Michael

literally or with the more figurative work of the mind;indeed, she can scarcely be said to have had any mind at all, for, aswith drugs, she had sapped it away by a practically unremitting perusalof all the fiction that makes the average reader wonder why it waswritten. In fact, she supplied the answer to that perplexing question,since it was clearly written for her. She was not in the least excitedby these tales, any more than the human race are excited by the oxygenin the air, but she could not live without them. She subscribed to threelending libraries, which, by this time had probably learned her tastes,for if she ever by ill-chance embarked on a volume which ever so faintlyadumbrated the realities of life, she instantly returned it, as shefound it painful; and, naturally, she did not wish to be pained. Thisdid not, however, prevent her reading those that dealt with amiableyoung men who fell in love with amiable young women, and were forthe moment sundered by red-haired adventuresses or black-hairedmoneylenders, for those she found not painful but powerful, and couldoften remember where she had got to in them, which otherwise was notusually the case. She wore a good deal of lace, spoke in a tired voice,and must certainly have been of the type called "sweetly pretty" somequarter of a century ago. She drank hot water with her meals, andcontinually reminded Michael of his own mother.

  Sylvia and Hermann certainly did all that could be done for her; inother words, they invariably saw that her water was hot, and her stockof novels replenished. But when that was accomplished, there reallyappeared to be little more that could be done for her. Her presence in aroom counted for about as much as a rather powerful shadow on the wall,unexplained by any solid object which could have made it appear there.But most of the day she spent in her own room, which was furnishedexactly in accordance with her twilight existence. There was awriting-table there, which she never used, several low arm-chairs (oneof which she was always using), by each of which was a small table, onto which she could put the book that she was at the moment engaged on.Lace hangings, of the sort that prevent anybody either seeing in or out,obscured the windows; and for decoration there were china figures on thechimney-piece, plush-rimmed plates on the walls, and a couple of easels,draped with chiffon, on which stood enlarged photographs of her husbandand her children.

  There was, it may be added, nothing in the least pathetic about her,for, as far as could be ascertained, she had everything she wanted. Infact, from the standpoint of commonsense, hers was the most successfulexistence; for, knowing what she liked, she passed her entire lifein its accomplishment. The only thing that caused her emotion was theenergy and vitality of her two children, and even then that emotion wasbut a mild surprise when she recollected how tremendous a worker andboisterous a gourmand of life was her late husband, on the anniversaryof whose death she always sat all day without reading any novels at all,but devoted what was left of her mind to the contemplation of nothingat all. She had married him because, for some inscrutable reason, heinsisted on it; and she had been resigned to his death, as to everythingelse that had ever happened to her.

  All her life, in fact, she had been of that unchangeable, drab qualityin emotional affairs which is characteristic of advanced middle-age,when there are no great joys or sorrows to look back on, and noexpectation for the future. She had always had something of theindestructible quality of frail things like thistledown or cottonwool;violence and explosion that would blow strong and distinct organismsto atoms only puffed her a yard or two away where she alighted againwithout shock, instead of injuring or annihilating her. . . . Yet, inthe inexplicable ways of love, Sylvia and her brother not only did whatcould be done for her, but regarded her with the tenderest affection.What that love lived on, what was its daily food would be hard to guess,were it not that love lives on itself.

  The rest of the house, apart from the vacuum of Mrs. Falbe's rooms,conducted itself, so it seemed to Michael, at the highest possiblepressure. Sylvia and her brother were both far too busy to be restless,and if, on the one hand, Mrs. Falbe's remote, impenetrable life wasinexplicable, not less inexplicable was the rage for living thatpossessed the other two. From morning till night, and on Sundays fromnight till morning, life proceeded at top speed.

  As regards household arrangements, which were all in Sylvia's hands,there were three fixed points in the day. That is to say, that therewas lunch for Mrs. Falbe and anybody else who happened to be there athalf-past one; tea in Mrs. Falbe's well-liked sitting-room at five,and dinner at eight. These meals--Mrs. Falbe always breakfasted in herbedroom--were served with quiet decorum. Apart from them, anybody whorequired anything consulted the cook personally. Hermann, for instance,would have spent the morning at his piano in the vast studio at the backof their house in Maidstone Crescent, and not arrived at the fact thatit was lunch time till perhaps three in the afternoon. Unless then hesettled to do without lunch altogether, he must forage for himself; orSylvia, having to sing at a concert at eight, would return famished andexultant about ten; she would then proceed to provide herself, unlessshe supped elsewhere, with a plate of eggs and bacon, or anythingelse that was easily accessible. It was not from preference that thesehaphazard methods were adopted; but since they only kept two servants,it was clear that a couple of women, however willing, could not possiblycope with so irregular a commissariat in addition to the series of fixedhours and the rest of the household work. As it was, two splendidlyefficient persons, one German, the other English, had filled theposts of parlourmaid and cook for the last eight years, and regardedthemselves, and were regarded, as members of the family. Lucas,the parlourmaid, indeed, from the intense interest she took in theconversation at table, could not always resist joining in it, and wasapt to correct Hermann or his sister if she detected an inaccuracy intheir statements. "No, Miss Sylvia," she would say, "it was on Thursday,not Wednesday," and then recollecting herself, would add, "Beg yourpardon, miss."

  In this milieu, as new to Michael as some suddenly discovered country,he found himself at once plunged and treated with instant friendlyintimacy. Hermann, so he supposed, must have given him a good character,for he was made welcome before he could have had time to make anyimpression for himself, as Hermann's friend. On the first occasion ofhis visiting the house, for the purpose of his music lesson, he hadstopped to lunch afterwards, where he met Sylvia, and was in thepresence of (you could hardly call it more than that) their mother.

  Mrs. Falbe had faded away in some mist-like fashion soon after, but itwas evident that he was intended to do no such thing, and they had goneinto the studio, already comrades, and Michael had chiefly listenedwhile the other two had violent and friendly discussions on everysubject under the sun. Then Hermann happened to sit down at the piano,and played a Chopin etude pianissimo prestissimo with finger-tips thatjust made the notes to sound and no more, and Sylvia told him that hewas getting it better; and then Sylvia sang "Who is Sylvia?" and Hermanntold her that she shouldn't have eaten so much lunch, or shouldn't havesung; and then, by transitions that Michael could not recollect, theyplayed the Hailstone Chorus out of Israel in Egypt (or, at any rate,reproduced the spirit of it), and both sang at the top of their voices.Then, as usually happened in the afternoon, two or three friends droppedin, and though these were all intimate with their hosts, Michael had noimpression of being out in the cold or among strangers. And when he lefthe felt as if he had been stretching out chilly hands to the fire, andthat the fire was always burning there, ready for him to heat himselfat, with its welcoming flames and core of sincere warmth, whenever hefelt so disposed.

  At first he had let himself do this much less often than he would haveliked, for the shyness of years, his over-sensitive modesty at his ownwant of charm and lightness, was a self-erected barrier in his way. Hewas, in spite of his intimacy with Hermann, desperately afraid of beingtiresome, of checking by his presence, as he had so often felt himselfdo before, the ease and high spirits of others. But by degrees thisbroke down; he realised that he was now among those with whom he hadthat kinship of the mind and of tastes which makes the foundation onwhich friendship, and whatev
er friendship may ripen into, is securelybuilt. Never did the simplicity and sincerity of their welcome fail;the cordiality which greeted him was always his; he felt that it wasintended that he should be at home there just as much as he cared to be.

  The six working days of the week, however, were as a rule too full bothfor the Falbes and for Michael to do more than have, apart from themusic lessons, flying glimpses of each other; for the day was taken upwith work, concerts and opera occurred often in the evening, and theshuttles of London took their threads in divergent directions. But onSunday the house at Maidstone Crescent ceased, as Hermann said, to be ajunction, and became a temporary terminus.

  "We burst from our chrysalis, in fact," he said. "If you find itclearer to understand this way, we burst from our chrysalis and becomea caterpillar. Do chrysalides become caterpillars! We do, anyhow. Ifyou come