Mike Fletcher - George Moore (best books to read now TXT) 📗
- Author: George Moore
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Great Stillness. Then He Thought Of The Old Days When The _Pilgrim_
Was Written In These Rooms, And Of The Youthfulness Of Those Days;
And He Maddened When He Recalled The Evenings Of Artistic Converse In
John Norton's Room--How High Were Then Their Aspirations! The Temple,
Too, Seemed To Have Lost Youth And Gaiety. No Longer Did He Meet His
Old Friends In The Eating-Houses And Taverns. Everything Had Been
Dispersed Or Lost. Some Were Married, Some Had Died.
Then The Solitude Grew More Unbearable And He Turned From It, Hoping
He Might Meet Some One He Knew. As He Passed Up Temple Lane He Saw A
Slender Woman Dressed In Black, Talking To The Policemen. He Had
Often Seen Her About The Courts And Buildings, And Had Accosted Her,
But She Had Passed Without Heeding. Curious To Hear Who And What She
Was, Mike Entered Into Conversation With One Of The Policemen.
"She! We Calls Her Old Specks, Sir."
"I Have Often Seen Her About, And I Spoke To Her Once, But She Didn't
Answer."
"She Didn't Hear You, Sir; She's A Little Deaf. A Real Good Sort,
Sir, Is Old Jenny. She's Always About Here. She Was Brought Out In
The Temple; She Lived Eight Years With A Q.C., Sir. He's Dead. A
Strapping Fine Wench She Was Then, I Can Tell You."
"And What Does She Do Now?"
"She Has Three Or Four Friends Here. She Goes To See Mr.--I Can't
Think Of His Name--You Know Him, The Red-Whiskered Man In Dr.
Johnson's Buildings. You Have Seen Him In The Probate Court Many A
Time." And Then In Defence Of Her Respectability, If Not Of Her
Morals, The Policeman Said, "You'll Never See Her About The Streets,
Sir, She Only Comes To The Temple."
Old Jenny Stood Talking To The Younger Member Of The Force. When She
Didn't Hear Him She Cooed In The Soft, Sweet Way Of Deaf Women; And
Her Genial Laugh Told Mike That The Policeman Was Not Wrong When He
Described Her As A Real Good Sort. She Spoke Of Her Last 'Bus, And On
Being Told The Time Gathered Up Her Skirts And Ran Up The Lane.
Chapter 10 Pg 141
Then The Policemen Related Anecdotes Concerning Their Own And The
General Amativeness Of The Temple.
"But, Lor, Sir, It Is Nothing Now To What It Used To Be! Some Years
Ago, Half The Women Of London Used To Be In Here Of A Night; Now
There's Very Little Going On--An Occasional Kick Up, But Nothing To
Speak Of."
"What Are You Laughing At?" Said Mike, Looking From One To The Other.
The Policemen Consulted Each Other, And Then One Said--
"You Didn't Hear About The Little Shindy We Had Here Last Night, Sir?
It Was In Elm Court, Just Behind You, Sir. We Heard Some One Shouting
For The Police; We Couldn't Make Out Where The Shouting Came From
First, We Were Looking About--The Echo In These Courts Makes It Very
Difficult To Say Where A Voice Comes From. At Last We Saw The Fellow
At The Window, And We Went Up. He Met Us At The Door. He Said,
'Policemen, The Lady Knocked At My Door And Asked For A Drink; I
Didn't Notice That She Was Drunk, And I Gave Her A Brandy-And-Soda,
And Before I Could Stop Her She Undressed Herself!' There Was The
Lady Right Enough, In Her Chemise, Sitting In The Arm-Chair, As Drunk
As A Lord, Humming And Singing As Gay, Sir, As Any Little Bird. Then
The Party Says, 'Policeman, Do Your Duty!' I Says, 'What Is My Duty?'
He Says, 'Policeman, I'll Report You!' I Says, 'Report Yourself. I
Knows My Duty.' He Says, 'Policeman, Remove That Woman!' I Says, 'I
Can't Remove Her In That State. Tell Her To Dress Herself And I'll
Remove Her.' Well, The Long And The Short Of It, Sir, Is, That We Had
To Dress Her Between Us, And I Never Had Such A Job."
The Exceeding Difficulties Of This Toilette, As Narrated By The
Stolid Policeman, Made Mike Laugh Consummately. Then Alternately, And
In Conjunction, The Policemen Told Stories Concerning Pursuits
Through The Areas And Cellars With Which King's Bench Walk Abounds.
"It Was From Paper Buildings That The Little Girl Came From Who Tried
To Drown Herself In The Fountain."
"Oh, I Haven't Heard About Her," Said Mike. "She Tried To Drown
Herself In The Fountain, Did She? Crossed In Love; Tired Of Life;
Which Was It?"
"Neither, Sir; She Was A Bit Drunk, That Was About It. My Mate Could
Tell You About Her, He Pulled Her Out. She's Up Before The Magistrate
To-Day Again."
"Just Fancy, Bringing A Person Up Before A Magistrate Because She
Wanted To Commit Suicide! Did Any One Ever Hear Such Rot? If Our Own
Persons Don't Belong To Us, I Don't Know What Does. But Tell Me About
Her."
"She Went Up To See A Party That Lives In Pump Court. We Was At Home,
So She Picks Up Her Skirts, Runs Across Here, And Throws Herself In.
I See Her Run Across, And Follows Her; But I Had To Get Into The
Water To Get Her Out; I Was Wet To The Waist--There's About Four Feet
Of Water In That 'Ere Fountain."
"And She?"
"She Had Fainted. We Had To Send For A Cab To Get Her To The Station,
Sir."
At That Moment The Presence Of The Sergeant Hurried The Policemen
Away, And Mike Was Left Alone. The Warm Night Air Was Full Of The
Fragrance Of The Leaves, And He Was Alive To The Sensation Of The
Foliage Spreading Above Him, And Deepening Amid The Branches Of The
Tall Plane-Trees That Sequestered And Shadowed The Fountain. They
Grew Along The Walls, Forming A Quiet Dell, In Whose Garden Silence
The Dripping Fountain Sang Its Song Of Falling Water. Light And Shade
Fell Picturesquely About The Steps Descending To The Gardens, And The
Chapter 10 Pg 142Parapeted Buildings Fell In Black Shadows Upon The Sward, And Stood
Sharp Upon The Moon Illuminated Blue. Mike Sat Beneath The
Plane-Trees, And The Suasive Silence, Sweetly Tuned By The Dripping
Water, Murmured In His Soul Dismal Sorrowings. Over The Cup, Whence
Issued The Jet That Played During The Day, The Water Flowed. There
Were There The Large Leaves Of Some Aquatic Plant, And Mike Wondered
If, Had The Policeman Not Rescued The Girl, She Would Now Be In
Perfect Peace, Instead Of Dragged Before A Magistrate And Forced To
Promise To Bear Her Misery.
"A Pretty Little Tale," He Thought, And He Saw Her Floating In
Shadowy Water In Pallor And Beauty, And Reconciliation With Nature.
"Why See Another Day? I Must Die Very Soon, Why Not At Once?
Thousands Have Grieved As I Am Grieving In This Self-Same Place, Have
Asked The Same Sad Questions. Sitting Under These Ancient Walls Young
Men Have Dreamed As I Am Dreaming--No New Thoughts Are Mine. For Five
Thousand Years Man Has Asked Himself Why He Lives. Five Thousand
Years Have Changed The Face Of The World And The Mind Of Man; No
Thought Has Resisted The Universal Transformation Of Thought, Save
That One Thought--Why Live? Men Change Their Gods, But One Thought
Floats Immortal, Unchastened By The Teaching Of Any Mortal Gods. Why
See Another Day? Why Drink Again The Bitter Cup Of Life When We May
Drink The Waters Of Oblivion?"
He Walked Through Pump Court Slowly, Like A Prisoner Impeded By The
Heavy Chain, And At Every Step The Death Idea Clanked In His Brain.
All The Windows Were Full Of Light, And He Could Hear Women's Voices.
In Imagination He Saw The Young Men Sitting Round The Sparely
Furnished Rooms, Law-Books And Broken Chairs--Smoking And Drinking,
Playing The Piano, Singing, Thinking They Were Enjoying Themselves. A
Few Years And All Would Be Over For Them As All Was Over Now For Him.
But Never Would They Drink Of Life As He Had Drunk, He Was The Type
Of That Of Which They Were But Imperfect And Inconclusive Figments.
Was He Not The Don Juan And The Poet--A Sort Of Byron Doubled With
Byron's Hero? But He Was Without Genius; Had He Genius, Genius Would
Force Him To Live.
He Considered How Far In His Pessimism He Was A Representative Of The
Century. He Thought How Much Better He Would Have Done In Another
Age, And How Out Of Sympathy He Was With The Utilitarian Dullness Of
The Present Time; How Much More Brilliant He Would Have Been Had He
Lived At Any Other Period Of The Temple's History. Then He Stopped To
Study The Style Of The Old Staircase, The Rough Woodwork Twisting Up
The Wall So Narrowly, The Great Banisters Full Of Shadow Lighted By
The Flickering Lanterns. The Yellowing Colonnade--Its Beams And
Overhanging Fronts Were Also Full Of Suggestion, And The Suggestion
Of Old Time Was Enforced By The Sign-Board Of A Wig-Maker.
"The Last Of An Ancient Industry," Thought Mike. "The Wig Is
Representative Of The Seventeenth As The Silk Hat Is Of The
Nineteenth Century. I Wonder Why I Am So Strongly Fascinated With The
Seventeenth Century?--I, A Peasant; Atavism, I Suppose; My Family
Were Not Always Peasants."
Turning From The Old Latin Inscription He Viewed The Church, So
Evocative In Its Fortress Form Of An Earlier And More Romantic
Century. The Clocks Were Striking One, Two Hours Would Bring The Dawn
Close Again Upon The Verge Of The World. Mike Trembled And Thought
How He Might Escape. The Beauty Of The Cone Of The Church Was
Outlined Upon The Sky, And He Dreamed, As He Walked Round The
Shadow-Filled Porch, Full Of Figures In Prayer And Figures Holding
Scrolls, Of The White-Robed Knights, Their Red Crosses, Their Long
Swords, And Their Banner Called Beauseant. He Dreamed Himself Grand
Master Of The Order; Saw Himself In Chain Armour Charging The
Saracen. The Story Of The Terrible Idol With The Golden Eyes, The
Secret Rites, The Knight Led From The Penitential Cell And Buried At
Daybreak, The Execution Of The Grand Master At The Stake, Turned In
His Head Fitfully; Cloud-Shapes That Passed, Floating, Changing
Incessantly, Suddenly Disappearing, Leaving Him Again Mike Fletcher,
A Strained, Agonized Soul Of Our Time, Haunted And Hunted By An Idea,
Overpowered By An Idea As A Wolf By A Hound.
Chapter 10 Pg 143
His Life Had Been From The First A Series Of Attempts To Escape From
The Idea. His Loves, His Poetry, His Restlessness Were All Derivative
From This One Idea. Among Those Whose Brain Plays A Part In Their
Existence There Is A Life Idea,
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