Michael [1]
I should like your opinion. I've done something, in fact, without asking anybody, but now that it's done I 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 then you go anxiously round afterwards to see if other people approve, which I am afraid looks like moral cowardice. I go on a different plan altogether. I ascertain the opinion of so many people before I do anything that I end by forgetting what I wanted to do. At least, that seems a reasonable explanation for the fact that I so seldom do anything."
Michael looked affectionately at the handsome boy who lounged long- legged in the chair opposite him. Like many very shy persons, he had one friend with whom he was completely unreserved, and that was this cousin of his, for whose charm and insouciant brilliance he had so adoring 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've got to swim all the time."
"Well, you are in the army," said Francis. "That's as much swimming as anyone expects of a fellow who has expectations. In fact, it's I who have 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 am wanting to tell you."
Francis laughed.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Have you been cashiered or shot or something?"
"I mean that I wrote and resigned my commission yesterday," said Michael. "If you had dined with me last night--as, by the way, you promised to do--I should have told you then."
Francis got up and leaned against the chimney-piece. He was conscious of not thinking this abrupt news as important as he felt he ought to think it. That was characteristic of him; he floated, as Michael had lately told him, finding the world an extremely pleasant place, full of warm currents that took you gently forward without entailing the slightest exertion. But Michael's grave and expectant face--that Michael who had been so eagerly kind about meeting his debts for him--warned him that, however gossamer-like his own emotions were, he must attempt to ballast himself 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, you must tell me more, Mike. I can't have an opinion unless you give me the reasons why you did it. The thing itself--well, the thing itself doesn't seem 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 who never thinks," he said, "you think uncommonly well. But the reasons are obvious 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, unless it is you, that I'm not like the rest of you. My mind isn't the build of a 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 shuffle through my task. I'm not popular, I'm not liked. It's no earthly use saying I am. I don't like the life; it seems to me senseless. And those who live it don't like me. They think me heavy--just heavy. And I have enough sensitiveness to know it."
Michael need not have stated his reasons, for his cousin could certainly have guessed them; he could, too, have confessed to the truth of them. Michael had not the light hand, which is so necessary when young men work together in a companionship of which the cordiality is an essential
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 then you go anxiously round afterwards to see if other people approve, which I am afraid looks like moral cowardice. I go on a different plan altogether. I ascertain the opinion of so many people before I do anything that I end by forgetting what I wanted to do. At least, that seems a reasonable explanation for the fact that I so seldom do anything."
Michael looked affectionately at the handsome boy who lounged long- legged in the chair opposite him. Like many very shy persons, he had one friend with whom he was completely unreserved, and that was this cousin of his, for whose charm and insouciant brilliance he had so adoring 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've got to swim all the time."
"Well, you are in the army," said Francis. "That's as much swimming as anyone expects of a fellow who has expectations. In fact, it's I who have 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 am wanting to tell you."
Francis laughed.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Have you been cashiered or shot or something?"
"I mean that I wrote and resigned my commission yesterday," said Michael. "If you had dined with me last night--as, by the way, you promised to do--I should have told you then."
Francis got up and leaned against the chimney-piece. He was conscious of not thinking this abrupt news as important as he felt he ought to think it. That was characteristic of him; he floated, as Michael had lately told him, finding the world an extremely pleasant place, full of warm currents that took you gently forward without entailing the slightest exertion. But Michael's grave and expectant face--that Michael who had been so eagerly kind about meeting his debts for him--warned him that, however gossamer-like his own emotions were, he must attempt to ballast himself 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, you must tell me more, Mike. I can't have an opinion unless you give me the reasons why you did it. The thing itself--well, the thing itself doesn't seem 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 who never thinks," he said, "you think uncommonly well. But the reasons are obvious 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, unless it is you, that I'm not like the rest of you. My mind isn't the build of a 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 shuffle through my task. I'm not popular, I'm not liked. It's no earthly use saying I am. I don't like the life; it seems to me senseless. And those who live it don't like me. They think me heavy--just heavy. And I have enough sensitiveness to know it."
Michael need not have stated his reasons, for his cousin could certainly have guessed them; he could, too, have confessed to the truth of them. Michael had not the light hand, which is so necessary when young men work together in a companionship of which the cordiality is an essential