Lover's Leap (3 page)

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.'

‘True, the third might have turned out differently, indeed I think she would, for she was surprisingly unapproachable. But by that time I had grown wiser. You remember the Blake poem: He who bends, or
binds
as the newly discovered and obviously correct reading has it,

He who binds to himself a joy
Doth the winged life destroy.

Love at first sight is the joy that flies and it should be kissed but not detained.'

‘But is there any reason why love at first sight should not develop into something permanent?'

‘O none whatever, but it is devoutly to be hoped that it won't. It's a bad beginning, you see, to a permanent relation. If you are determined to marry a stranger, Philip, it would be much safer to propose to the first woman you meet in the street.'

‘You recommend that?'

‘I do,' said the old man. ‘Not, mind you, as an ideal method, but in preference to the other.'

‘But wouldn't there, don't you think, be a risk of getting someone less attractive than Rose?'

‘A very grave risk, my dear boy; almost a certainty. But at least you would start level with the lady you chanced on.'

‘And I'm not starting level with Rose?'

‘Level? You're starting with a crippling handicap. She's not in love with you yet, Philip: I saw that at once when she spoke of you. That means that she retains all her faculties; she can judge you coolly in accordance with your merits and failings. She likes you, but she's independent of you. But you, my poor Philip, are bound hand and foot; your judgement, your faculties are in abeyance. You think her perfect, you're blind to her faults, and when you discover them you'll assert that they are virtues. Your only desire is to please her. That gives her an immense pull over you: it's unfair not only to you but to her.'

‘In fact you advise me to avoid her?'

‘As you would Prussic acid. Ah, you may smile, but I'm quite serious. The only other advice I can give you is even more difficult. Fall out of love at first sight with her, then make a friend of her, and then, with your eyes open, fall in love with her seriously.'

‘That sounds like a somewhat emotional description of changing the gears.'

Etherton laughed. ‘And that's precisely what it is,' he said.

When I bade him good night he shook his head humorously and sadly. ‘And you won't, of course, take my excellent advice about Rose Bentley?'

‘No,' I replied, ‘I'm afraid I shan't.'

‘No,' he said seriously, ‘you can't. There's no such thing, unhappily, as second-hand wisdom: it has to be acquired by direct experience. If only there were, what misery we should escape. Well, don't give quite all of yourself away. Keep a small balance in a separate account against a rainy day.'

Isn't that like old Etherton? Careful, cynical, self-possessed. One can't imagine him letting himself go.
There's nothing of the romantic about him. In fact he's a classic. He has the Greek poise, the ‘Nothing in excess' of the Greek philosopher. That's why he's such excellent company, so tonic, so astringent.

Three weeks later. For three weeks this diary has lain forgotten in a drawer in my desk. When I came upon it by chance this morning while searching for something else, I felt as if I were looking back three years instead of three weeks. One does not keep a diary unless one is lonely and turned in on oneself, and three weeks ago my life, though full of Rose, was lonely in the intervals when I was not with her, lonely in that I had not the means of unburdening myself of my intense happiness. Indeed I was lonely even when I was with her, because even then I had to close the door of my heart. A load of unexpressed happiness can be almost painful, and to ease myself of it I used this diary. Also I used it, so I find it recorded, as a means of rescuing from oblivion those dazzling moments of revelation when some new facet of her beauty flashed upon me and vanished, as the blue or the rose in a diamond flashes when a woman moves her hand.