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Michael

E. F. Benson



  Produced by Donald Lainson

  MICHAEL

  by E. F. Benson

  CHAPTER I

  Though there was nothing visibly graceful about Michael Comber, heapparently had the art of giving gracefully. He had already told hiscousin Francis, who sat on the arm of the sofa by his table, that therewas no earthly excuse for his having run into debt; but now when themoment came for giving, he wrote the cheque quickly and eagerly, as ifthoroughly enjoying it, and passed it over to him with a smile that wasextraordinarily pleasant.

  "There you are, then, Francis," he said; "and I take it from you thatthat will put you perfectly square again. You've got to write to me,remember, in two days' time, saying that you have paid those bills. Andfor the rest, I'm delighted that you told me about it. In fact, I shouldhave been rather hurt if you hadn't."

  Francis apparently had the art of accepting gracefully, which is moredifficult than the feat which Michael had so successfully accomplished.

  "Mike, you're a brick," he said. "But then you always are a brick.Thanks awfully."

  Michael got up, and shuffled rather than walked across the room to thebell by the fireplace. As long as he was sitting down his big arms andbroad shoulders gave the impression of strength, and you would haveexpected to find when he got up that he was tall and largely made. Butwhen he rose the extreme shortness of his legs manifested itself, andhe appeared almost deformed. His hands hung nearly to his knees; he washeavy, short, lumpish.

  "But it's more blessed to give than to receive, Francis," he said. "Ihave the best of you there."

  "Well, it's pretty blessed to receive when you are in a tight place, asI was," he said, laughing. "And I am so grateful."

  "Yes, I know you are. And it's that which makes me feel rather cheap,because I don't miss what I've given you. But that's distinctly not areason for your doing it again. You'll have tea, won't you?"

  "Why, yes," said Francis, getting up, also, and leaning his elbow onthe chimney-piece, which was nearly on a level with the top of Michael'shead. And if Michael had gracefulness only in the art of giving,Francis's gracefulness in receiving was clearly of a piece with the restof him. He was tall, slim and alert, with the quick, soft movements ofsome wild animal. His face, brown with sunburn and pink with brisk-goingblood, was exceedingly handsome in a boyish and almost effeminatemanner, and though he was only eighteen months younger than his cousin,he looked as if nine or ten years might have divided their ages.

  "But you are a brick, Mike," he said again, laying his long, brown handon his cousin's shoulder. "I can't help saying it twice."

  "Twice more than was necessary," said Michael, finally dismissing thesubject.

  The room where they sat was in Michael's flat in Half Moon Street, andhigh up in one of those tall, discreet-looking houses. The windows werewide open on this hot July afternoon, and the bourdon hum of London,where Piccadilly poured by at the street end, came in blended andblunted by distance, but with the suggestion of heat, of movement, ofhurrying affairs. The room was very empty of furniture; there was a rugor two on the parquet floor, a long, low bookcase taking up the end nearthe door, a table, a sofa, three or four chairs, and a piano. Everythingwas plain, but equally obviously everything was expensive, and thegeneral impression given was that the owner had no desire to besurrounded by things he did not want, but insisted on the superlativequality of the things he did. The rugs, for instance, happened to be ofsilk, the bookcase happened to be Hepplewhite, the piano bore the mosteminent of makers' names. There were three mezzotints on the walls, adragon's-blood vase on the high, carved chimney-piece; the whole borethe unmistakable stamp of a fine, individual taste.

  "But there's something else I want to talk to you about, Francis," saidMichael, as presently afterwards they sat over their tea. "I can't saythat I exactly want your advice, but I should like your opinion. I'vedone something, in fact, without asking anybody, but now that it's doneI should like to know what you think about it."

  Francis laughed.

  "That's you all over, Michael," he said. "You always do a thing first,if you really mean to do it--which I suppose is moral courage--and thenyou go anxiously round afterwards to see if other people approve,which I am afraid looks like moral cowardice. I go on a differentplan altogether. I ascertain the opinion of so many people before I doanything that I end by forgetting what I wanted to do. At least,that seems a reasonable explanation for the fact that I so seldom doanything."

  Michael looked affectionately at the handsome boy who loungedlong-legged in the chair opposite him. Like many very shy persons, hehad one friend with whom he was completely unreserved, and that wasthis cousin of his, for whose charm and insouciant brilliance he had soadoring an admiration.

  He pointed a broad, big finger at him.

  "Yes, but when you are like that," he said, "you can just float along.Other people float you. But I should sink heavily if I did nothing. I'vegot to swim all the time."

  "Well, you are in the army," said Francis. "That's as much swimming asanyone expects of a fellow who has expectations. In fact, it's I whohave to swim all the time, if you come to think of it. You are somebody;I'm not!"

  Michael sat up and took a cigarette.

  "But I'm not in the army any longer," he said. "That's just what I amwanting to tell you."

  Francis laughed.

  "What do you mean?" he asked. "Have you been cashiered or shot orsomething?"

  "I mean that I wrote and resigned my commission yesterday," saidMichael. "If you had dined with me last night--as, by the way, youpromised to do--I should have told you then."

  Francis got up and leaned against the chimney-piece. He was conscious ofnot thinking this abrupt news as important as he felt he ought to thinkit. That was characteristic of him; he floated, as Michael had latelytold him, finding the world an extremely pleasant place, full of warmcurrents that took you gently forward without entailing the slightestexertion. But Michael's grave and expectant face--that Michael who hadbeen so eagerly kind about meeting his debts for him--warned him that,however gossamer-like his own emotions were, he must attempt to ballasthimself over this.

  "Are you speaking seriously?" he asked.

  "Quite seriously. I never did anything that was so serious."

  "And that is what you want my opinion about?" he asked. "If so, youmust tell me more, Mike. I can't have an opinion unless you give me thereasons why you did it. The thing itself--well, the thing itself doesn'tseem to matter so immensely. The significance of it is why you did it."

  Michael's big, heavy-browed face lightened a moment. "For a fellow whonever thinks," he said, "you think uncommonly well. But the reasons areobvious enough. You can guess sufficient reasons to account for it."

  "Let's hear them anyhow," said Francis.

  Michael clouded again.

  "Surely they are obvious," he said. "No one knows better than me, unlessit is you, that I'm not like the rest of you. My mind isn't the build ofa guardsman's mind, any more than my unfortunate body is. Half our work,as you know quite well, consists in being pleasant and in liking it.Well, I'm not pleasant. I'm not breezy and cordial. I can't do it.I make a task of what is a pastime to all of you, and I only shufflethrough my task. I'm not popular, I'm not liked. It's no earthly usesaying I am. I don't like the life; it seems to me senseless. And thosewho live it don't like me. They think me heavy--just heavy. And I haveenough sensitiveness to know it."

  Michael need not have stated his reasons, for his cousin could certainlyhave guessed them; he could, too, have confessed to the truth of them.Michael had not the light hand, which is so necessary when young menwork together in a companionship of which the cordiality is an essentialpart of the work; neither had he in the social side of life thatparticular and inimitable sort of easy self-confidence which, as
he hadsaid just now, enables its owner to float. Except in years he was notyoung; he could not manage to be "clubable"; he was serious and awkwardat a supper party; he was altogether without the effervescence which isnecessary in order to avoid flatness. He did his work also in the sameconscientious but leaden way; officers and men alike felt it. All thisFrancis knew perfectly well; but instead of acknowledging it, he triedquite fruitlessly to smooth it over.

  "Aren't you exaggerating?" he asked.

  Michael shook his head.

  "Oh, don't tone it down, Francis!" he said.