Michael

when Miss Sylvia Falbeappeared, followed at once by her accompanist, whose name occurrednowhere on the programme. Two neighbours, however, who chatted shrillyduring the applause that greeted them, informed him that this wasHermann, "dear Hermann; there is no one like him!" But it occurred toMichael that the singer was like him, though she was fair and he dark.But his perception of either of them visually was but vague; he had cometo hear and not to see. Neither she nor Hermann had any music with them,and Hermann just glanced at the programme, which he put down on the topof the piano, which, again unusually, was open. Then without pause theybegan the set of German songs--Brahms, Schubert, Schumann--with whichthe recital opened. And for one moment, before he lost himself in theecstasy of hearing, Michael found himself registering the fact thatSylvia Falbe had one of the most charming faces he had ever seen. Thenext he was swallowed up in melody.

  She had the ease of the consummate artist, and each note, like the gatesof the New Jerusalem, was a pearl, round and smooth and luminous almost,so that it was as if many-coloured light came from her lips. Nor wasthat all; it seemed as if the accompaniment was made by the song itself,coming into life with the freshness of the dawn of its creation; it wasimpossible to believe that one mind directed the singer and another thepianist, and if the voice was an example of art in excelsis, not lessexalted was the perfection of the player. Not for a moment through thesong did he take his eyes off her; he looked at her with an intensity ofgaze that seemed to be reading the emotion with which the lovely melodyfilled her. For herself, she looked straight out over the hall, withgrey eyes half-closed, and mouth that in the pauses of her song waslarge and full-lipped, generously curving, and face that seemed lit withthe light of the morning she sang of. She was the song; Michael thoughtof her as just that, and the pianist who watched and understood her sounerringly was the song, too. They had for him no identity of their own;they were as remote from everyday life as the mind of Schumann whichthey made so vivid. It was then that they existed.

  The last song of the group she sang in English, for it was "Who isSylvia?" There was a buzz of smiles and whispers among the front row inthe pause before it, and regaining her own identity for a moment, shesmiled at a group of her friends among whom clearly it was a clichespecies of joke that she should ask who Sylvia was, and enumerate hermerits, when all the time she was Sylvia. Michael felt rather impatientat this; she was not anybody just now but a singer. And then came thedivine inevitable simplicity of perfect words and the melody preordainedfor them. The singer, as he knew, was German, but she had no trace offoreign accent. It seemed to him that this was just one miracle themore; she had become English because she was singing what Shakespearewrote.

  The next group, consisting of modern French songs, appeared to Michaelutterly unworthy of the singer and the echoing piano. If you had it inyou to give reality to great and simple things, it was surely a wasteto concern yourself with these little morbid, melancholy manikins, thesemarionettes. But his emotions being unoccupied he attended more to themanner of the performance, and in especial to the marvellous technique,not so much of the singer, but of the pianist who caused the rain tofall and the waters reflect the toneless grey skies. He had never, evenwhen listening to the great masters, heard so flawless a comprehensionas this anonymous player, incidentally known as Hermann, exhibited. Asfar as mere manipulation went, it was, as might perhaps be expected,entirely effortless, but effortless no less was the understanding of themusic. It happened. . . . It was like that.

  All of this so filled Michael's mind as he travelled down that eveningto Ashbridge, that he scarcely remembered the errand on which he went,and when it occurred to him it instantly sank out of sight again, lostin the recollection of the music which he had heard to-day and whichbelonged to the art that claimed the allegiance of his soul. The rattleof the wheels was alchemised into song, and as with half-closed eyes helistened to it, there swam across it now the full face of the singer,now the profile of the pianist, that had stood out white and intentagainst the dark panelling behind his head. He had gleaned one fact atthe box-office as he hurried out to catch his train: this Hermann wasthe singer's brother, a teacher of the piano in London, and apparentlyhighly thought of.

  CHAPTER III

  Michael's train, as his mother had so infallibly pronounced, was late,and he had arrived only just in time to hurry to his room and dressquickly, in order not to add to his crimes the additional one ofunpunctuality, for unpunctuality, so Lord Ashbridge held, was thepoliteness not only of kings, but of all who had any pretence to decentbreeding. His father gave him a carefully-iced welcome, his motherthe tip of her long, camel-like lips, and they waited solemnly for theappearance of Aunt Barbara, who, it would seem, had forfeited her claimsto family by her marriage. A man-servant and a half looked after eachof them at dinner, and the twelve Lord Ashbridges in uniform looked downfrom their illuminated frames on their degenerate descendant.

  The only bright spot in this portentous banquet was Aunt Barbara, whohad chosen that evening, with what intention may possibly be guessed, toput on an immense diamond tiara and a breastplate of rubies, while Og,after one futile attempt to play with the footmen, yielded himself up tothe chilling atmosphere of good breeding, and ate his mutton-chopswith great composure. But Aunt Barbara, fortified by her gems, ate anexcellent dinner, and talked all the time with occasional bursts ofunexplained laughter.

  Afterwards, when Michael was left alone with his father, he found thathis best efforts at conversation elicited only monosyllabic replies, andat last, in the despairing desire to bring things to a head, he askedhim if he had received his letter. An affirmative monosyllable, followedby the hissing of Lord Ashbridge's cigarette end as he dropped it intohis coffee cup, answered him, and he perceived that the approachingstorm was to be rendered duly impressive by the thundery stillness thatpreceded it. Then his father rose, and as he passed Michael, who heldthe door open for him, said:

  "If you can spare the time, Michael, I would like to have a talk withyou when your mother and aunt have gone to bed."

  That was not very long delayed; Michael imagined that Aunt Barbara musthave had a hint, for before half-past ten she announced with a skilfullysuppressed laugh that she was about to retire, and kissed Michaelaffectionately. Both her laugh and her salute were encouraging; he feltthat he was being backed up. Then a procession of footmen came into theroom bearing lemonade and soda water and whiskey and a plate of plainbiscuits, and the moment after he was alone with his father.

  Lord Ashbridge rose and walked, very tall and majestic, to thefireplace, where he stood for a moment with his back to his son. Then heturned round.

  "Now about this nonsense of your resigning your commission, Michael,"he said. "I don't propose to argue about it, and I am just going to tellyou. If, as you have informed me, you have actually sent it in, you willwrite to-morrow with due apologies and ask that it may be withdrawn. Iwill see your letter before you send it."

  Michael had intended to be as quiet and respectful as possible,consistent with firmness, but a sentence here gave him a spasm of anger.

  "I don't know what you mean, sir," he said, "by saying 'if I have sentit in.' You have received my letter in which I tell you that I have doneso."

  Already, even at the first words, there was bad blood between them.Michael's face had clouded with that gloom which his father wouldcertainly call sulky, and for himself he resented the tone of Michael'sreply. To make matters worse he gave his little falsetto cackle, whichno doubt was intended to convey the impression of confident good humour.But there was, it must be confessed, very little good humour aboutit, though he still felt no serious doubt about the result of thisinterview.

  "I'm afraid, perhaps, then, that I did not take your letter quiteseriously, my dear Michael," he said, in the bantering tone that frozeMichael's cordiality completely up. "I glanced through it; I saw a lotof nonsense--or so it struck me--about your resigning your commissionand studying music; I think you mentioned Baireuth, and settling down inLondon after
wards."

  "Yes. I said all that," said Michael. "But you make a mistake if you donot see that it was written seriously."

  His father glanced across at him, where he sat with his heavy, plainface, his long arms and short legs, and the sight merely irritatedhim. With his passion for convention (and one of the most importantconventions was that Combers should be fine, strapping, normal people)he hated the thought that it was his son who presented that appearance.And his son's mind seemed to him at this moment as ungainly as hisperson. Again, very unwisely, he laughed, still thinking to carry thisoff by the high hand.

  "Yes, but I can't take that rubbish seriously," he said. "I am askingyour permission now to inquire, without any nonsense, into what youmean."

  Michael frowned. He felt the insincerity of his father's laugh, andrebelled