Mike Fletcher - George Moore (best books to read now TXT) 📗

Leaned Forward To Wipe A Lifted Leg. He Turned,  And

The Back Narrowed Like A Leaf,  And Expanded In Shapes As Subtle. He

Was Really A Superb Animal As He Stepped Out Of His Bath.

 

"I Wish To Heavens You'd Dress. Leave Off Messing Yourself About.

I Want Breakfast. Lizzie's Waiting. What Are You Putting On Those

Clothes For? Where Are You Going?"

 

"I Am Going To See Lily Young. She Wrote To Me This Morning Saying

She Had Her Mother's Permission To Ask Me To Come."

 

"She Won't Like You Any Better For All That Scent And Washing."

 

"Which Of These Neckties Do You Like?"

 

"I Don't Know.... I Wish You'd Be Quick. Come On!"

 

As He Fixed His Tie With A Pearl Pin He Whistled The "Wedding March."

Catching Frank's Eyes,  He Laughed And Sang At The Top Of His Voice As

He Went Down The Passage.

 

Lizzie Was Reading In One Of The Arm-Chairs That Stood By The High

Chimney-Piece Tall With Tiles And Blue Vases. The Stiffness And Glare

Of The Red Cloth In Which The Room Was Furnished,  Contrasted With The

Soft Colour Of The Tapestry Which Covered One Wall. The Round Table

Shone With Silver,  And An Agreeable Smell Of Coffee And Sausages

Pervaded The Room. Lizzie Looked Up Astonished; But Without Giving

Her Time To Ask Questions,  Mike Seized Her And Rushed Her Up And

Down.

 

"Let Me Go! Let Me Go!" She Exclaimed. "Are You Mad?"

 

Frank Caught Up His Fiddle. At Last Lizzie Wrenched Herself From

Mike.

 

"What Do You Mean? ... Such Nonsense!"

 

Laughing,  Mike Placed Her In A Chair,  And Uncovering A Dish,  Said--

 

"What Shall I Give You This Happy Day?"

 

"What Do You Mean? I Don't Like Being Pulled About."

 

"You Know What Tune That Is? That's The 'Wedding March.'"

 

"Who's Going To Be Married? Not You."

 

"I Don't Know So Much About That. At All Events I Am In Love. The

Sensation Is Delicious--Like An Ice Or A Glass Of Chartreuse. Real

Love--All The Others Were Coarse Passions--I Feel It Here,  The

Genuine Article. You Would Not Believe That I Could Fall In Love."

 

"Listen To Me," Said Lizzie. "You Wouldn't Talk Like That If You Were

In Love."

 

"I Always Talk; It Relieves Me. You Have No Idea How Nice She Is; So

Frail,  So White--A White Blonde,  A Seraphita. But You Haven't Read

Balzac; You Do Not Know Those White Women Of The North. '_Plus

Chapter 4 Pg 31

Blanche Que La Blanche Hermine_,' Etc. So Pure Is She That I Cannot

Think Of Kissing Her Without Sensations Of Sacrilege. My Lips Are Not

Pure Enough For Hers. I Would I Were Chaste. I Never Was Chaste."

 

Mike Laughed And Chattered Of Everything. Words Came From Him Like

Flour From A Mill.

 

The _Pilgrim_ Was Published On Wednesday. Wednesday Was The Day,

Therefore,  For Walking In The Park; For Lunching Out; For Driving In

Hansoms. Like A Fish On The Crest Of A Wave He Surveyed

London--Multitudinous London,  Circulating About Him; And He Smiled

With Pleasure When He Caught Sight Of Trees Spreading Their Summer

Green Upon The Curling Whiteness Of The Clouds. He Loved The Park.

The Park Had Always Been His Friend; It Had Given Him Society When No

Door Was Open To Him; It Had Been The Inspiration Of All His

Ambitions; It Was The Park That Had First Showed Him Ladies And

Gentlemen In All The Gaud And Charm Of Town Leisure. There He Had

Seen For The First Time The Panorama Of Slanting Sunshades,  Patent

Leather Shoes,  Horses Cantering In The Dusty Sunlight,  Or Proudly

Grouped,  The Riders Flicking The Flies Away With Gold-Headed Whips.

He Loved The Androgynous Attire Of The Horsewomen--Collars,  Silk

Hats,  And Cravats. The Park Appealed To Him Intensely And Strangely

As Nothing Else Did. He Loved The Park For The Great Pasture It

Afforded To His Vanity. It Was In The Park He Saw The Fashionable

Procuress Driving--She Who Would Not Allow Him To Pay Even For

Champagne In Her House; It Was In The Park He Met The Little Actress

Who Looked So Beseechingly In His Face; It Was In The Park He Met

Fashionable Ladies Who Asked Him To Dinner And Took Him To The

Theatre; It Was In The Park He Had Found Life And Fortune,  And,

Saturated With Happiness,  With Health,  Tingling With Consciousness Of

His Happiness,  Mike Passed Among The Various Crowd,  Which In Its

Listlessness Seemed To Balance And Air Itself Like A Many-Petalled

Flower. But Much As The Crowd Amused And Pleased Him,  He Was More

Amused And Pleased With The Present Vision Of His Own Personality,

Which In A Long Train Of Images And Stories Passed Within Him. He

Loved To Dream Of Himself; In Dreams He Entered His Soul Like A

Temple,  Seeing Himself In Various Environment,  And Acting In Manifold

Circumstances.

 

"Here Am I--A Poor Boy From The Bogs Of Ireland--Poor People" (The

Reflection Was An Unpleasant One,  And He Escaped From It); "At All

Events A Poor Boy Without Money Or Friends. I Have Made Myself What I

Am.... I Get The Best Of Everything--Women,  Eating,  Clothes; I Live

In Beautiful Rooms Surrounded With Pretty Things. True,  They Are Not

Mine,  But What Does That Matter?--I Haven't The Bother Of Looking

After Them.... If I Could Only Get Rid Of That Cursed Accent,  But I

Haven't Much; Escott Has Nearly As Much,  And He Was Brought Up At An

English School. How Pleasant It Is To Have Money! Heigho! How

Pleasant It Is To Have Money! Six Pounds A Week From The Paper,  And I

Could Make Easily Another Four If I Chose. Sometimes I Don't Get Any

Presents; Women Seem As If They Were Going To Chuck It Up,  And Then

They Send All Things--Money,  Jewelry,  And Comestibles. I Am Sure It

Was Ida Who Sent That Hundred Pounds. What Should I Do If It Ever

Came Out? But There's Nothing To Come Out. I Believe I Am Suspected,

But Nothing Can Be Proved Against Me.

 

"Why Do They Love Me? I Always Treat Them Badly. Often I Don't Even

Pretend To Love Them,  But It Makes No Difference. Pious Women,  Wicked

Women,  Stupid Women,  Clever Women,  High-Class Women,  Low-Class Women,

It Is All The Same--All Love Me. That Little Girl I Picked Up In The

Strand Liked Me Before She Had Been Talking To Me Five Minutes. And

What Sudden Fancies! I Come Into A Room,  And Every Feminine Eye Fills

With Sudden Emotion. I Wonder What It Is. My Nose Is Broken,  And My

Chin Sticks Out Like A Handle. And Men Like Me Just As Much As Women

Do. It Is Inexplicable. True,  I Never Say Disagreeable Things; And It

Is So Natural To Me To Wheedle. I Twist Myself About Them Like A

Twining Plant About A Window. Women Forgive Me Everything,  And Are

Glad To See Me After Years. But They Are Never Wildly Jealous.

Perhaps I Have Never Been Really Loved.... I Don't Know Though--Lady

Seeley Loved Me. There Was An Old Lady At Margate,  Sixty If She Was A

Day (Of Course There Was Nothing Improper),  And She Worshipped Me.

Chapter 4 Pg 32

How Nicely She Used To Smile When She Said,  'Come Round Here That I

May Look At You!'--And Her Husband Was Quite As Bad; He'd Run All

Over The Place After Me. So-And-So Was Quite Offended Because I

Didn't Rush To See Him; He'd Put Me Up For Six Months.... Servants

Hate Frank; For Me They'd Do Anything. I Never Was In A Lodging-House

In My Life That The Slavey Didn't Fall In Love With Me. People

Dislike Me; I Speak To Them For Five Minutes,  And Henceforth They Run

After Me. I Make Friends Everywhere.

 

"Those Americans Wanted Me To Come And Stay Six Months With Them In

New York. How She Did Press Me To Come! ... The Brookes,  They Want Me

To Come And Stay In The Country With Them; They'd Give Me Horses To

Ride,  Guns To Shoot,  And I'd Get The Girls Besides. They Looked

Rather Greedily At Me Just Now. How Jealous Poor Old Emily Is Of

Them! She Says I'd 'Go To The End Of The Earth For Them'--And Would

Not Raise A Little Finger For Her. Dear Old Emily,  She Wasn't A Bit

Cross The Other Night When I Wouldn't Go Home With Her. I Must Go And

See Her. She Says She Loved Me--Really Loved Me! ... She Used To Lie

And Dream Of Pulling Me Out Of Burning Houses. I Wonder Why I Am

Liked! How Intangible,  And Yet How Real! What A Wonderful Character I

Would Make In A Novel!"

 

At That Moment He Saw Mrs. Byril In The Crowd; But Notwithstanding

His Kind Thoughts Of Her,  He Prayed She Might Pass Without Seeing

Him. Perceiving Lady Helen Walking With Her Husband And Harding,  He

Followed Her Slim Figure With His Eyes,  Remembering What Seymour's

Good Looks Had Brought Him,  For He Envied All Love,  Desiring To Be

Himself All That Women Desire. Then His Thoughts Wandered. The

Decoration Of The Park Absorbed Him--The Nobility Of A Group Of

Horses,  The Attractiveness Of Some Dresses; And Amid All This

Elegance And Parade He Dreamed Of Tragedy--Of Some Queen Blowing Her

Brains Out For Him--And He Saw The Fashionable Dress And The Blood

Oozing From The Temple,  Trickling Slowly Through The Sand. Then Lords

Muchross And Snowdown Passed,  And They Passed Without Acknowledging

Him!

 

"Cads,  Cads,  Damn Them!" His Face Changed Expression. "I May Rise To

Any Height,  Queens May Fall Down And Worship Me,  But I May Never Undo

My Birth. Not To Have Been Born A Gentleman! That Is To Say,  Of A

Long Line--A Family With A History. Not To Be Able To Whisper,  'I May

Lose Everything,  All Troubles May Be Mine,  But The Fact Remains That

I Was Born A Gentleman!' Those Two Men Who Cut Me Are Lords. What A

Delight In One's Life To Have A Name All To One's Self!" And Then

Mike Lost Himself In A Maze Of Little Dreams. A Gleam Of Mail;

Escutcheons And Castles; A Hawk Flew From Fingers Fair; A Lady

Clasped Her Hands When The Lances Shivered In The Tourney; And Mike

Was The Hero That Persisted In The Course Of This Shifting Little

Dream.

 

The Brookes--Sally And Maggie--Stopped To Speak To Him,  And He Went

To Lunch With Them. His Interest In All They Did And Said Was

Unbounded,  And That He Might Not Be Able To Reproach Himself With

Waste Of Time,  He Contrived By Hint And Allusion To Lay The

Foundation For A Future Intrigue With One Of The Girls.

 

Lily Young,  However,  Had Never Been Forgotten; She Had Been As

Constantly Present In His Mind As This Sense Of The Sunshine And His

Own Happy Condition. She Had Been Parcel Of And One With These But

Now; As He Drove To See Her,  He Separated Her From The Morning

Phenomena Of His Life,  And Began To Think Definitely Of Her.

 

Smiling,  He Called Himself A Brute,  And Regretted His Failure. But In

Her Presence His Cynicism Was Evanescent. She Sat On A Little Sofa,

Covered With An Indian Shawl; Behind Her Was A Great Bronze,  The

Celebrated Gift Of A Celebrated Rajah To Her Mother. Mrs. Young Had

Been On A Tour In The East With Her Husband,  And Ever Since