Michael

E >> E. F. Benson >> Michael


He took up her hand that lay on the arm of his chair.

"My darling, how can you ask?" he said. "Of course I shall go back to
the army."

For one moment she gave way.

"No, no," she said. "You mustn't do that."

And then suddenly she stopped.

"My dear, I ask your pardon," she said. "Of course you will. I know
that really. It's only this stupid cowardly part of me that--that
interrupted. I am ashamed of it. I'm not as bad as that all through.
I don't make excuses for myself, but, ah, Mike, when I think of what
Germany is to me, and what Hermann is, and when I think what England is
to me, and what you are! It shan't appear again, or if it does, you
will make allowance, won't you? At least I can agree with you utterly,
utterly. It's the flesh that's weak, or, rather, that is so strong. But
I've got it under."

She sat there in silence a little, mopping her eyes.

"How I hate girls who cry!" she said. "It is so dreadfully feeble! Look,
Mike, there are some roses on that tree from which I plucked the one you
didn't think much of. Do you remember? You crushed it up in my hand and
made it bleed."

He smiled.

"I have got some faint recollection of it," he said.

Sylvia had got hold of her courage again.

"Have you?" she asked. "What a wonderful memory. And that quiet evening
out here next day. Perhaps you remember that too. That was real: that
was a possession that we shan't ever part with."

She pointed with her finger.

"You and I sat there, and Hermann there," she said. "And mother
sat--why, there she is. Mother darling, let's have tea out here, shall
we? I will go and tell them."

Mrs. Falbe had drifted out in her usual thistledown style, and shook
hands with Michael.

"What an upset it all is," she said, "with all these dreadful rumours
going about that we shall be at war. I fell asleep, I think, a little
after lunch, when I could not attend to my book for thinking about war."

"Isn't the book interesting?" asked Michael.

"No, not very. It is rather painful. I do not know why people write
about painful things when there are so many pleasant and interesting
things to write about. It seems to me very morbid."

Michael heard something cried in the streets, and at the same moment he
heard Sylvia's step quickly crossing the studio to the side door that
opened on to it. In a minute she returned with a fresh edition of an
evening paper.

"They are preparing to cross the Rhine," she said.

Mrs. Falbe gave a little sigh.

"I don't know, I am sure," she said, "what you are in such a state
about, Sylvia. Of course the Germans want to get into France the easiest
and quickest way, at least I'm sure I should. It is very foolish of
Belgium not to give them leave, as they are so much the strongest."

"Mother darling, you don't understand one syllable about it," said
Sylvia.

"Very likely not, dear, but I am very glad we are an island, and that
nobody can come marching here. But it is all a dreadful upset, Lord--I
mean Michael, what with Hermann in Germany, and the concert tour
abandoned. Still, if everything is quiet again by the middle of October,
as I daresay it will be, it might come off after all. He will be on the
spot, and you and Michael can join him, though I'm not quite sure if
that would be proper. But we might arrange something: he might meet you
at Ostend."

"I'm afraid it doesn't look very likely," remarked Michael mildly.

"Oh, and are you pessimistic too, like Sylvia? Pray don't be
pessimistic. There is a dreadful pessimist in my book, who always thinks
the worst is going to happen."

"And does it?" asked Michael.

"As far as I have got, it does, which makes it all the worse. Of course
I am very anxious about Hermann, but I feel sure he will come back
safe to us. I daresay France will give in when she sees Germany is in
earnest."

Mrs. Falbe pulled the shattered remnants of her mind together. In her
heart of hearts she knew she did not care one atom what might happen to
armies and navies and nations, provided only that she had a quantity
of novels to read, and meals at regular hours. The fact of being on an
island was an immense consolation to her, since it was quite certain
that, whatever happened, German armies (or French or Soudanese, for that
matter) could not march here and enter her sitting-room and take her
books away from her. For years past she had asked nothing more of the
world than that she should be comfortable in it, and it really seemed
not an unreasonable request, considering at how small an outlay of money
all the comfort she wanted could be secured to her. The thought of war
had upset her a good deal already: she had been unable to attend to her
book when she awoke from her after-lunch nap; and now, when she hoped to
have her tea in peace, and find her attention restored by it, she found
the general atmosphere of her two companions vaguely disquieting. She
became a little more loquacious than usual, with the idea of talking
herself back into a tranquil frame of mind, and reassuring to herself
the promise of a peaceful future.

"Such a blessing we have a good fleet," she said. "That will make us
safe, won't it? I declare I almost hate the Germans, though my dear
husband was one himself, for making such a disturbance. The papers all
say it is Germany's fault, so I suppose it must be. The papers
know better than anybody, don't they, because they have foreign
correspondents. That must be a great expense!"

Sylvia felt she could not endure this any longer. It was like having a
raw wound stroked. . . .

"Mother, you don't understand," she said. "You don't appreciate what is
happening. In a day or two England will be at war with Germany."

Mrs. Falbe's book had slipped from her knee. She picked it up and
flapped the cover once or twice to get rid of dust that might have
settled there.

"But what then?" she said. "It is very dreadful, no doubt, to think
of dear Hermann being with the German army, but we are getting used to
that, are we not? Besides, he told me it was his duty to go. I do not
think for a moment that France will be able to stand against Germany.
Germany will be in Paris in no time, and I daresay Hermann's next letter
will be to say that he has been walking down the boulevards. Of course
war is very dreadful, I know that. And then Germany will be at war with
Russia, too, but she will have Austria to help her. And as for Germany
being at war with England, that does not make me nervous. Think of our
fleet, and how safe we feel with that! I see that we have twice as many
boats as the Germans. With two to one we must win, and they won't be
able to send any of their armies here. I feel quite comfortable again
now that I have talked it over."

Sylvia caught Michael's eye for a moment over the tea-urn. She felt he
acquiesced in what she was intending to say.

"That is good, then," she said. "I am glad you feel comfortable about
it, mother dear. Now, will you read your book out here? Why not, if I
fetch you a shawl in case you feel cold?"

Mrs. Falbe turned a questioning eye to the motionless trees and the
unclouded sky.

"I don't think I shall even want a shawl, dear," she said. "Listen, how
the newsboys are calling! is it something fresh, do you think?"

A moment's listening attention was sufficient to make it known that
the news shouted outside was concerned only with the result of a county
cricket match, and Michael, as well as Sylvia, was conscious of a
certain relief to know that at the immediate present there was no fresh
clang of the bell that was beating out the seconds of peace that still
remained. Just for now, for this hour on Saturday afternoon, there was
a respite: no new link was forged in the intolerable sequence of
events. But, even as he drew breath in that knowledge, there came
the counter-stroke in the sense that those whose business it was to
disseminate the news that would cause their papers to sell, had just a
cricket match to advertise their wares. Now, when the country and
when Europe were on the brink of a bloodier war than all the annals of
history contained, they, who presumably knew what the public desired
to be informed on, thought that the news which would sell best was that
concerned with wooden bats and leather balls, and strong young men
in flannels. Michael had heard with a sort of tender incredulity Mrs.
Falbe's optimistic reflections, and had been more than content to let
her rest secure in them; but was the country, the heart of England, like
her? Did it care more for cricket matches, as she for her book, than for
the maintenance of the nation's honour, whatever that championship might
cost? . . . And the cry went on past the garden-walk. "Fine innings by
Horsfield! Result of the Oval match!"

And yet he had just had his tea as usual, and eaten a slice of cake, and
was now smoking a cigarette. It was natural to do that, not to make a
fuss and refuse food and drink, and it was natural that people should
still be interested in cricket. And at the moment his attitude towards
Mrs. Falbe changed. Instead of pity and irritation at her normality, he
was suddenly taken with a sense of gratitude to her. It was restful to
suspense and jangled nerves to see someone who went on as usual. The sun
shone, the leaves of the plane-trees did not wither, Mrs. Falbe read
her book, the evening paper was full of cricket news. . . . And then the
reaction from that seized him again. Supposing all the nation was like
that. Supposing nobody cared. . . . And the tension of suspense strained
more tightly than ever.

For the next forty-eight hours, while day and night the telegraph wires
of Europe tingled with momentous questions and grave replies, while
Ministers and Ambassadors met and parted and met again, rumours
flew this way and that like flocks of wild-fowl driven backwards and
forwards, settling for a moment with a stir and splash, and then with
rush of wings speeding back and on again. A huge coal strike in the
northern counties, fostered and financed by German gold, was supposed to
be imminent, and this would put out of the country's power the ability
to interfere. The Irish Home Rule party, under the same suasion, was
said to have refused to call a truce. A letter had been received in
high quarters from the German Emperor avowing his fixed determination to
preserve peace, and this was honey to Lord Ashbridge. Then in turn each
of these was contradicted. All thought of the coal strike in this crisis
of national affairs was abandoned; the Irish party, as well as the
Conservatives, were of one mind in backing up the Government, no matter
what postponement of questions that were vital a month ago, their
cohesion entailed; the Emperor had written no letter at all. But through
the nebulous mists of hearsay, there fell solid the first drops of the
imminent storm. Even before Michael had left Sylvia that afternoon,
Germany had declared war on Russia, on Sunday Belgium received a Note
from Berlin definitely stating that should their Government not grant
the passage to the German battalions, a way should be forced for them.
On Monday, finally, Germany declared war on France also.

The country held its breath in suspense at what the decision of the
Government, which should be announced that afternoon, should be. One
fact only was publicly known, and that was that the English fleet, only
lately dismissed from its manoeuvres and naval review, had vanished.
There were guard ships, old cruisers and what not, at certain ports,
torpedo-boats roamed the horizons of Deal and Portsmouth, but the great
fleet, the swift forts of sea-power, had gone, disappearing no one knew
where, into the fine weather haze that brooded over the midsummer sea.
There perhaps was an indication of what the decision would be, yet there
was no certainty. At home there was official silence, and from abroad,
apart from the three vital facts, came but the quacking of rumour,
report after report, each contradicting the other.

Then suddenly came certainty, a rainbow set in the intolerable cloud. On
Monday afternoon, when the House of Commons met, all parties were known
to have sunk their private differences and to be agreed on one point
that should take precedence of all other questions. Germany should not,
with England's consent, violate the neutrality of Belgium. As far as
England was concerned, all negotiations were at an end, diplomacy had
said its last word, and Germany was given twenty-four hours in which to
reply. Should a satisfactory answer not be forthcoming, England would
uphold the neutrality she with others had sworn to respect by force
of arms. And at that one immense sigh of relief went up from the whole
country. Whatever now might happen, in whatever horrors of long-drawn
and bloody war the nation might be involved, the nightmare of possible
neutrality, of England's repudiating the debt of honour, was removed.
The one thing worse than war need no longer be dreaded, and for the
moment the future, hideous and heart-rending though it would surely be,
smiled like a land of promise.


Michael woke on the morning of Tuesday, the fourth of August, with the
feeling of something having suddenly roused him, and in a few seconds he
knew that this was so, for the telephone bell in the room next door sent
out another summons. He got straight out of bed and went to it, with a
hundred vague shadows of expectation crossing his mind. Then he learned
that his mother was gravely ill, and that he was wanted at once. And in
less than half an hour he was on his way, driving swiftly through the
serene warmth of the early morning to the private asylum where she had
been removed after her sudden homicidal outburst in March.


CHAPTER XIV


Michael was sitting that same afternoon by his mother's bedside. He
had learned the little there was to be told him on his arrival in the
morning; how that half an hour before he had been summoned, she had had
an attack of heart failure, and since then, after recovering from the
acute and immediate danger, she had lain there all day with closed eyes
in a state of but semi-conscious exhaustion. Once or twice only, and
that but for a moment she had shown signs of increasing vitality, and
then sank back into this stupor again. But in those rare short intervals
she had opened her eyes, and had seemed to see and recognise him, and
Michael thought that once she had smiled at him. But at present she had
spoken no word. All the morning Lord Ashbridge had waited there too, but
since there was no change he had gone away, saying that he would return
again later, and asking to be telephoned for if his wife regained
consciousness. So, but for the nurse and the occasional visits of the
doctor, Michael was alone with his mother.

In this long period of inactive waiting, when there was nothing to be
done, Michael did not seem to himself to be feeling very vividly, and
but for one desire, namely, that before the end his mother would come
back to him, even if only for a moment, his mind felt drugged and
stupefied. Sometimes for a little it would sluggishly turn over thoughts
about his father, wondering with a sort of blunt, remote contempt how it
was possible for him not to be here too; but, except for the one great
longing that his mother should cleave to him once more in conscious
mind, he observed rather than felt. The thought of Sylvia even was dim.
He knew that she was somewhere in the world, but she had become for the
present like some picture painted in his mind, without reality. Dim,
too, was the tension of those last days. Somewhere in Europe was a
country called Germany, where was his best friend, drilling in the ranks
to which he had returned, or perhaps already on his way to bloodier
battlefields than the world had ever dreamed of; and somewhere set in
the seas was Germany's arch-foe, who already stood in her path with open
cannon mouths pointing. But all this had no real connection with him.
From the moment when he had come into this quiet, orderly room and saw
his mother lying on the bed, nothing beyond those four walls really
concerned him.

But though the emotional side of his mind lay drugged and insensitive
to anything outside, he found himself observing the details of the room
where he waited with a curious vividness. There was a big window opening
down to the ground in the manner of a door on to the garden outside,
where a smooth lawn, set with croquet hoops and edged with bright
flower-beds, dozed in the haze of the August heat. Beyond was a row
of tall elms, against which a copper beech glowed metallically, and
somewhere out of sight a mowing-machine was being used, for Michael
heard the click of its cropping journey, growing fainter as it receded,
followed by the pause as it turned, and its gradual crescendo as it
approached again. Otherwise everything outside was strangely silent; as
the hot hours of midday and early afternoon went by there was no note of
bird-music, nor any sound of wind in the elm-tops. Just a little breeze
stirred from time to time, enough to make the slats of the half-drawn
Venetian blind rattle faintly. Earlier in the day there had come in from
the window the smell of dew-damp earth, but now that had been sucked up
by the sun.

Close beside the window, with her back to the light and facing the bed,
which projected from one of the side walls out into the room, sat Lady
Ashbridge's nurse. She was reading, and the rustle of the turned page
was regular; but regular and constant also were her glances towards the
bed where her patient lay. At intervals she put down her book, marking
the place with a slip of paper, and came to watch by the bed for a
moment, looking at Lady Ashbridge's face and listening to her breathing.
Her eye met Michael's always as she did this, and in answer to his
mute question, each time she gave him a little head-shake, or perhaps a
whispered word or two, that told him there was no change. Opposite the
bed was the empty fireplace, and at the foot of it a table, on which
stood a vase of roses. Michael was conscious of the scent of these every
now and then, and at intervals of the faint, rather sickly smell of
ether. A Japan screen, ornamented with storks in gold thread, stood
near the door and half-concealed the washing-stand. There was a chest
of drawers on one side of the fireplace, a wardrobe with a looking-glass
door on the other, a dressing-table to one side of the window, a few
prints on the plain blue walls, and a dark blue drugget carpet on
the floor; and all these ordinary appurtenances of a bedroom etched
themselves into Michael's mind, biting their way into it by the acid of
his own suspense.

Finally there was the bed where his mother lay. The coverlet of blue
silk upon it he knew was somehow familiar to him, and after fitful
gropings in his mind to establish the association, he remembered that it
had been on the bed in her room in Curzon Street, and supposed that it
had been brought here with others of her personal belongings. A little
core of light, focused on one of the brass balls at the head of the bed,
caught his eye, and he saw that the sun, beginning to decline, came in
under the Venetian blind. The nurse, sitting in the window, noticed
this also, and lowered it. The thought of Sylvia crossed his brain for
a moment; then he thought of his father; but every train of reflection
dissolved almost as soon as it was formed, and he came back again and
again to his mother's face.

It was perfectly peaceful and strangely young-looking, as if the cool,
soothing hand of death, which presently would quiet all trouble for
her, had been already at work there erasing the marks that the years had
graven upon it. And yet it was not so much young as ageless; it seemed
to have passed beyond the register and limitations of time. Sometimes
for a moment it was like the face of a stranger, and then suddenly it
would become beloved and familiar again. It was just so she had looked
when she came so timidly into his room one night at Ashbridge, asking
him if it would be troublesome to him if she sat and talked with him for
a little. The mouth was a little parted for her slow, even breathing;
the corners of it smiled; and yet he was not sure if they smiled. It
was hard to tell, for she lay there quite flat, without pillows, and he
looked at her from an unusual angle. Sometimes he felt as if he had been
sitting there watching for uncounted years; and then again the hours
that he had been here appeared to have lasted but for a moment, as if he
had but looked once at her.

As the day declined the breeze of evening awoke, rattling the blind. By
now the sun had swung farther west, and the nurse pulled the blind up.
Outside in the bushes in the garden the call of birds to each other had
begun, and a thrush came close to the window and sang a liquid
phrase, and then repeated it. Michael glanced there and saw the bird,
speckle-breasted, with throat that throbbed with the notes; and then,
looking back to the bed, he saw that his mother's eyes were open.

She looked vaguely about the room for a moment, as if she had awoke from
some deep sleep and found herself in an unfamiliar place. Then, turning
her head slightly, she saw him, and there was no longer any question
as to whether her mouth smiled, for all her face was flooded with deep,
serene joy.

He bent towards her and her lips parted.

"Michael, my dear," she said gently.

Michael heard the rustle of the nurse's dress as she got up and came to
the bedside. He slipped from his chair on to his knees, so that his face
was near his mother's. He felt in his heart that the moment he had so
longed for was to be granted him, that she had come back to him, not
only as he had known her during the weeks that they had lived alone
together, when his presence made her so content, but in a manner
infinitely more real and more embracing.

"Have you been sitting here all the time while I slept, dear?" she
asked. "Have you been waiting for me to come back to you?"

"Yes, and you have come," he said.

She looked at him, and the mother-love, which before had been veiled and
clouded, came out with all the tender radiance of evening sun, with the
clear shining after rain.

"I knew you wouldn't fail me, my darling," she said. "You were so
patient with me in the trouble I have been through. It was a nightmare,
but it has gone."

Michael bent forward and kissed her.

"Yes, mother," he said, "it has all gone."

She was silent a moment.

"Is your father here?" she said.

"No; but he will come at once, if you would like to see him."

"Yes, send for him, dear, if it would not vex him to come," she said;
"or get somebody else to send; I don't want you to leave me."

"I'm not going to," said he.

The nurse went to the door, gave some message, and presently returned to
the other side of the bed. Then Lady Ashbridge spoke again.

"Is this death?" she asked.

Michael raised his eyes to the figure standing by the bed. She nodded to
him.

He bent forward again.

"Yes, dear mother," he said.

For a moment her eyes dilated, then grew quiet again, and the smile
returned to her mouth.

"I'm not frightened, Michael," she said, "with you there. It isn't
lonely or terrible."

She raised her head.

"My son!" she said in a voice loud and triumphant. Then her head fell
back again, and she lay with face close to his, and her eyelids quivered
and shut. Her breath came slow and regular, as if she slept. Then he
heard that she missed a breath, and soon after another. Then, without
struggle at all, her breathing ceased. . . . And outside on the lawn
close by the open window the thrush still sang.


It was an hour later when Michael left, having waited for his father's
arrival, and drove to town through the clear, falling dusk. He was
conscious of no feeling of grief at all, only of a complete pervading
happiness. He could not have imagined so perfect a close, nor could he
have desired anything different from that imperishable moment when his
mother, all trouble past, had come back to him in the serene calm of
love. . . .

As he entered London he saw the newsboards all placarded with one fact:
England had declared war on Germany.


He went, not to his own flat, but straight to Maidstone Crescent. With
those few minutes in which his mother had known him, the stupor that had
beset his emotions all day passed off, and he felt himself longing, as
he had never longed before, for Sylvia's presence. Long ago he had given
her all that he knew of as himself; now there was a fresh gift. He had
to give her all that those moments had taught him. Even as already they
were knitted into him, made part of him, so must they be to her. . . .
And when they had shared that, when, like water gushing from a spring
she flooded him, there was that other news which he had seen on the
newsboards that they had to share together.

Sylvia had been alone all day with her mother; but, before Michael
arrived, Mrs. Falbe (after a few more encouraging remarks about war in
general, to the effect that Germany would soon beat France, and what a
blessing it was that England was an island) had taken her book up to her
room, and Sylvia was sitting alone in the deep dusk of the evening. She
did not even trouble to turn on the light, for she felt unable to apply
herself to any practical task, and she could think and take hold of
herself better in the dark. All day she had longed for Michael to come
to her, though she had not cared to see anybody else, and several times
she had rung him up, only to find that he was still out, supposedly
with his mother, for he had been summoned to her early that morning, and
since then no news had come of him. Just before dinner had arrived the
announcement of the declaration of war, and Sylvia sat now trying to
find some escape from the encompassing nightmare. She felt confused
and distracted with it; she could not think consecutively, but
only contemplate shudderingly the series of pictures that presented
themselves to her mind. Somewhere now, in the hosts of the Fatherland,
which was hers also, was Hermann, the brother who was part of herself.
When she thought of him, she seemed to be with him, to see the glint
of his rifle, to feel her heart on his heart, big with passionate
patriotism. She had no doubt that patriotism formed the essence of his
consciousness, and yet by now probably he knew that the land beloved by
him, where he had made his home, was at war with his own. She could not
but know how often his thoughts dwelled here in the dark quiet studio
where she sat, and where so many days of happiness had been passed. She
knew what she was to him, she and her mother and Michael, and the hosts
of friends in this land which had become his foe. Would he have gone,
she asked herself, if he had guessed that there would be war between the
two? She thought he would, though she knew that for herself she would
have made it as hard as possible for him to do so. She would have used
every argument she could think of to dissuade him, and yet she felt that
her entreaties would have beaten in vain against the granite of his and
her nationality. Dimly she had foreseen this contingency when, a few
days ago, she had asked Michael what he would do if England went to war,
and now that contingency was realised, and Hermann was even now perhaps
on his way to violate the neutrality of the country for the sake of
which England had gone to war. On the other side was Michael, into whose
keeping she had given herself and her love, and on which side was she?
It was then that the nightmare came close to her; she could not tell,
she was utterly unable to decide. Her heart was Michael's; her heart
was her brother's also. The one personified Germany for her, the other
England. It was as if she saw Hermann and Michael with bayonet and rifle
stalking each other across some land of sand-dunes and hollows, creeping
closer to each other, always closer. She felt as if she would have
gladly given herself over to an eternity of torment, if only they could
have had one hour more, all three of them, together here, as on that
night of stars and peace when first there came the news which for the
moment had disquieted Hermann.