Coup de Foudre
When Aylmer Ross got back to the little brown house in Jermyn Street he
went to his library, and took from a certain drawer an ivory miniature
framed in black. He looked at it for some time. It had a sweet,
old-fashioned face, with a very high forehead, blue eyes, and dark hair
arranged in two festoons of plaits, turned up at the sides. It
represented his mother in the early sixties and he thought it was like
Edith. He had a great devotion and cult for the memory of his mother.
When he was charmed with a woman he always imagined her to be like his
mother.
He had never thought this about his wife People had said how
extraordinarily Aylmer must have been in love to have married that
uninteresting girl, no-one in particular, not pretty and a little
second-rate. As a matter of fact the marriage had happened entirely by
accident. It had occurred through a misunderstanding during a game of
consequences in a country house. She was terribly literal. Having taken
some joke of his seriously, she had sent him a touchingly coy letter
saying she was overwhelmed at his offer (feeling she was hardly worthy
to be his wife) and must think it over. He did not like to hurt her
feelings by explaining, and when she relented and accepted him he
couldn't bear to tell her the truth. He was absurdly tender-hearted,
and he thought that, after all, it didn't matter so very much. The
little house left him by his mother needed a mistress; he would
probably marry somebody or other, anyhow; and she seemed such a
harmless little thing. It would please her so much! When the hurried
marriage had come to a pathetic end by her early death everyone was
tragic about it except Aylmer. All his friends declared he was
heart-broken and lonely and would never marry again. He had indeed been
shocked and grieved at her death, but only for her--not at being left
alone. That part, was a relief. The poor little late Mrs Aylmer Ross
had turned out a terrible mistake. She had said the wrong thing from
morning till night, and, combining a prim, refined manner with a vulgar
point of view, had been in every way dreadfully impossible. He had
really been patience and unselfishness itself to her, but he had
suffered. The fact was, he had never even liked her. That was the
reason he had not married again.
But he was devoted to his boy in a quiet way. He was the sort of man
who is adored by children, animals, servants and women. Tall, strong
and handsome, with intelligence beyond the average, yet with nothing
alarming about him, good-humoured about trifles, jealous in matters of
love--perhaps that is, after all, the type women really like best. It
is sheer nonsense to say that women enjoy being tyrannised over. No
doubt there are some who would rather be bullied than ignored. But the
hectoring man is, with few exceptions, secretly detested. In so far as
one can generalise (always a dangerous thing to do) it may be said that
women like best a kind, clever man who can be always trusted; and
occasionally (if necessary) deceived.
Aylmer hardly ever got angry except in an argument about ideas. Yet his
feelings were violent; he was impulsive, and under his suave and
easy-going manner emotional. He was certainly good-looking, but had he
not been he would have pleased all the same. He seemed to radiate
warmth, life, a certain careless good-humour. To be near him was like
warming one's hands at a warm fire. Superficially susceptible and
inclined to be experimental he had not the instinct of the collector
and was devoid of fatuousness. But he could have had more genuine
successes than all the Don Juans and Romeos and Fausts who ever climbed
rope ladders. Besides his physical attraction he inspired a feeling of
reliance. Women felt safe with him; he would never treat anyone badly.
He inspired that kind of trust enormously in men also, and his house
was constantly filled with people asking his advice and begging him to
do things--sometimes not very easy ones. He was always being left
guardian to young persons who would never require one, and said himself
he had become almost a professional trustee.
As Aylmer was generous and very extravagant in a way of his own (though
he cared nothing for show), he really worked hard at the bar to add to
his already large income. He always wanted a great deal of money. He
required ease, margin and elbow-room. He had no special hobbies, but he
needed luxury in general of a kind, and especially the luxury of
getting things in a hurry, his theory being that everything comes to
the man who won't wait. He was not above detesting little material
hardships. He was not the sort of man, for instance, even in his
youngest days, who would go by omnibus to the gallery to the opera, to
hear a favourite singer or a special performance; not that he had the
faintest tinge of snobbishness, but simply because such trifling
drawbacks irritated him, and spoilt his pleasure.
Impressionistic as he was in life, on the other hand, curiously,
Aylmer's real taste in art and decoration was Pre-Raphaelite;
delicate, detailed and meticulous almost to preciousness. He often had
delightful things in his house, but never for long. He had no pleasure
in property; valuable possessions worried him, and after any amount of
trouble to get some object of art he would often give it away the next
week. For he really liked money only for freedom and ease. The general
look of the house was, consequently, distinguished, sincere and
extremely comfortable. It was neither hackneyed nor bizarre, and, while
it contained some interesting things, had no superfluities.
Aylmer had been spoilt as a boy and was still wilful and a little
impatient. For instance he could never wait even for a boy-messenger,
but always sent his notes by taxi to wait for an answer. And now he
wanted something in a hurry, and was very much afraid he would never
get it.
Aylmer was, as I have said, often a little susceptible. This time he
felt completely bowled over. He had only seen her twice. That made no
difference.
The truth was--it sounds romantic, but is really scientific, all
romance being, perhaps, based on science--that Edith's appearance
corresponded in every particular with an ideal that had grown up with
him. Whether he had seen some picture as a child that had left a vague
and lasting impression, or whatever the reason was, the moment he saw
her he felt, with a curious mental sensation, as of something that fell
into its place with a click ('Ça y est!'), that she realised some
half-forgotten dream. In fact, it was a rare and genuine case of _coup
de foudre_. Had she been a girl he would have proposed to her the next
day, and they might quite possibly have married in a month, and lived
happily ever after. These things occasionally happen. But she was
married already.
Had she been a fool, or a bore, a silly little idiot or a fisher of
men, a social sham who prattled of duchesses or a strenuous feminine
politician who babbled of votes; a Christian Scientist bent on
converting, an adventuress without adventures (the worst kind), a
mind-healer or a body-snatcher, a hockey-player or even a lady
novelist, it would have been exactly the same; whatever she had been,
mentally or morally, he would undoubtedly have fallen in love with her
physically, at first sight. But it was very much worse than that. He
found her delightful, and clever; he was certain she was an angel. She
was married to Ottley. Ottley was all right.... Rather an ass ...
rather ridiculous; apparently in every way but one.
* * * * *
So absurdly hard hit was Aylmer that it seemed to him as if to see her
again as soon as possible was already the sole object in his life. Did
she like him? Intuitively he felt that during his little visit his
intense feeling had radiated, and not displeased--perhaps a little
impressed--her. He could easily, he knew, form a friendship with them;
arrange to see her often. He was going to meet her tonight, through his
own arrangement. He would get them to come and dine with him soon--no,
the next day.
What was the good?
Well, where was the harm?
Aylmer had about the same code of morals as the best of his numerous
friends in Bohemia, in clubland and in social London. He was no more
scrupulous on most subjects than the ordinary man of his own class.
Still, _he had been married himself_. That made an immense difference,
for he was positively capable of seeing (and with sympathy) from the
husband's point of view. Even now, indifferent as he had been to his
own wife, and after ten years, it would have caused him pain and fury
had he found out that she had ever tried to play him false. Of course,
cases varied. He knew that if Edith had been free his one thought would
have been to marry her. Had she been different, and differently placed,
he would have blindly tried for anything he could get, in any possible
way. But, as she was?... He felt convinced he could never succeed in
making her care for him; there was not the slightest chance of it. And,
supposing even that he could? And here came in the delicacy and scruple
of the man who had been married himself. He thought he wouldn't even
wish to spoil, by the vulgarity of compromising, or by the shadow of a
secret, the serenity of her face, the gay prettiness of that life. No,
he wouldn't if he could. And yet how exciting it would be to rouse her
from that cool composure. She was rather enigmatic. But he thought she
could be roused. And she was so clever. How well she would carry it
off! How she would never bore a man! And he suddenly imagined a day
with her in the country.... Then he thought that his imagination was
flying on far too fast. He decided not to be a hopeless fool, but just
to go ahead, and talk to her, and get to know her; not to think too
much about her. She needn't even know how he felt. To idolise her from
a distance would be quite delightful enough. When a passion is not
realised, he thought, it fades away, or becomes ideal worship
--Dante--Petrarch--that sort of thing! It could never fade away
in this case, he was sure. How pretty she was, how lovely her mouth was
when she smiled! She had no prejudices, apparently; no affectations;
how she played and sang that song again when he asked her! With what a
delightful sense of humour she had dealt with him, and also with Bruce,
at the Mitchells. Ottley must be a little difficult sometimes. She had
read and thought; she had the same tastes as he. He wondered if she
would have liked that thing in _The Academy_, on Gardens, that he had
just read. He began looking for it. He thought he would send it to her,
asking her opinion; then he would get an answer, and see her
handwriting. You don't know a woman until you have had a letter from
her.
But no--what a fool he would look! Besides he was going to see her
tonight. It was about time to get ready.... Knowing subconsciously that
he had made some slight favourable impression--at any rate that he
hadn't repelled or bored her--he dressed with all the anxiety, joy and
thrills of excitement of a boy of twenty; and no boy of twenty can ever
feel these things as keenly or half as elaborately as a man nearly
twice that age, since all the added experiences, disillusions,
practice, knowledge and life of the additional years help to form a
part of the same emotion, making it infinitely deeper, and all the
stronger because so much more _averti_ and conscious of itself.
He seemed so nervous while dressing that Soames, the valet, to whom he
was a hero, ventured respectfully to hope there was nothing wrong.
'No. I'm all right,' said Aylmer. 'I'm never ill. I think, Soames, I
shall probably die of middle age.'
He went out laughing, leaving the valet smiling coldly out of
politeness.
* * * * *
Soames never understood any kind of jest. He took himself and everyone
else seriously. But he already knew perfectly well that his master had
fallen in love last night, and he disapproved very strongly. He thought
all that sort of thing ought to be put a stop to.