doesn’t actually work. The romantic lover I suspect, exists only in Romance. On the other hand it is possible, I suppose, to be too careful, too discreet. The fact is, I am so terribly afraid of losing her and sinking back into my old solitude. It is only the rich who can afford to gamble.

  I have just read over what I have written, and, I must say, its querulousness, its sentimentality and its crawling humility disgust me. What a poor worm it makes me appear to myself, and how monstrously it misrepresents my state of mind, I mean my prevailing state of mind. For the sense of frustration, the necessity for disguise, is not continuous; on the contrary, it is a brief incident which occurs only when, as at the moment of meeting her or at some enchanting change in her face or movement of her body, my feelings burst suddenly into a flame that must instantly be quenched. At all other times, whether she is with me or not, I live in a warm glow of happiness that fills mind and soul and every vein and artery of my body. When I joined a group of friends at the Café Royal last night, Edward Dennis, as he shook my hand, stared at my face in amazement. ‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘what’s up? Have you sold a picture?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ I replied.

  ‘Then you’ve come into a fortune.’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of.’

  ‘My Dear Philip,’ he said, ‘you’re lying. You’ve come into a fortune; it’s obvious from your face.’

  Yes, he’s right, I thought to myself gleefully, I have come into a fortune. How secure I felt, how supremely independent of them all, as I drew up a chair and sat down among them; and throughout the evening, as we sat and talked, the lovely secret presence of Rose moved about in my mind as she had moved from piano to sofa, from sofa to door in the Ethertons’ drawing-room on the previous evening; and when closing-time came and they turned us out I left Ted Dennis and the rest without a shadow of regret, for now I was not returning home to face the old demon of loneliness. Rose, the bright vision of Rose was waiting for me there and I was hurrying back to enjoy my secret bliss unmolested.

  And now that she has actually been here and will come again, this flat, two days ago a dismal prison, has become an Elysium wider and freer than infinite space.

  We are to meet again at her flat next Monday. I should not have ventured to suggest another meeting: that, I felt, I must leave to her this time, and when she spoke of going home after she had had tea and seen my pictures the fear came to me that we were going to part without any appointment having been made, that a fortnight, perhaps a month, might pass before I saw her again. That would have been a terrible gap. Could I have lived as long as that, like a bee in winter, on my store of happiness? Then, as she shook hands with me, she set my mind at rest. ‘It’s your turn to come to tea with me next time,’ she said.

  She shares a flat in Woburn Square with a cousin. Would I go next Monday?

  Next Monday. That is four days hence. For four days I shall not see her, and during that time my visionary Rose and I will have grown so intimate, so close to one another, that the relapse into reality, when I meet the real one again, will be painful at first. But how lucky I am to have to wait only four days, how lucky that she should want to see me again so soon. But what about this cousin? Isn’t she going to be rather a nuisance? Perhaps not. Anyhow it might easily have been worse: one cousin is better, at least, than a whole family. If Rose lived in the bosom of a family she would be much more difficult to get at. Perhaps the cousin may even be of some help; she may act as a flux, a solder, to weld us more easily together. She may all unconsciously help to bridge the gulf between the real and the visionary Rose.

  Four days. I shall annihilate them with work. Work has been difficult lately. Everything has gone wrong, as it sometimes does, and I have begun and spoilt drawing after drawing. But during the last two days I have felt the familiar signs, the excitement that means the vague stir of new ideas. I know that things will go well when I begin again to-morrow.

  Four days later. In these four days I have almost finished a new picture, curiously different from my other work and, I believe, much better. I have never before used colour so boldly and so successfully. Only the fact that I was going to see her could have tempted me away from it this afternoon, and only the fact that I have just come from her could keep me away from it now, scribbling in my diary.

  This diary has become very important to me. I began it … how long ago? Six days. Incredible that it is only six days since I met her, that only six days ago I was living that bleak, penurious existence that seems to me now a whole lifetime away. I began it without being conscious of any more reason for doing so than that it should be an outlet for my unexpressed happiness. Such happiness as mine demands the relief of expression: otherwise it would be too intense to bear. I have heard that if a diver comes to
the surface too quickly he becomes insensible; the sudden relaxation of pressure is too great a shock; and to restore him the pressure has to be artificially re-imposed and then relaxed more gradually. So I, by means of the gradual release of writing, free myself painlessly from the press of emotion and slowly become mortal once more.

  But I have another reason for writing, the desire to catch and preserve from extinction all those precious moments when her life touches mine, the inflections of her voice, her words and movements, the subtle changes in her adorable face, all those fugitive, ecstatic instants such as that fleeting and lovely one when she stood, on our first evening, in the doorway of the Ethertons’ drawing-room. I know that not even the greatest master of words could describe them completely, but perhaps by recording what I can of them and their times and circumstances, I shall help my memory to imprison and keep alive what the words themselves can never capture.

  It was disappointing to have only ten minutes alone with her this afternoon, but the presence of Jennifer Barton, Rose’s cousin, by robbing the occasion of its quintessence for me and reducing it to the ordinary social level, certainly helped to widen the common ground of friendship for Rose and me. Do I like Jennifer? I don’t know. She’s one of those cold, matter-of-fact, unadorned women whom it is easy to talk to and difficult to make friends with. Rose seemed a rose indeed, a lovely, intricate, fragrant mystery beside the dried heather of her cousin. Judged by her features alone, Jennifer might be called handsome. She has fine brown eyes behind her spectacles; nose, chin, and lips are beautifully modelled; she has white, regular teeth. Her hair, straight and almost black, is parted in the middle, her face very pale. She is tall and slim; taller than Rose. Yes, as a mask her face would be beautiful, but as a face it is a mask, a mask with nothing behind it. Her expression is as hard as marble; even when she laughs, no warmth comes into it, and her voice too, is hard—hard, clear, direct. She is a surgeon and I am sure she carves open her patients with perfect calm and great efficiency. Obviously she has many good qualities. Certainly she has a quick, practical intelligence, a nice sense of humour, an easy, straight-forward gaiety of manner. She is a refreshing person to meet. She demands nothing of one and gives nothing in return. One almost forgets she is a woman. She’s a good, honest, jolly, vigorous fellow; that’s what she is. When she came into the room, quick and practical, and Rose introduced me to her, her keen brown eyes gave me a rapid, sharp, almost hostile scrutiny as she shook hands. It was as if she were suspicious of this interloper into the household. She has good manners: she never forgot that I was there and that the conversation must always include me.

  ‘You’re an artist, Rose tells me,’ she said as she handed me bread and butter. ‘I must tell you what I think of your pictures one of these days.’

  ‘You like pictures?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she replied; ‘but I don’t go for any special type. What I look for is a particular quality. Ancient, modern, Royal Academy, Cubist, I see pictures I like and dislike in all the camps.’

  ‘And what is the quality you go for?’ I asked.

  ‘Guts!’ she replied with great precision.

  ‘That’s only natural in a surgeon,’ I said, and she threw back her head and gave a loud laugh, showing semi-circles of fine white teeth. Yes, splendid teeth. I noted them with the dispassionate admiration one might give to the teeth of a yawning horse.

  I glanced at Rose and with a thrill of delight I discovered a new Rose, for it was the first time I had seen her laugh. How strange that I should have left her laughter out of all my thoughts and imaginings of her. But I could never have guessed at the enchanting reality, the sudden flowering of her face, the delicious curl of her lips, the merriment sparkling in her dark blue eyes. As her eyes met mine, it seemed to me that the barriers of reticence and conventionality that separated us had been suddenly swept away: we were face to face in a new world, freed of this world’s suppressions. I longed to take her in my arms and cover her laughing face with kisses. She was surprised and delighted, I could see, to discover that I wasn’t, after all, always solemn and intense. In fact, that frivolous remark of mine had put us all three on an easy footing and thence-forward the talk bowled along freely and cheerfully.

  They seem very snug in their pleasant flat. The room in which we were sitting had three long windows reaching to the floor, from which one sees the plane trees of Russell Square. Its colours are bright, cool and spring-like, greens, blues, pinks and pale yellow standing like flowers against a background of grey and black. I longed to ask who had chosen them. But did I need to ask? It was not Jennifer, I’m sure. They have an old servant, Martha, for many years head housemaid in Rose’s country home, a large woman with a noble, ugly face like an Uncle Toby jug. I’m certain that she, as well as Jennifer, is a person to be reckoned with. My feelings towards the pair of them are mixed. In a way I’m glad of their existence, I feel that Rose is very secure with these two watchdogs; but, on the other hand, watchdogs are apt to be unfriendly to strangers. They can be very troublesome if they don’t approve of one. I have begun well with Jennifer, I think. It remains to propitiate Martha. When that fine oblong, earthenware face creases into a smile at my arrival I shall feel safer.

  Two days later. Old Etherton rang me up yesterday and asked me, as he sometimes does, to dine at his club. During dinner he took me by surprise by saying point-blank:

  ‘And so you’ve made friends with our beautiful young pianist, I hear.’

  I could feel myself absurdly blushing. ‘And how did you learn that?’

  ‘On the best possible authority, that of the beautiful pianist herself. She had a lot to say about you. If one is to believe her, Philip, you are a most interesting person.’

  ‘She said so?’

  ‘She implied it. And I gather from your colour that you too feel somewhat strongly about her.’

  ‘I do,’ I replied; ‘terribly strongly.’

  ‘A case, it would appear, of love at first sight.’

  ‘Absolutely. But don’t mention it, even to Mrs. Etherton.’

  ‘I won’t. You may trust me; I am very discreet. But I can be very indiscreet too on occasion, as I will show you by asking you what you propose to do about it?’

  ‘About Rose?’

  ‘Just so. About Rose and this love at first sight.’

  ‘Do you think,’ I asked, ‘that love at first sight should be taken seriously?’

  ‘It depends on what you mean by seriously, my dear boy. In the sense that to be knocked head over heels is a serious matter, you can’t help taking it seriously. But if you mean, ought you to regard it as important, I should say for God’s sake don’t.’

  ‘That’s very chilling. You don’t think, then, that it implies that one has somehow recognized in a flash one’s … one’s …’

  ‘One’s soul-mate, one’s natural affinity? Not a bit of it, my dear fellow. It is merely, I believe, an unexplained but purely mechanical occurrence. Something, we don’t know what, has cocked your rifle. Something else, equally mysterious, causes a young woman accidentally to pull the trigger, and off you go.’

  ‘Well, I must say I think that a very cynical description of a very wonderful experience.’

  ‘Yes, wonderful, isn’t it?’ he said wistfully. ‘Very wonderful. Three times I fell in love at first sight and I remember each occasion to this day with a marvellous vividness. Each was like a revelation, but it was a revelation of nothing but a sudden outburst of emotion.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How do I know?’ He considered the question. ‘Well, in two cases out of the three, I took the trouble to find out.’

  ‘You … you got to know them?’

  ‘Instantly. I was somewhat forthcoming in those days, Philip, and … well, in short, I explained my predicament to the ladies, neither proved obdurate, and after two or three delightful days I was only too glad to say good-bye to each of them. We were unbelievably incompatible.’

  ‘The third might have turned out differently.’