The Agonies of Aylmer
In the fresh cheerfulness of the early morning, after sleep, with the
hot June sun shining in at the window, Aylmer used to think he was
better. He would read his letters and papers, dress slowly, look out of
the window at the crowds on the pavement--he had come back to
Paris--feel the infectious cheeriness and sense of adventure of the
city; then he would say to himself that his trip had been successful.
He _was_ better. When he went out his heart began to sink a little
already, but he fought it off; there would be a glimpse of an English
face flashing past in a carriage--he thought of Edith, but he put it
aside. Then came lunch. For some reason, immediately after lunch his
malady--for, of course, such love is a malady--incongruously attacked
him in an acute form. 'Why after lunch?' he asked himself. Could it be
that only when he was absolutely rested, before he had had any sort of
fatigue, that the deceptive improvement would show itself? He felt a
wondering humiliation at his own narrow grief.
However, this was the hour that it recurred; he didn't know why. He had
tried all sorts of physical cures--for there is no disguising the fact
that such suffering is physical, and so why should the cure not be,
also? He had tried wine, no wine, exercise, distraction,
everything--and especially a constant change of scene. This last was
the worst of all. He felt so exiled in Sicily, and in Spain--so
terribly far away--it was unbearable. He was happier directly he got
to Paris, because he seemed more in touch with England and her. Yes;
the pain had begun again....
Aylmer went and sat alone outside the café. It was not his nature to
dwell on his own sensations. He would diagnose them quickly and
acutely, and then throw them aside. He was quickly bored with himself;
he was no egotist. But today, he thought, he _would_ analyse his state,
to see what could be done.
Six weeks! He had not seen her for six weeks. The longing was no
better. The pain seemed to begin at his throat, pressing down gradually
on the chest It was that feeling of oppression, he supposed, that makes
one sigh; as though there were a weight on the heart. And certain
little memories made it acute; sudden flashing vivid recollection of
that last drive was like a sharp jagged tear. Had they ever been on
nearer terms, and had she treated him badly, it would not have caused
this slow and insidious suffering. He was a man of spirit; he was proud
and energetic; he would have thrown it off. If he could have been angry
with her, or despised her, he could have cured himself in time. Instead
of that, all the recollections were of an almost sickening sweetness;
particularly that kiss on the day he went to see her. And the other,
the _second_, was also the last; so it had a greater bitterness.
'Rapture sharper than a sword,
Joy like o sudden spear.'
These words, casually read somewhere, came back to him whenever he
remembered her!
Aylmer had read, heard of these obsessions, but never believed in them.
It was folly, madness!
He stood up, tossing his head as though to throw it off.
He went to fetch some friends, went with them to see pictures, to have
tea, and to drive in the Bois, accepting also an invitation to dine
with a man--a nice boy--a fellow who had been at Oxford with him, and
was at the embassy here, a young attaché.
He was quite nice: a little dull, and a little too fond of talking
about his chief.
Aylmer got home at about half-past six to dress for dinner. Then the
torture began again. It was always worse towards evening--an agony of
longing, regret, fury, vague jealousy and desire.
He stood and looked out of the window again at the crowd, hurrying
along now to their pleasures or their happy homes. So many people in
the world, like stars in the sky--why want the one star only? Why cry
for the moon?
He had no photograph of her, but he still thought she was like his
mother's miniature, and often looked at it. He wished he wasn't going
to dine with that young man tonight. Aylmer was the most genial and
sociable of men; he usually disliked being alone; yet just now being
with people bored him; it seemed an interruption. He was going through
a crisis.
Yes; he could not stand anyone this evening. He rang the bell and sent
a _petit bleu_ to say he was prevented from dining with his friend.
What a relief when he had sent this--now he could think of her alone
in peace....
She had never asked him to go away. It was his own idea. He had come
away to get over it. Well, he hadn't got over it. He was worse. But it
wasn't because he didn't see her; no, he didn't deceive himself. The
more he saw of her the worse he would be. Not one man in a thousand was
capable of feeling so intensely and deeply as Aylmer felt, and never in
his life before had he felt anything like it. And now it came on again
with the ebb and flow of passion, like an illness. Why was he so
miserable--why would nothing else do? He suddenly remembered with a
smile that when he was five years old he had adored a certain nurse,
and for some reason or other his mother sent her away. He had cried and
cried for her to come back. He remembered even now how people had said:
'Oh, the child will soon forget.' But he wore out their patience; he
cried himself to sleep every night. And his perseverance had at last
been rewarded. After six weeks the nurse came back. His mother sent for
her in despair at the boy's misery. How well he remembered that evening
and her plain brown face, with the twinkling eyes. How he kissed his
mother, and thanked her! The nurse stayed till he went to school and
then he soon forgot all about her. Perhaps it was in his nature at rare
intervals to want one particular person so terribly, to pine and die
for someone!
That was a recollection of babyhood, and yet he remembered even now
that obstinate, aching longing.... He suddenly felt angry, furious.
What was Edith doing now? Saying good-night to Archie and Dilly? They
certainly did look, as she had said, heavenly angels in their night
attire (he had been privileged to see them). Then she was dressing for
dinner and going out with Bruce. Good heavens! what noble action had
Bruce ever done for _him_ that he should go away? Why make such a
sacrifice--for Bruce?
Perhaps, sometimes, she really missed him a little. They had had great
fun together; she looked upon him as a friend; not only that, but he
knew that he amused her, that she liked him, thought him clever,
and--admired him even.
But that was all. Yet she _could_ have cared for him. He knew that. And
not only in one way, but in every way. They could have been comrades
interested in the same things; they had the same sense of humour, much
the same point of view. She would have made him, probably,
self-restrained and patient as she was, in certain things. But, in
others, wouldn't he have fired her with his own ideas and feelings, and
violent passions and enthusiasms!
She was to be always with Bruce! That was to be her life!--Bruce, who
was almost indescribable because he was neither bad, nor stupid, nor
bad-looking. He had only one fault. _'Il n'a qu'un défaut--il est
impossible,'_ said Aylmer aloud to himself.
He took up a book--of course one of _her_ books, something she had lent
him.
* * * * *
Now it was time to go out again--to dinner. He couldn't; it was too
much effort. Tonight he would give way, and suffer grief and desire and
longing like a physical pain. He hadn't heard from her lately. Suppose
she should be ill? Suppose she was forgetting him entirely? Soon they
would be going away to some summer place with the children. He stamped
his foot like an angry child as he imagined her in her thin summer
clothes. How people would admire her! How young she would look! Why
couldn't he find some fault with her?--imagine her cold, priggish,
dull, too cautious. But he could only think of her as lovely, as beyond
expression attractive, drawing him like a magnet, as marvellously kind,
gentle, graceful, and clever. He was obliged to use the stupid word
clever, as there was no other. He suddenly remembered her teeth when
she smiled, and a certain slight wave in her thick hair that was a
natural one. It is really barely decent to write about poor Aylmer as
he is alone, suffering, thinking himself unwatched. He suddenly threw
himself on his bed and gave way to a crisis of despair.
* * * * *
About an hour later, when the pain had somehow become stupefied, he lit
a cigarette, ashamed of his emotion even to himself, and rang. The
servant brought him a letter--the English post.
He had thought so much of her, felt her so deeply the last few days
that he fancied it must somehow have reached her. He read:
'My Dear Aylmer,
'I'm glad you are in Paris; it seems nearer home. Last night I went to
the Mitchells' and Mr Mitchell disguised himself as a Russian Count.
Nobody worried about it, and then he went and undisguised himself
again. But Lady Hartland worried about it, and as she didn't know the
Mitchells before, when he was introduced to her properly she begged him
to give her the address of that charming Russian. And Vincy was there,
and darling Vincy told me you'd written him a letter saying you weren't
so very happy. And oh, Aylmer, I don't see the point of your waiting
till September to come back. Why don't you come _now_?
'We're going away for Archie's holidays. Come back and see us and take
Freddie with us somewhere in England. You told me to ask you when I
wanted you--ask you anything I wanted. Well, I want to see you. I miss
you too much. You arrived in Paris last night. Let me knew when you can
come. I want you.
Edith.'
The bell was rung violently. Orders were given, arrangements made,
packing was done. Aylmer was suddenly quite well, quite happy.
In a few hours he was in the midnight express due to arrive in London
at six in the morning--happy beyond expression.
By ten o'clock in the morning he would hear her voice on the telephone.
He met a poor man just outside the hotel selling matches, in rags.
Aylmer gave him three hundred francs. He pretended to himself that he
didn't want any more French money. He felt he wanted someone else to be
happy too.