Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “Miss Sylvia Falbe, Aunt Barbara,” said Michael with a little tremor in his voice; “and Mr. Hermann Falbe, Lady Barbara Jerome,” he added, rather as if he expected nobody to believe it.

  Aunt Barbara made the best of it: shook hands in her jolly manner, and burst into laughter.

  “Michael, I could slay you,” she said; “but before I do that I must tell your friends all about it. This horrible nephew of mine, Miss Falbe, promised me two weird musicians, and I expected — I really can’t tell you what I expected — but there were to be spectacles and velveteen coats and the general air of an afternoon concert at Clapham Junction. But it is nice to be made such a fool of. I feel precisely like an elderly and sour governess who has been ordered to come down to dinner so that there shan’t be thirteen. Give me your arm, Mr. Falbe, and take me in to dinner at once, where I may drown my embarrassment in soup. Or does Michael go in first? Go on, wretch!”

  Presently they were seated at dinner, and Aunt Barbara could not help enlarging a little on her own discomfiture.

  “It is all your fault, Michael,” she said. “You have been in London all these weeks without letting me know anything about you or your friends, or what you were doing; so naturally I supposed you were leading some obscure kind of existence. Instead of which I find this sort of thing. My dear, what good soup! I shall see if I can’t induce your cook to leave you. But bachelors always have the best of everything. Now tell me about your visit to Germany. Which was the point where we parted — Baireuth, wasn’t it? I would not go to Baireuth with anybody!”

  “I went with Mr. Falbe,” said Michael.

  “Ah, Mr. Falbe has not asked me yet. I may have to revise what I say,” said Aunt Barbara daringly.

  “I didn’t ask Michael,” said Hermann. “I got into his carriage as the train was moving; and my luggage was left behind.”

  “I was left behind,” said Sylvia, “which was worse. But I sent Hermann’s luggage.”

  “So expeditiously that it arrived the day before we left for Munich,” remarked Hermann.

  “And that’s all the gratitude I get. But in the interval you lived upon Lord Comber.”

  “I do still in the money I earn by giving him music lessons. Mike, have you finished the Variations yet?”

  “Variations — what are Variations?” asked Aunt Barbara.

  “Yes, two days ago. Variations are all the things you think about on the piano, Aunt Barbara, when you are playing a tune made by somebody else.”

  “Should I like them? Will Mr. Falbe play them to me?” asked she.

  “I daresay he will if he can. But I thought you loathed music.”

  “It certainly depends on who makes it,” said Aunt Barbara. “I don’t like ordinary music, because the person who made it doesn’t matter to me. But if, so to speak, it sounds like somebody I know, it is a different matter.”

  Michael turned to Sylvia.

  “I want to ask your leave for something I have already done,” he said.

  “And if I don’t give it you?”

  “Then I shan’t tell you what it is.”

  Sylvia looked at him with her candid friendly eyes. Her brother always told her that she never looked at anybody except her friends; if she was engaged in conversation with a man she did not like, she looked at his shirt-stud or at a point slightly above his head.

  “Then, of course, I give in,” she said. “I must give you leave if otherwise I shan’t know what you have done. But it’s a mean trick. Tell me at once.”

  “I’ve dedicated the Variations to you,” he said.

  Sylvia flushed with pleasure.

  “Oh, but that’s absolutely darling of you,” she said. “Have you, really? Do you mean it?”

  “If you’ll allow me.”

  “Allow you? Hermann, the Variations are mine. Isn’t it too lovely?”

  It was at this moment that Aunt Barbara happened to glance at Michael, and it suddenly struck her that it was a perfectly new Michael whom she looked at. She knew and was secretly amused at the fiasco that always attended the introduction of amiable young ladies to Ashbridge, and had warned her sister-in-law that Michael, when he chose the girl he wanted, would certainly do it on his own initiative. Now she felt sure that Michael, though he might not be aware of it himself, was, even if he had not chosen, beginning to choose. There was that in his eyes which none of the importations to Ashbridge had ever seen there, that eager deferential attention, which shows that a young man is interested because it is a girl he is talking to. That, she knew, had never been characteristic of Michael; indeed, it would not have been far from the truth to say that the fact that he was talking to a girl was sufficient to make his countenance wear an expression of polite boredom. Then for a while, as dinner progressed, she doubted the validity of her conclusion, for the Michael who was entertaining her to-night was wholly different from the Michael she had known and liked and pitied. She felt that she did not know this new one yet, but she was certain that she liked him, and equally sure that she did not pity him at all. He had found his place, he had found his work; he evidently fitted into his life, which, after all, is the surest ground of happiness, and it might be that it was only general joy, so to speak, that kindled that pleasant fire in his face. And then once more she went back to her first conclusion, for talking to Michael herself she saw, as a woman so infallibly sees, that he gave her but the most superficial attention — sufficient, indeed, to allow him to answer intelligently and laugh at the proper places, but his mind was not in the least occupied with her. If Sylvia moved his glance flickered across in her direction: it was she who gave him his alertness. Aunt Barbara felt that she could have told him truthfully that he was in love with her, and she rather thought that it would be news to him; probably he did not know it yet himself. And she wondered what his father would say when he knew it.

  “And then Munich,” she said, violently recalling Michael’s attention towards her. “Munich I could have borne better than Baireuth, and when Mr. Falbe asks me there I shall probably go. Your Uncle Tony was in Germany then, by the way; he went over at the invitation of the Emperor to the manoeuvres.”

  “Did he? The Emperor came to Munich for a day during them. He was at the opera,” said Michael.

  “You didn’t speak to him, I suppose?” she asked.

  “Yes; he sent for me, and talked a lot. In fact, he talked too much, because I didn’t hear a note of the second act.”

  Aunt Barbara became infinitely more interested.

  “Tell me all about it, Michael,” she said. “What did he talk about?”

  “Everything, as far as I can remember, England, Ashbridge, armies, navies, music. Hermann says he cast pearls before swine—”

  “And his tone, his attitude?” she asked.

  “Towards us? — towards England? Immensely friendly, and most inquisitive. I was never asked so many questions in so short a time.”

  Aunt Barbara suddenly turned to Falbe.

  “And you?” she asked. “Were you with Michael?”

  “No, Lady Barbara. I had no pearls.”

  “And are you naturalised English?” she asked.

  “No; I am German.”

  She slid swiftly off the topic.

  “Do you wonder I ask, with your talking English so perfectly?” she said. “You should hear me talking French when we are entertaining Ambassadors and that sort of persons. I talk it so fast that nobody can understand a word I say. That is a defensive measure, you must observe, because even if I talked it quite slowly they would understand just as little. But they think it is the pace that stupefies them, and they leave me in a curious, dazed condition. And now Miss Falbe and I are going to leave you two. Be rather a long time, dear Michael, so that Mr. Falbe can tell you what he thinks of me, and his sister shall tell me what she thinks of you. Afterwards you and I will tell each other, if it is not too fearful.”

  This did not express quite accurately Lady Barbara’s intentions, for she chiefly wanted to
find out what she thought of Sylvia.

  “And you are great friends, you three?” she said as they settled themselves for the prolonged absence of the two men.

  Sylvia smiled; she smiled, Aunt Barbara noticed, almost entirely with her eyes, using her mouth only when it came to laughing; but her eyes smiled quite charmingly.

  “That’s always rather a rash thing to pronounce on,” she said. “I can tell you for certain that Hermann and I are both very fond of him, but it is presumptuous for us to say that he is equally devoted to us.”

  “My dear, there is no call for modesty about it,” said Barbara. “Between you — for I imagine it is you who have done it — between you you have made a perfectly different creature of the boy. You’ve made him flower.”

  Sylvia became quite grave.

  “Oh, I do hope he likes us,” she said. “He is so likable himself.”

  Barbara nodded

  “And you’ve had the good sense to find that out,” she said. “It’s astonishing how few people knew it. But then, as I said, Michael hadn’t flowered. No one understood him, or was interested. Then he suddenly made up his mind last summer what he wanted to do and be, and immediately did and was it.”

  “I think he told Hermann,” said she. “His father didn’t approve, did he?”

  “Approve? My dear, if you knew my brother you would know that the only things he approves of are those which Michael isn’t.”

  Sylvia spread her fine hands out to the blaze, warming them and shading her face.

  “Michael always seems to us—” she began. “Ah, I called him Michael by mistake.”

  “Then do it on purpose next time,” remarked Barbara. “What does Michael seem?”

  “Ah, but don’t let him know I called him Michael,” said Sylvia in some horror. “There is nothing so awful as to speak of people formally to their faces, and intimately behind their backs. But Hermann is always talking of him as Michael.”

  “And Michael always seems—”

  “Oh, yes; he always seems to me to have been part of us, of Hermann and me, for years. He’s THERE, if you know what I mean, and so few people are there. They walk about your life, and go in and out, so to speak, but Michael stops. I suppose it’s because he is so natural.”

  Aunt Barbara had been a diplomatist long before her husband, and fearful of appearing inquisitive about Sylvia’s impression of Michael, which she really wanted to inquire into, instantly changed the subject.

  “Ah, everybody who has got definite things to do is natural,” she said. “It is only the idle people who have leisure to look at themselves in the glass and pose. And I feel sure that you have definite things to do and plenty of them, my dear. What are they?”

  “Oh, I sing a little,” said Sylvia.

  “That is the first unnatural thing you have said. I somehow feel that you sing a great deal.”

  Aunt Barbara suddenly got up.

  “My dear, you are not THE Miss Falbe, are you, who drove London crazy with delight last summer. Don’t tell me you are THE Miss Falbe?”

  Sylvia laughed.

  “Do you know, I’m afraid I must be,” she said. “Isn’t it dreadful to have to say that after your description?”

  Aunt Barbara sat down again, in a sort of calm despair.

  “If there are any more shocks coming for me to-night,” she said, “I think I had better go home. I have encountered a perfectly new nephew Michael. I have dressed myself like a suburban housekeeper to meet a Poiret, so don’t deny it, and having humourously told Michael I wished to see a prima donna and a pianist, he takes me at my word and produces THE Miss Falbe. I’m glad I knew that in time; I should infallibly have asked you to sing, and if you had done so — you are probably good-natured enough to have done even that — I should have given the drawing-room gasp at the end, and told your brother that I thought you sang very prettily.”

  Sylvia laughed.

  “But really it wasn’t my fault, Lady Barbara,” she said. “When we met I couldn’t have said, ‘Beware! I am THE Miss Falbe.’”

  “No, my dear; but I think you ought, somehow, to have conveyed the impression that you were a tremendous swell. You didn’t. I have been thinking of you as a charming girl, and nothing more.”

  “But that’s quite good enough for me,” said Sylvia.

  The two young men joined them after this, and Hermann speedily became engrossed in reading the finished Variations. Some of these pleased him mightily; one he altogether demurred to.

  “It’s just a crib, Mike,” he said. “The critics would say I had forgotten it, and put in instead what I could remember of a variation out of the Handel theme. That next one’s, oh, great fun. But I wish you would remember that we all haven’t got great orang-outang paws like you.”

  Aunt Barbara stopped in the middle of her sentence; she knew Michael’s old sensitiveness about these physical disabilities, and she had a moment’s cold horror at the thought of Falbe having said so miserably tactless a thing to him. But the horror was of infinitesimal duration, for she heard Michael’s laugh as they leaned over the top of the piano together.

  “I wish you had, Hermann,” he said. “I know you’ll bungle those tenths.”

  Falbe moved to the piano-seat.

  “Oh, let’s have a shot at it,” he said. “If Lady Barbara won’t mind, play that one through to me first, Mike.”

  “Oh, presently, Hermann,” he said. “It makes such an infernal row that you can’t hear anything else afterwards. Do sing, Miss Sylvia; my aunt won’t really mind — will you, Aunt Barbara?”

  “Michael, I have just learned that this is THE Miss Falbe,” she said. “I am suffering from shock. Do let me suffer from coals of fire, too.”

  Michael gently edged Hermann away from the music-stool. Much as he enjoyed his master’s accompaniment he was perfectly sure that he preferred, if possible, to play for Sylvia himself than have the pleasure of listening to anybody else.

  “And may I play for you, Miss Sylvia?” he asked.

  “Yes, will you? Thanks, Lord Comber.”

  Hermann moved away.

  “And so Mr. Hermann sits down by Lady Barbara while Lord Comber plays for Miss Sylvia,” he observed, with emphasis on the titles.

  A sudden amazing boldness seized Michael.

  “Sylvia, then,” he said.

  “All right, Michael,” answered the girl, laughing.

  She came and stood on the left of the piano, slightly behind him.

  “And what are we going to have?” asked Michael.

  “It must be something we both know, for I’ve brought no music,” said she.

  Michael began playing the introduction to the Hugo Wolff song which he had accompanied for her one Sunday night at their house. He knew it perfectly by heart, but stumbled a little over the difficult syncopated time. This was not done without purpose, for the next moment he felt her hand on his shoulder marking it for him.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Now you’ve got it.” And Michael smiled sweetly at his own amazing ingenuity.

  Hermann put down the Variations, which he still had in his hand, when Sylvia’s voice began. Unaccustomed as she was to her accompanist, his trained ear told him that she was singing perfectly at ease, and was completely at home with her player. Occasionally she gave Michael some little indication, as she had done before, but for the most part her fingers rested immobile on his shoulder, and he seemed to understand her perfectly. Somehow this was a surprise to him; he had not known that Michael possessed that sort of second-sight that unerringly feels and translates into the keys the singer’s mood. For himself he always had to attend most closely when he was playing for his sister, but familiar as he was with her singing, he felt that Michael divined her certainly as well as himself, and he listened to the piano more than to the voice.

  “You extraordinary creature,” he said when the song was over. “Where did you learn to accompany?”

  Suddenly Michael felt an access of shyne
ss, as if he had been surprised when he thought himself private.

  “Oh, I’ve played it before for Miss — I mean for Sylvia,” he said.

  Then he turned to the girl.

  “Thanks, awfully,” he said. “And I’m greedy. May we have one more?”

  He slid into the opening bars of “Who is Sylvia?” That song, since he had heard her sing it at her recital in the summer, had grown in significance to him, even as she had. It had seemed part of her then, but then she was a stranger. To-night it was even more intimately part of her, and she was a friend.

  Hermann strolled across to the fireplace at the end of this, and lit a cigarette.

  “My sister’s a blatant egoist, Lady Barbara,” he said. “She loves singing about herself. And she lays it on pretty thick, too, doesn’t she? Now, Sylvia, if you’ve finished — quite finished, I mean — do come and sit down and let me try these Variations—”

  “Shall we surrender, Michael?” asked the girl. “Or shall we stick to the piano, now we’ve got it? If Hermann once sits down, you know, we shan’t get him away for the rest of the evening. I can’t sing any more, but we might play a duet to keep him out.”

  Hermann rushed to the piano, took his sister by the shoulders, and pushed her into a chair.

  “You sit there,” he said, “and listen to something not about yourself. Michael, if you don’t come away from that piano, I shall take Sylvia home at once. Now you may all talk as much as you like; you won’t interrupt me one atom — but you’ll have to talk loud in certain parts.”