Mike Fletcher - George Moore (best books to read now TXT) 📗
- Author: George Moore
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And One Day A Missionary And His Wife Came With A Harmonium And
Tracts. The Scene Was So Evocative Of The Civilization From Which
Mike Had Fled, That He At Once Was Drawn By A Power He Could Not
Explain Towards Them. He Told The Woman That He Had Adopted Arab
Life; Explaining That The Barbaric Soul Of Some Ancestor Lived In
Him, And That He Was Happy With These Primitive People. He Too Was A
Missionary, And Had Come To Warn And To Save Them From Christianity
And All Its Corollaries--Silk Hats, Piano Playing, Newspapers, And
Patent Medicines. The English Woman Argued With Him Plaintively; The
Husband Pressed A Bundle Of Tracts Upon Him; And This Very English
Couple Hoped He Would Come And See Them When He Returned To Town.
Mike Thanked Them, Insisting, However, That He Would Never Leave His
Beloved Desert, Or Desert His Friends. Next Day, However, He Forgot
To Fall On His Knees At Noon, And Outside The Encampment Stood
Looking In The Direction Whither The Missionaries Had Gone. A Strange
Sadness Seemed To Have Fallen Upon Him; He Cared No More For Plans
For Slave-Trading In The Interior, Or Plunder In The Desert. The
Scent Of The White Woman's Skin And Hair Was In His Nostrils; The
Nostalgia Of The Pavement Had Found Him, And He Knew He Must Leave
The Desert. One Morning He Was Missed In The Sahara, And A Fortnight
After He Was Seen In The Strand, Rushing Towards Lubini's.
"My Dear Fellow," He Said, Catching Hold Of A Friend's Arm, "I've
Been Living With The Arabs For The Last Two Years. Fancy, Not To Have
Seen A 'Tart' Or Drunk A Bottle Of Champagne For Two Years! Come And
Dine With Me. We'll Go On Afterwards To The Troc'."
Mike Looked Round As If To Assure Himself That He Was Back Again
Dining At Lubi's. It Was The Same Little White-Painted Gallery,
Filled With Courtesans, Music-Hall Singers, Drunken Lords, And
Sarcastic Journalists. He Noticed, However, That He Hardly Knew A
Single Face, And Was Unacquainted With The Amours Of Any Of The
Women. He Inquired For His Friends. Muchross Was Not Expected To
Live, Laura Was Underground, And Her Sister Was In America. Joining
In The General Hilarity, He Learnt That As The Singer Declined The
Prize-Fighter Was Going Up In Popular Estimation. A Young And Drunken
Lord Offered To Introduce Him "To A Very Warm Member."
He Felt Sure, However, That The Royal Would Stir In Him The Old
Enthusiasms, And His Heart Beat When He Saw In A Box Kitty Carew,
Looking Exactly The Same As The Day He Had Left Her; But She Insisted
On Taking Credit For Recognizing Him--So Changed Was He. He Felt
Somewhat Provincial, And No Woman Noticed Him, And It Was Clear That
Kitty Was No Longer Interested In Him. The Conversation Languished,
He Did Not Understand The Allusions, And He Was Surprised And A
Little Alarmed, Indeed, To Find That He Did Not Even Desire Their
Attention.
A Few Weeks Afterwards He Received An Invitation To A Ball. It Was
From A Woman Of Title, The Address Was Good, And He Resolved To Go.
It Was To One Of The Queen Anne Houses With Which Chelsea Abounds,
And As He Drove Towards It He Noted The Little Windows Aflame With
Light And Colour In The Blue Summer Night. On The Carved Cramped
Staircases Women Struck Him As Being More Than Usually Interesting,
And The Distinguished Air Of The Company Moved Him With Pleasurable
Sensations. A Thick Creamy Odour Of White Flowers Gratified The
Nostrils; The Slender Backs Of The Girls, The Shoulder-Blades
Squeezed Together By The Stays, Were Full Of Delicate Lines And
Tints. Mike Saw A Tall Blonde Girl, Slight As A Reed, So Blonde That
She Was Almost An Albino, Her Figure In Green Gauze Swaying. He Saw A
Girl So Brown That He Thought Of Palms And Cocoa-Nuts; She Passed Him
Smiling, All Her Girlish Soul Awake In The Enchantment Of The Dance.
He Said--
"No, I Don't Want To Be Introduced; She'd Only Bore Me; I Know
Exactly All She Would Say."
Studying These, He Thought Vaguely Of Dancing A Quadrille, And Was
Glad When The Lady Said She Never Danced. With A View To Astonish
Her, He Said--
Chapter 9 Pg 125
"Since I Became A Student Of Schopenhauer I Have Given Up Waltzing.
Now I Never Indulge In Anything But A Square."
For A Few Moments His Joke Amused Him, And He Regretted That John
Norton, Who Would Understand Its Humour, Was Not There To Laugh At
It. Having Eaten Supper He Chose The Deepest Chair Among The
Clustered Furniture Of The Drawing-Room, And Watched In Spleenic
Interest A Woman Of Thirty Flirting With A Young Man.
The Panelled Skirt Stretched Stiffly Over The Knees, The Legs Were
Crossed, One Drawn Slightly Back. The Young Man Sat Awkwardly On The
Edge Of The Sofa Nursing His Silk Foot. She Looked At Him Over Her
Fan, Inclining Her Blonde Head In Assent From Time To Time. The Young
Man Was Delicate--A Red Blonde. The Wall, Laden With Heavy Shelves,
Was Covered With An Embossed Paper Of A Deep Gold Hue. A Piece Of
Silk, Worked With Rich Flowers, Concealed The Volumes In A Light
Bookcase. A Lamp, Set On A Tall Brass Rod, Stood Behind The Lady,
Flooding Her Hair With Yellow Light, And Its Silk Shade Was Nearly
The Same Tint As The Lady's Hair. The Costly Furniture, The Lady And
Her Lover, The One In Black And White, The Other In Creamy Lace, The
Panelled Skirt Extended Over Her Knees, Filled The Room Like A
Picture--An Enticing But Somewhat Vulgar Picture Of Modern Refinement
And Taste. Mike Watched Them Curiously.
"Five Years Ago," He Thought, "I Was Young Like He Is; My Soul
Thrilled As His Is Thrilling Now."
Then, Seeing A Woman Whom He Knew Pass The Door On Her Way To The
Ball-Room, He Asked Her To Come And Sit With Him. He Did So
Remembering The Tentative Steps They Had Taken In Flirtation Three
Years Ago. So By Way Of Transition, He Said--
"The Last Time We Met We Spoke Of The Higher Education Of Women, And
You Said That Nothing Sharpened The Wits Like Promiscuous Flirtation.
Enchanting That Was, And It Made Poor Mrs.--Mrs.--I Really Can't
Remember--A Lady With Earnest Eyes--Look So Embarrassed."
"I Don't Believe I Ever Said Such A Thing; Anyhow, If I Did, I've
Entirely Changed My Views."
"What A Pity! But--Perhaps You Have Finished Your Education?"
"Yes, That's It; And Now I Must Go Up-Stairs. I Am Engaged For This
Dance."
"Clearly I'm Out Of It," Thought Mike. "Not Only Do People See Me
With New Eyes, But I See Them With Eyes That I Cannot Realize As
Mine."
The Drawing-Room Was Empty; All Had Gone Up-Stairs To Dance, So,
Finding Himself Alone, He Went To A Mirror To Note The Changes. At
First He Seemed The Same Mike Fletcher; But By Degrees He Recognized,
Or Thought He Recognized, Certain Remote And Subtle Differences. He
Thought That The Tenderness Which Used To Reside In His Eyes Was
Evanescent Or Gone. This Tenderness Had Always Been To Him A Subject
Of Surprise, And He Had Never Been Able To Satisfactorily Explain Its
Existence, Knowing As He Knew How All Tenderness Was In Contradiction
To His True Character; At Least, As He Understood Himself. This
Tenderness Was Now Replaced By A Lurking Evil Look, And He Remembered
That He Had Noted Such Evil Look In Certain Old Libertines. Certain
Lines About The Face Had Grown Harder, The Hollow Freckled Cheeks
Seemed To Have Sunk A Little, And The Pump-Handle Chin Seemed To Be
Defining Itself, Even To Caricature. There Was Still A Certain Air Of
_Bravoure_, Of Truculence, Which Attracted, And Might Still Charm. He
Turned From The Mirror, Went Up-Stairs, And Danced Three Or Four
Times. He Remained Until The Last, And Followed By An Increasing
Despair He Muttered, As He Got Into A Hansom--
"If This Is Civilization I'd Better Go Back To The Arabs."
The Solitude Of His Rooms Chilled Him In The Roots Of His Mind; He
Chapter 9 Pg 126Looked Around Like A Hunted Animal. He Threw Himself Into An
Arm-Chair. Like A Pure Fire Ennui Burned In His Heart.
"Oh, For Rest! I'm Weary Of Life. Oh, To Slip Back Into The
Unconscious, Whence We Came, And Pass For Ever From The Fitful
Buzzing Of The Midges. To Feel That Sharp, Cruel, Implacable
Externality Of Things Melt, Vanish, And Dissolve!
"The Utter Stupidity Of Life! There Never Was Anything So Stupid; I
Mean The Whole Thing--Our Ideas Of Right And Wrong, Love And Duty,
Etc. Great Scott! What Folly. The Strange Part Of It All Is Man's
Inability To Understand The Folly Of Living. When I Said To That
Woman To-Night That I Believed That The Only Evil Is To Bring
Children Into The World, She Said, 'But Then The World Would Come To
An End.' I Said, 'Do You Not Think It Would Be A Good Thing If It
Did?' Her Look Of Astonishment Proved How Unsuspicious She Is Of The
Truth. The Ordinary Run Of Mortals Do Not See Into The Heart Of
Things, Nor Do We, Except In Terribly Lucid Moments; Then, Seeing
Life Truly, Seeing It In Its Monstrous Deformity, We Cry Out Like
Children In The Night.
"Then Why Do We Go To Death With Terror-Stricken Faces And Reluctant
Feet? We Should Go To Death In Perfect Confidence, Like A Bride To
Her Husband, And With Eager And Smiling Eyes. But He Who Seeks Death
Goes With Wild Eyes--Upbraiding Life For Having Deceived Him; As If
Life Ever Did Anything Else! He Goes To Death As A Last Refuge. None
Go To Death In Deep Calm And Resignation, As A Child Goes To The Kind
And Thoughtful Nurse In Whose Arms He Will Find Beautiful Rest.
"It Was In This Very Room I Spoke To Lady Helen For The Last Time.
She Understood Very Well Indeed The Utter Worthlessness Of Life. How
Beautiful Was Her Death! That White Still Face, With Darkness
Stealing From The Closed Lids, A Film Of Light Shadow, Symbol Of
Deeper Shadow. The Unseen But Easily Imagined Hand Grasping The
Pistol, The Unseen But Imagined Red Stain Upon The Soft Texture Of
The Chemise! I Might Have Loved Her. She Saw Into The Heart Of
Things, And Like A Reasonable Being, Which She Was, Resolved To Rid
Herself Of The Burden. We Discussed The Whole Question In The Next
Room; And I Remember I Was Surprised To Find That She Was In No Wise
Deceived By The Casual Fallacy Of The Fools Who Say That The Good
Times Compensate For The Bad. Ah! How Little They Understand!
Pleasure! What Is It But The Correlative Of Pain? Nothing Short Of
Man's
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