Mike Fletcher - George Moore (best books to read now TXT) 📗
- Author: George Moore
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From The Adjoining Theatre With Whisky-And-Water. The Contributors To
The _Pilgrim_ Had Selected A Box, And Were Clamouring For Food.
Smacking His Lips, The Head-Waiter, An Antiquity Who Cashed Cheques
And Told Stories About Mr. Dickens And Mr. Thackeray, Stopped In
Front Of This Table.
"Roast Beef, Very Nice--A Nice Cut, Sir; Saddle Of Mutton Just Up."
All Decided For Saddle Of Mutton.
"Saddle Of Mutton, Number Three."
Greasy And White The Carver Came, And As If The Meat Were A Delight
The Carver Sliced It Out. Some One Remarked This.
"That Is Nothing," Said Thompson; "You Should Hear Hopkins Grunting
As He Cuts The Venison On Tuesdays And Fridays, And How He Sucks His
Lips As He Ladles Out The Gravy. We Only Enjoy A Slice Or Two,
Whereas His Pleasure Ends Only With The Haunch."
The Evening Newspapers Were Caught Up, Glanced At, And Abused As
Worthless Rags, And The Editors Covered With Lively Ridicule.
The Conversation Turned On Boulogne, Where Mike Had Loved Many
Solicitors' Wives, And Then On The Impurity Of The Society Girl And
The Prurient Purity Of Her Creation--The "English" Novel.
"I Believe That It Is So," Said Harding; "And In Her Immorality We
Find The Reason For All This Bewildering Outcry Against The Slightest
License In Literature. Strange That In A Manifestly Impure Age There
Should Be A National Tendency Towards Chaste Literature. I Am Not
Sure That A Moral Literature Does Not Of Necessity Imply Much Laxity
In Practical Morality. We Seek In Art What We Do Not Find In
Ourselves, And It Would Be True To Nature To Represent An Unfortunate
Woman Delighting In Reading Of Such Purity As Her Own Life Daily
Insulted And Contradicted; And The Novel Is The Rag In Which This
Leper Age Coquets Before The Mirror Of Its Hypocrisy, Rehearsing The
Deception It Would Practise On Future Time."
"You Must Consider The Influence Of Impure Literature Upon Young
People," Said John.
"No, No; The Influence Of A Book Is Nothing; It Is Life That
Influences And Corrupts. I Sent My Story Of A Drunken Woman To
Randall, And The Next Time I Heard From Him He Wrote To Say He Had
Married His Mistress, And He Knew She Was A Drunkard."
"It Is Easy To Prove That Bad Books Don't Do Any Harm; If They Did,
By The Same Rule Good Books Would Do Good, And The World Would Have
Been Converted Long Ago," Said Frank.
Harding Thought How He Might Best Appropriate The Epigram, And When
The Influence Of The Liberty Lately Acquired By Girls Had Been
Discussed--The Right To Go Out Shopping In The Morning, To Sit Out
Dances On Dark Stairs; In A Word, The Decadence And Overthrow Of The
Chaperon--The Conversation Again Turned On Art.
"It Is Very Difficult," Said Harding, "To Be Great As The Old Masters
Chapter 3 Pg 28Were Great. A Man Is Great When Every One Is Great. In The Great Ages
If You Were Not Great You Did Not Exist At All, But In These Days
Everything Conspires To Support The Weak."
Out Of Deference To John, Who Had Worn For Some Time A Very Solid
Look Of Disapproval, Mike Ceased To Discourse On Half-Hours Passed On
Staircases, And In Summer-Houses When The Gardener Had Gone To
Dinner, And He Spoke About Naturalistic Novels And An Exhibition Of
Pastels.
"As Time Goes On, Poetry, History, Philosophy, Will So Multiply That
The Day Will Come When The Learned Will Not Even Know The Names Of
Their Predecessors. There Is Nothing That Will Not Increase Out Of
All Reckoning Except The Naturalistic Novel. A Man May Write Twenty
Volumes Of Poetry, History, And Philosophy, But A Man Will Never Be
Born Who Will Write More Than Two, At The Most Three, Naturalistic
Novels. The Naturalistic Novel Is The Essence Of A Phase Of Life
That The Writer Has Lived In And Assimilated. If You Take Into
Consideration The Difficulty Of Observing Twice, Of The Time An
Experience Takes To Ripen In You, You Will Easily Understand
_À Priori_ That The Man Will Never Be Born Who Will Write Three
Realistic Novels."
Coffee And Cigars Were Ordered, And Harding Extolled The Charm And
Grace Of Pastels.
Thompson Said--"I Keep Pastels For My Hours Of Idleness--Cowardly
Hours, When I Have No Heart To Struggle With Nature, And May But
Smile And Kiss My Hand To Her At A Distance. For Dreaming I Know
Nothing Like Pastel; It Is The Painter's Opium Pipe.... Latour Was
The Greatest Pastellist Of The Eighteenth Century, And He Never
Attempted More Than A Drawing Heightened With Colour. But How
Suggestive, How Elegant, How Well-Bred!"
Then In Reply To Some Flattery On The Personality Of His Art,
Thompson Said, "It Is Strange, For I Assure You No Art Was Ever Less
Spontaneous Than Mine. What I Do Is The Result Of Reflection And
Study Of The Great Masters; Of Inspiration, Spontaneity,
Temperament--Temperament Is The Word--I Know Nothing. When I Hear
People Talk About Temperament, It Always Seem To Me Like The Strong
Man In The Fair, Who Straddles His Legs, And Asks Some One To Step
Upon The Palm Of His Hand."
Drake Joined In The Discussion, And The Chatter That Came From This
Enormous Man Was As Small As His Head, Which Sat Like A Pin's-Head
Above His Shoulders. Platt Drifted From The Obscene Into The
Incomprehensible. The Room Was Fast Emptying, And The Waiter
Loitered, Waiting To Be Paid.
"We Must Be Getting Off," Said Mike; "It Is Nearly Eleven O'clock,
And We Have Still The Best Part Of The Paper To Read Through."
"Don't Be In Such A Damned Hurry," Said Frank, Authoritatively.
Harding Bade Them Good-Night At The Door, And The Editors Walked Down
Fleet Street. To Pass Up A Rickety Court To The Printer's, Or To Go
Through The Stage-Door To The Stage, Produced Similar Sensations
In Mike. The White-Washed Wall, The Glare Of The Raw Gas, The Low
Monotonous Voice Of The Reading-Boy, Like One Studying A Part, Or
Perhaps Like The Murmur Of The Distant Audience; The Boy Coming In
Asking For "Copy" Or Proof, Like The Call-Boy, With His "Curtain's
Going Up, Gentlemen." Is There Not Analogy Between The Preparation
Of The Paper That Will Be Before The Public In The Morning, And The
Preparation Of The Play That Will Be Before Its Eyes In The Evening?
From The Glass Closet Where They Waited For The "Pages," They Could
See The Compositors Bending Over The Forms. The Light Lay Upon A Red
Beard, A Freckled Neck, The Crimson Of The Volutes Of An Ear.
In The Glass Closet There Were Three Wooden Chairs, A Table, And An
Inkstand; On The Shelf By The Door A Few Books--The _London
Chapter 3 Pg 29Directory_, An _English Dictionary_, A _French Dictionary_--The
Titles Of The Remaining Books Did Not Catch The Eye. As They Waited,
For No "Pages" Would Be Ready For Them For Some Time, Mike Glanced At
Stray Numbers Of Two Trade Journals. It Seemed To Him Strange That
The Same Compositors Who Set Up These Papers Should Set Up The
_Pilgrim_.
Presently The "Pages" Began To Come In, But Long Delays Intervened,
And It Transpired That Some Of The "Copy" Was Not Yet In Type. Frank
Grew Weary, And He Complained Of Headache, And Asked Mike To See The
Paper Through For Him. Mike Thought Frank Selfish, But There Was No
Help For It. He Could Not Refuse, But Must Wait In The Paraffin-Like
Smell Of The Ink, Listening To The Droning Voice Of The Reading-Boy.
If He Could Only Get The Proof Of His Poem He Could Kill Time By
Correcting It; But It Could Not Be Obtained. Two Hours Passed, And
He Still Sat Watching The Red Beard Of A Compositor, And The Crimson
Volutes Of An Ear. At Last The Printer's Devil, His Short Sleeves
Rolled Up, Brought In A Couple Of Pages. Mike Read, Following The
Lines With His Pen, Correcting The Literals, And He Cursed When The
"Devil" Told Him That Ten More Lines Of Copy Were Wanting To Complete
Page Nine. What Should He Write?
About Two O'clock, Holding Her Ball-Skirts Out Of The Dirt, A Lady
Entered.
"How Do You Do, Emily?" Said Mike. "Just Fancy Seeing You Here, And
At This Hour!" He Was Glad Of The Interruption; But His Pleasure Was
Dashed By The Fear That She Would Ask Him To Come Home With Her.
"Oh, I Have Had Such A Pleasant Party; So-And-So Sang At Lady
Southey's. Oh, I Have Enjoyed Myself! I Knew I Should Find You Here;
But I Am Interrupting. I Will Go." She Put Her Arm Round His Neck.
He Looked At Her Diamonds, And Congratulated Himself That She Was
A Lady.
"I Am Afraid I Am Interrupting You," She Said Again.
"Oh No, You Aren't, I Shall Be Done In Half An Hour; I Have Only Got
A Few More Pages To Read Through. Escott Went Away, Selfish Brute
That He Is, And Has Left Me To Do All The Work."
She Sat By His Side Contentedly Reading What He Had Written. At
Half-Past Two All The Pages Were Passed For Press, And They Descended
The Spiral Iron Staircase, Through The Grease And Vinegar Smell Of
The Ink, In View Of Heads And Arms Of A Hundred Compositors, In
Hearing Of The Drowsy Murmur Of The Reading-Boy. Her Brougham Was At
The Door. As She Stepped In Mike Screwed Up His Courage And Said
Good-Bye.
"Won't You Come?" She Said, With Disappointment In Her Eyes.
"No, Not To-Night. I Have Been Slaving At That Paper For The Last
Four Hours. Thanks; Not To-Night. Good-Bye; I'll See You Next Week."
The Brougham Rolled Away, And Mike Walked Home. The Hands Of The
Clocks Were Stretching Towards Three, And Only A Few Drink-Disfigured
Creatures Of Thirty-Five Or Forty Lingered; So Horrible Were They
That He Did Not Answer Their Salutations.
Chapter 4 Pg 30
Mike Was In His Bath When Frank Entered.
"What, Not Dressed Yet?"
"All Very Well For You To Talk. You Left Me At Eleven To Get The
Paper Out As Best I Could. I Did Not Get Away From The Printer's
Before Half-Past Two."
"I'm Very Sorry, But You've No Idea How Ill I Felt. I Really Couldn't
Have Stayed On. I Heard You Come In. You Weren't Alone."
The Room Was Pleasant With The Eau De Lubin, And Mike's Beautiful
Figure Appealed To Frank's Artistic Sense; And He Noticed It In
Relation To The Twisted Oak Columns Of The Bed. The Body, It Was
Smooth And White As Marble; And The Pectoral Muscles Were Especially
Beautiful When He
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