by E. F. Benson
The coffin lay that night in his mother’s bedroom, which was next to Michael’s, and when he went up to bed he found himself listening for any sound that came from there. It seemed but yesterday when he had gone rather early upstairs, and after sitting a minute or two in front of his fire, had heard that timid knock on the door, which had meant the opening of a mother’s heart to him. He felt it would scarcely be strange if that knock came again, and if she entered once more to be with him. From the moment he came upstairs, the rest of the world was shut down to him; he entered his bedroom as if he entered a sanctuary that was scented with the incense of her love. He knew exactly how her knock had sounded when she came in here that night when first it burned for him: his ears were alert for it to come again. Once his blind tapped against the frame of his open window, and, though knowing it was that, he heard himself whisper—for she could hear his whisper—“Come in, mother,” and sat up in his deep chair, looking towards the door. But only the blind tapped again, and outside in the moonlit dusk an owl hooted.
He remembered she liked owls. Once, when they lived alone in Curzon Street, some noise outside reminded her of the owls that hooted at Ashbridge—she had imitated their note, saying it sounded like sleep.… She had sat in a chintz-covered chair close to him when at Christmas she paid him that visit, and now he again drew it close to his own, and laid his hand on its arm. Petsy II. had come in with her, and she had hoped that he would not annoy Michael.
There were steps in the passage outside his room, and he heard a little shrill bark. He opened his door and found his mother’s maid there, trying to entice Petsy away from the room next to his. The little dog was curled up against it, and now and then he turned round scratching at it, asking to enter. “He won’t come away, my lord,” said the maid; “he’s gone back a dozen times to the door.”
Michael bent down.
“Come, Petsy,” he said, “come to bed in my room.”
The dog looked at him for a moment as if weighing his trustworthiness. Then he got up and, with grotesque Chinese high-stepping walk, came to him.
“He’ll be all right with me,” he said to the maid.
He took Petsy into his room next door, and laid him on the chair in which his mother had sat. The dog moved round in a circle once or twice, and then settled himself down to sleep. Michael went to bed also, and lay awake about a couple of minutes, not thinking, but only being, while the owls hooted outside.
He awoke into complete consciousness, knowing that something had aroused him, even as three days ago when the telephone rang to summon him to his mother’s deathbed. Then he did not know what had awakened him, but now he was sure that there had been a tapping on his door. And after he had sat up in bed completely awake, he heard Petsy give a little welcoming bark. Then came the noise of his small, soft tail beating against the cushion in the chair.
Michael had no feeling of fright at all, only of longing for something that physically could not be. And longing, only longing, once more he said:
“Come in, mother.”
He believed he heard the door whisper on the carpet, but he saw nothing. Only, the room was full of his mother’s presence. It seemed to him that, in obedience to her, he lay down completely satisfied.… He felt no curiosity to see or hear more. She was there, and that was enough.
He woke again a little after dawn. Petsy between the window and the door had jumped on to his bed to get out of the draught of the morning wind. For the door was opened.
That morning the coffin was carried down the long winding path above the deep-water reach, where Michael and Francis at Christmas had heard the sound of stealthy rowing, and on to the boat that awaited it to ferry it across to the church. There was high tide, and, as they passed over the estuary, the stillness of supreme noon bore to them the tolling of the bell. The mourners from the house followed, just three of them, Lord Ashbridge, Michael, and Aunt Barbara, for the rest were to assemble at the church. But of all that, one moment stood out for Michael above all others, when, as they entered the graveyard, someone whom he could not see said: “I am the Resurrection and the Life,” and he heard that his father, by whom he walked, suddenly caught his breath in a sob.
All that day there persisted that sense of complete detachment from all but her whose body they had laid to rest on the windy hill overlooking the broad water. His father, Aunt Barbara, the cousins and relations who thronged the church were no more than inanimate shadows compared with her whose presence had come last night into his room, and had not left him since. The affairs of the world, drums and the torch of war, had passed for those hours from his knowledge, as at the centre of a cyclone there was a windless calm. Tomorrow he knew he would pass out into the tumult again, and the minutes slipped like pearls from a string, dropping into the dim gulf where the tempest raged.…
He went back to town next morning, after a short interview with his father, who was coming up later in the day, when he told him that he intended to go back to his regiment as soon as possible. But, knowing that he meant to go by the slow midday train, his father proposed to stop the express for him that went through a few minutes before. Michael could hardly believe his ears.…
CHAPTER XV
It was but a day or two after the outbreak of the war that it was believed that an expeditionary force was to be sent to France, to help in arresting the Teutonic tide that was now breaking over Belgium; but no public and authoritative news came till after the first draft of the force had actually set foot on French soil. From the regiment of the Guards which Michael had rejoined, Francis was among the first batch of officers to go, and that evening Michael took down the news to Sylvia. Already stories of German barbarity were rife, of women violated, of defenceless civilians being shot down for no object except to terrorise, and to bring home to the Belgians the unwisdom of presuming to cross the will of the sovereign people. Tonight, in the evening papers, there had been a fresh batch of these revolting stories, and when Michael entered the studio where Sylvia and her mother were sitting, he saw the girl let drop behind the sofa the paper she had been reading. He guessed what she must have found there, for he had already seen the paper himself, and her silence, her distraction, and the misery of her face confirmed his conjecture.
“I’ve brought you a little news tonight,” he said. “The first draft from the regiment went off today.”
Mrs. Falbe put down her book, marking the place.
“Well, that does look like business, then,” she said, “though I must say I should feel safer if they didn’t send our soldiers away. Where have they gone to?”
“Destination unknown,” said Michael. “But it’s France. My cousin has gone.”
“Francis?” asked Sylvia. “Oh, how wicked to send boys like that.”
Michael saw that her nerves were sharply on edge. She had given him no greeting, and now as he sat down she moved a little away from him. She seemed utterly unlike herself.
“Mother has been told that every Englishman is as brave as two Germans,” she said. “She likes that.”
“Yes, dear,” observed Mrs. Falbe placidly. “It makes one feel safer. I saw it in the paper, though; I read it.”
Sylvia turned on Michael.
“Have you seen the evening paper?” she asked.
Michael knew what was in her mind.
“I just looked at it,” he said. “There didn’t seem to be much news.”
“No, only reports, rumours, lies,” said Sylvia.
Mrs. Falbe got up. It was her habit to leave the two alone together, since she was sure they preferred that; incidentally, also, she got on better with her book, for she found conversation rather distracting. But tonight Sylvia stopped her.
“Oh, don’t go yet, mother,” she said. “It is very early.”
It was clear that for some reason she did not want to be left alone with Michael, for never had she done this before. Nor did it avail anything now, for Mrs. Falbe, who was quite determined to pursue her reading without delay
, moved towards the door.
“But I am sure Michael wants to talk to you, dear,” she said, “and you have not seen him all day. I think I shall go up to bed.”
Sylvia made no further effort to detain her, but when she had gone, the silence in which they had so often sat together had taken on a perfectly different quality.
“And what have you been doing?” she said. “Tell me about your day. No, don’t. I know it has all been concerned with war, and I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I dined with Aunt Barbara,” said Michael. “She sent you her love. She also wondered why you hadn’t been to see her for so long.”
Sylvia gave a short laugh, which had no touch of merriment in it.
“Did she really?” she asked. “I should have thought she could have guessed. She set every nerve in my body jangling last time I saw her by the way she talked about Germans. And then suddenly she pulled herself up and apologised, saying she had forgotten. That made it worse! Michael, when you are unhappy, kindness is even more intolerable than unkindness. I would sooner have Lady Barbara abusing my people than saying how sorry she is for me. Don’t let’s talk about it! Let’s do something. Will you play, or shall I sing? Let’s employ ourselves.”
Michael followed her lead.
“Ah, do sing,” he said. “It’s weeks since I have heard you sing.”
She went quickly over to the bookcase of music by the piano.
“Come, then, let’s sing and forget,” she said. “Hermann always said the artist was of no nationality. Let’s begin quick. These are all German songs: don’t let’s have those. Ah, and these, too! What’s to be done? All our songs seem to be German.”
Michael laughed.
“But we’ve just settled that artists have no nationality, so I suppose art hasn’t either,” he said.
Sylvia pulled herself together, conscious of a want of control, and laid her hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“Oh, Michael, what should I do without you?” she said. “And yet—well, let me sing.”
She had placed a volume of Schubert on the music-stand, and opening it at random he found “Du Bist die Ruhe.” She sang the first verse, but in the middle of the second she stopped.
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s no use.”
He turned round to her.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said. “But you know that.”
She moved away from him, and walked down to the empty fireplace.
“I can’t keep silence,” she said, “though I know we settled not to talk of those things when necessarily we cannot feel absolutely at one. But, just before you came in, I was reading the evening paper. Michael, how can the English be so wicked as to print, and I suppose to believe, those awful things I find there? You told me you had glanced at it. Well, did you glance at the lies they tell about German atrocities?”
“Yes, I saw them,” said Michael. “But it’s no use talking about them.”
“But aren’t you indignant?” she said. “Doesn’t your blood boil to read of such infamous falsehoods? You don’t know Germans, but I do, and it is impossible that such things can have happened.”
Michael felt profoundly uncomfortable. Some of these stories which Sylvia called lies were vouched for, apparently, by respectable testimony.
“Why talk about them?” he said. “I’m sure we were wise when we settled not to.”
She shook her head.
“Well, I can’t live up to that wisdom,” she said. “When I think of this war day and night and night and day, how can I prevent talking to you about it? And those lies! Germans couldn’t do such things. It’s a campaign of hate against us, set up by the English Press.”
“I daresay the German Press is no better,” said Michael.
“If that is so, I should be just as indignant about the German Press,” said she. “But it is only your guess that it is so.”
Suddenly she stopped, and came a couple of steps nearer him.
“Michael, it isn’t possible that you believe those things of us?” she said.
He got up.
“Ah, do leave it alone, Sylvia,” he said. “I know no more of the truth or falsity of it than you. I have seen just what you have seen in the papers.”
“You don’t feel the impossibility of it, then?” she asked.
“No, I don’t. There seems to have been sworn testimony. War is a cruel thing; I hate it as much as you. When men are maddened with war, you can’t tell what they would do. They are not the Germans you know, nor the Germans I know, who did such things—not the people I saw when I was with Hermann in Baireuth and Munich a year ago. They are no more the same than a drunken man is the same as that man when he is sober. They are two different people; drink has made them different. And war has done the same for Germany.”
He held out his hand to her. She moved a step back from him.
“Then you think, I suppose, that Hermann may be concerned in those atrocities,” she said.
Michael looked at her in amazement.
“You are talking sheer nonsense, Sylvia,” he said.
“Not at all. It is a logical inference, just an application of the principle you have stated.”
Michael’s instinct was just to take her in his arms and make the final appeal, saying, “We love each other, that’s all,” but his reason prevented him. Sylvia had said a monstrous thing in cold blood, when she suggested that he thought Hermann might be concerned in these deeds, and in cold blood, not by appealing to her emotions, must she withdraw that.
“I’m not going to argue about it,” he said. “I want you to tell me at once that I am right, that it was sheer nonsense, to put no other name to it, when you suggested that I thought that of Hermann.”
“Oh, pray put another name to it,” she said.
“Very well. It was a wanton falsehood,” said Michael, “and you know it.”
Truly this hellish nightmare of war and hate which had arisen brought with it a brood not less terrible. A day ago, an hour ago he would have merely laughed at the possibility of such a situation between Sylvia and himself. Yet here it was: they were in the middle of it now.
She looked up at him flashing with indignation, and a retort as stinging as his rose to her lips. And then quite suddenly, all her anger went from her, as her, heart told her, in a voice that would not be silenced, the complete justice of what he had said, and the appeal that Michael refrained from making was made by her to herself. Remorse held her on its spikes for her abominable suggestion, and with it came a sense of utter desolation and misery, of hatred for herself in having thus quietly and deliberately said what she had said. She could not account for it, nor excuse herself on the plea that she had spoken in passion, for she had spoken, as he felt, in cold blood. Hence came the misery in the knowledge that she must have wounded Michael intolerably.
Her lips so quivered that when she first tried to speak no words would come. That she was truly ashamed brought no relief, no ease to her surrender, for she knew that it was her real self who had spoken thus incredibly. But she could at least disown that part of her.
“I beg your pardon, Michael,” she said. “I was atrocious. Will you forgive me? Because I am so miserable.”
He had nothing but love for her, love and its kinsman pity.
“Oh, my dear, fancy you asking that!” he said.
Just for the moment of their reconciliation, it seemed to both that they came closer to each other than they had ever been before, and the chance of the need of any such another reconciliation was impossible to the verge of laughableness, so that before five minutes were past he could make the smile break through her tears at the absurdity of the moment that now seemed quite unreal. Yet that which was at the root of their temporary antagonism was not removed by the reconciliation; at most they had succeeded in cutting off the poisonous shoot that had suddenly sprouted from it. The truth of this in the days that followed was horribly demonstrated.
It was not that they ever again came to
the spoken bitterness of words, for the sharpness of them, once experienced, was shunned by each of them, but times without number they had to sheer off, and not approach the ground where these poisoned tendrils trailed. And in that sense of having to take care, to be watchful lest a chance word should bring the peril close to them, the atmosphere of complete ease and confidence, in which alone love can flourish, was tainted. Love was there, but its flowers could not expand, it could not grow in the midst of this bitter air. And what made the situation more and increasingly difficult was the fact that, next to their love for each other, the emotion that most filled the mind of each was this sense of race-antagonism. It was impossible that the news of the war should not be mentioned, for that would have created an intolerable unreality, and all that was in their power was to avoid all discussion, to suppress from speech all the feelings with which the news filled them. Every day, too, there came fresh stories of German abominations committed on the Belgians, and each knew that the other had seen them, and yet neither could mention them. For while Sylvia could not believe them, Michael could not help doing so, and thus there was no common ground on which they could speak of them. Often Mrs. Falbe, in whose blood, it would seem, no sense of race beat at all, would add to the embarrassment by childlike comments, saying at one time in reference to such things that she made a point of not believing all she saw in the newspapers, or at another ejaculating, “Well, the Germans do seem to have behaved very cruelly again!” But no emotion appeared to colour these speeches, while all the emotion of the world surged and bubbled behind the silence of the other two.
Then followed the darkest days that England perhaps had ever known, when the German armies, having overcome the resistance of Belgium, suddenly swept forward again across France, pushing before them like the jetsam and flotsam on the rim of the advancing tide the allied armies. Often in these appalling weeks, Michael would hesitate as to whether he should go to see Sylvia or not, so unbearable seemed the fact that she did not and could not feel or understand what England was going through. So far from blaming her for it, he knew that it could not be otherwise, for her blood called to her, even as his to him, while somewhere in the onrush of those advancing and devouring waves was her brother, with whom, so it had often seemed to him, she was one soul. Thus, while in that his whole sympathy and whole comprehension of her love was with him, there was as well all that deep, silent English patriotism of which till now he had scarcely been conscious, praying with mute entreaty that disaster and destruction and defeat might overwhelm those advancing hordes. Once, when the anxiety and peril were at their height, he made up his mind not to see her that day, and spent the evening by himself. But later, when he was actually on his way to bed, he knew he could not keep away from her, and though it was already midnight, he drove down to Chelsea, and found her sitting up, waiting for the chance of his coming.