Mike Fletcher - George Moore (best books to read now TXT) 📗
- Author: George Moore
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He Is Too Unwell To See Any One To-Day, Sir; He Is Very Sorry, But If
You Would Write' ... If I Would Write! Think Of It, I Who Was Once
His Heir, And Used The Place As If It Were Mine! Poor Old Burton
Was Quite Overcome. He Tried To Ask Me To Come Into The Dining-Room
And Have Some Lunch. If I Go There Again I Shall Be Asked Into The
Servants' Hall. And At That Moment The Nurse Came, Wheeling The Baby
In The Perambulator Through The Hall, Going Out For An Airing. I
Tried Not To Look, But Couldn't Restrain My Eyes, And The Nurse
Stopped And Said, 'Now Then, Dear, Give Your Hand To The Gentleman,
And Tell Him Your Name.' The Little Thing Looked Up, Its Blue Eyes
Staring Out Of Its Sallow Face, And It Held Out The Little Putty-Like
Hand. Poor Old Burton Turned Aside, He Couldn't Stand It Any Longer,
And Walked Into The Dining-Room."
"And How Did You Get Away?" Asked Mike, Who Saw His Friend's
Misfortune In The Light Of An Exquisite Chapter In A Novel. "How Sad
The Old Place Must Have Seemed To You!"
"You Are Thinking How You Could Put It In A Book--How Brutal You
Are!"
"I Assure You You Are Wrong. I Can't Help Trying To Realize Your
Sensations, But That Doesn't Prevent Me From Being Very Sorry For
You, And I'm Sure I Shall Be Very Pleased To Help You. Do You Want
Any Money? Don't Be Shy About Saying Yes. I Haven't Forgotten How You
Helped Me."
"I Really Don't Like To Ask You, You've Been Very Good As It Is.
However, If You Could Spare Me A Tenner?"
"Of Course I Can. Let's Send These Jarvies Away, And Come Into My
Hotel, And I'll Write You A Cheque."
The Sum Frank Asked For Revealed To Mike Exactly The Depth To Which
He Had Sunk Since They Had Last Met. Small As It Was, However, It
Seemed To Have Had Considerable Effect In Reviving Frank's Spirits,
And He Proceeded Quite Cheerfully Into The Tale Of His Misfortune.
Now It Seemed To Strike Him Too In Quite A Literary Light, And He
Made Philosophic Comments On Its Various Aspects, As He Might On The
Hero Of A Book Which He Was Engaged On Or Contemplated Writing.
"No," He Said, "You Were Quite Wrong In Supposing That I Waited To
Look Back On The Old Places. I Got Out Of The Park Through A Wood So
As To Avoid The Gate-Keeper. In Moments Of Great Despair We Don't
Lapse Into Pensive Contemplation." ... He Stopped To Pull At The
Cigar Mike Had Given Him, And When He Had Got It Well Alight, He
Said, "It Was Really Most Dramatic, It Would Make A Splendid Scene In
A Play; You Might Make Him Murder The Baby."
Half An Hour After Mike Bade His Friend Good-Bye, Glad To Be Rid Of
Him.
"He's Going Back To That Beastly Wife Who Lives In Some Dirty
Lodging. How Lucky I Was, After All, Not To Marry."
Then, Remembering The Newspaper, And The Use It Might Be To Him When
In Parliament, He Rushed After Frank. When The _Pilgrim_ Was
Mentioned Frank's Face Changed Expression, And He Seemed Stirred With
Deeper Grief Than When He Related The Story Of His Disinheritance. He
Had No Further Connection With The Paper. Thigh Had Worked Him Out Of
It.
"I Never Really Despaired," He Said, "Until I Lost My Paper. Thigh
Has Asked Me To Send Him Paragraphs, But Of Course I'm Not Going To
Do That."
Chapter 9 Pg 130"Why Not?"
"Well, Hang It, After Being The Editor Of A Paper, You Aren't Going
To Send In Paragraphs On Approval. It Isn't Good Enough. When I Go
Back To London I Shall Try To Get A Sub-Editorship."
Mike Pressed Another Tenner Upon Him, And Returning To The
Smoking-Room, And Throwing Himself Into An Arm-Chair, He Lapsed Into
Dreams Of The Bands And The Banners That Awaited Him. When Animal
Spirits Were Ebullient In Him, He Regarded His Election In The Light
Of A Vulgar Practical Joke; When The Philosophic Mood Was Upon Him He
Turned From All Thought Of It As From The Smell Of A Dirty Kitchen
Coming Through A Grating.
Chapter 10 Pg 131
During The First Session Mike Was Hampered And Inconvenienced By The
Forms Of The House; In The Second, He Began To Weary Of Its Routine.
His Wit And Paradox Attracted Some Attention; He Made One Almost
Successful Speech, Many That Stirred And Stimulated The Minds Of
Celebrated Listeners; But For All That He Failed. His Failure To
Redeem The Expectations Of His Friends, Produced In Him Much Stress
And Pain Of Mind, The More Acute Because He Was Fully Alive To The
Cause. He Ascribed It Rightly To Certain Inherent Flaws In His
Character. "The World Believes In Those Who Believe In It. Such
Belief May Prove A Lack Of Intelligence On The Part Of The Believer,
But It Secures Him Success, And Success Is After All The Only Thing
That Compensates For The Evil Of Life."
Always Impressed By New Ideas, Rarely Holding To Any Impression Long,
Finding All Hollow And Common Very Soon, He Had Been Taken With The
Importance Of The National Assembly, But It Had Hardly Passed Into
Its Third Session When All Illusion Had Vanished, And Mike Ridiculed
Parliamentary Ambitions In The Various Chambers Of The Barristers He
Frequented.
It Was May-Time, And Never Did The Temple Wear A More Gracious
Aspect. The River Was Full Of Hay-Boats, The Gardens Were Green With
Summer Hours. Through The Dim Sky, Above The Conical Roof Of The Dear
Church, The Pigeons Fled In Rapid Quest, And In Garden Court, Beneath
The Plane-Trees, Old Folk Dozed, Listening To The Rippling Tune Of
The Fountain And The Shrilling Of The Sparrows. In King's Bench Walk
The Waving Branches Were Full Of Their Little Brown Bodies. Sparrows
Everywhere, Flying From The Trees To The Eaves, Hopping On The Golden
Gravel, Beautifully Carpeted With The Rich Shadows Of The
Trees--Unabashed Little Birds, Scarcely Deigning To Move Out Of The
Path Of The Young Men As They Passed To And Fro From Their Offices To
The Library. "That Sweet, Grave Place Where We Weave Our Ropes Of
Sand," So Mike Used To Speak Of It.
The Primness Of The Books, The Little Galleries Guarded By Brass
Railings, Here And There A Reading-Desk, The Sweet Silence Of The
Place, The Young Men Reading At The Polished Oak Tables, The Colour
Of The Oak And The Folios, The Rich Turkey Carpets, Lent To The
Library That Happy Air Of Separation From The Brutalities Of Life
Which Is Almost Sanctity. These, The Familiar Aspects Of The Temple,
Moved Him With All Their Old Enchantments; He Lingered In The Warm
Summer Mornings When All The Temple Was Astir, Gossiping With The
Students, Or Leaning Upon The Balustrades In Pensive Contemplation Of
The Fleet River.
But These Moods Of Passive Happiness Were Interrupted More Frequently
Chapter 10 Pg 132Than They Had Been In Earlier Years By The Old Whispering Voice, Now
Grown Strangely Distinct, Which Asked, But No Longer Through Laughing
Lips, If It Were Possible To Discern Any Purpose In Life, And If All
Thoughts And Things Were Not As Vain As A Little Measure Of Sand. The
Dark Fruit That Hangs So Alluringly Over The Wall Of The Garden Of
Life Now Met His Eyes Frequently, Tempting Him, And Perforce He Must
Stay To Touch And Consider It. Then, Resolved To Baffle At All Costs
The Disease Which He Now Knew Pursued Him, He Plunged In The Crowd Of
Drunkenness And Debauchery Which Swelled The Strand At Night. He Was
Found Where Prize-Fighters Brawled, And Card-Sharpers Cajoled; Where
Hall Singers Fed On Truffled Dishes, And Courtesans Laughed And
Called For Champagne. He Was Seen In Lubini's Sprawling Over Luncheon
Tables Till Late In The Afternoon, And At Nightfall Lingering About
The Corners Of The Streets, Talking To The Women That Passed. In Such
Low Form Of Vice He Sought Escape. He Turned To Gambling, Risking
Large Sums, Sometimes Imperilling His Fortune For The Sake Of The
Assuagement Such Danger Brought Of The Besetting Sin. But Luck Poured
Thousands Into His Hands; And He Applied Himself To The Ruin Of One
Seeking To Bring About His Death.
"Before I Kill Myself," He Said, "I Will Kill Others; I'm Weary Of
Playing At Faust, Now I'll Play At Mephistopheles."
Henceforth All Men Who Had Money, Or Friends Who Had Money, Were
Invited To Temple Gardens. You Met There Members Of Both Houses Of
Parliament--The Successors Of Muchross And Snowdown; And Men
Exquisitely Dressed, With Quick, Penetrating Eyes, Assembled There,
Actors And Owners Of Race-Horses Galore, And Bright-Complexioned
Young Men Of Many Affections. Rising Now From The Piano One Is Heard
To Say Reproachfully, "You Never Admire Anything I Wear," To A Grave
Friend Who Had Passed Some Criticism On The Flower In The Young Man's
Button-Hole.
It Was Still Early In The Evening, And The Usual Company Had Not Yet
Arrived. Harding Stood On The White Fur Hearthrug, His Legs Slightly
Apart, Smoking. Mike Lay In An Easy-Chair. His Eyes Were Upon
Harding, Whom He Had Not Seen For Some Years, And The Sight Of Him
Recalled The Years When They Wrote The _Pilgrim_ Together.
He Thought How Splendid Were Then His Enthusiasms And How Genuine His
Delight In Life. It Was In This Very Room That He Kissed Lily For The
First Time. That Happy Day. Well Did He Remember How The Sun Shone
Upon The Great River, How The Hay-Boats Sailed, How The City Rose
Like A Vision Out Of The Mist. But Lily Lies Asleep, Far Away In A
Southern Land; She Lies Sleeping, Facing Italy--That Italy Which They
Should Have Seen And Dreamed Together. At That Moment, He Brushed
From His Book A Little Green Insect That Had Come Out Of The Night,
And It Disappeared In Faint Dust.
It Was In This Room He Had Seen Lady Helen For The Last Time; And He
Remembered How, When He Returned To Her, After Having Taken Lily Back
To The Dancing-Room, He Had Found Her Reading A Letter, And Almost
The Very Words Of The Conversation It Had Given Rise To Came Back To
Him, And Her Almost Aggressive Despair. No One Could Say Why She Had
Shot Herself. Who Was The Man That Had Deserted Her? What Was He
Like? Was It Harding? It Was Certainly For A Lover Who Had Tired Of
Her; And Mike Wondered How
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