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

Very

Difficult To Please; Then I Must Please Him,  And Sufficiently For Him

To Give Up His Whole Time To Me. And He Must Not Be Poor,  For

Although He Would Not Give Me Money,  It Would Cost Him Several

Hundreds A Year To Invite Me To Dinner And Send Me Flowers. And Where

Am I To Find This Combination Of Qualities?' Can't You Hear Her

Saying It,  Her Sweet Face Like A Tea-Rose,  Those Innocent Blue Eyes

All Laughing With Happiness? The Great Stockbroker,  Who Has Been With

Her For The Last Ten Years,  Settled Fifty Thousand Pounds When He

First Took Her Up. She Was Speaking To Me About Him The Other Day,

And When I Said,  'Why Didn't You Leave Him When The Money Was

Settled?' She Said,  'Oh No,  I Wouldn't Do A Dirty Trick Like That;

I Contented Myself Simply By Being Unfaithful To Him.'"

 

"This Is No Doubt Very Clever,  But If You Put All You Have Told Us

Into Your Article,  You'll Certainly Have The Paper Turned Off The

Book-Stalls."

Chapter 3 Pg 22

 

The Conversation Paused. Every One Finished His Brandy-And-Soda,  And

The Correction Of Proofs Was Continued In Silence,  Interrupted Only

By An Occasional Oath Or A Word Of Remonstrance From Frank,  Who

Begged Drake,  A Huge-Shouldered Man,  Whose Hand Was Never Out Of The

Cigarette-Box,  Not To Drop The Lighted Ends On The Carpet. Mike Was

Reading Harding's Article.

 

"I Think We Shall Have A Good Number This Week," Said Mike. "But We

Want A Piece Of Verse. I Wonder If You Could Get Something From John

Norton. What Do You Think Of Norton,  Harding?"

 

"He Is One Of The Most Interesting Men I Know. His Pessimism,  His

Catholicism,  His Yearning For Ritual,  His Very Genuine Hatred Of

Women,  It All Fascinates Me."

 

"What Do You Think Of That Poem He Told Us Of The Other Night?"

 

"Intensely Interesting; But He Will Never Be Able To Complete It. A

Man May Be Full Of Talent And Yet Be Nothing Of An Artist; A Man May

Be Far Less Clever Than Norton,  And With A Subtler Artistic Sense. If

A Seal Had Really Something To Say,  I Believe It Would Find A Way Of

Saying It; But Has John Norton Really Got Any Idea So Overwhelmingly

New And Personal That It Would Force A Way Of Utterance Where None

Existed? The Christian Creed With Its Tale Of Mary Must Be Of All

Creeds Most Antipathetic To His Natural Instincts,  He Nevertheless

Accepts It.... If You Agitate A Pool From Different Sides You Must

Stir Up Mud,  And This Is What Occurs In Norton's Brain; It Is

Agitated Equally From Different Sides,  And The Result Is Mud."

 

Mike Looked At Harding Inquiringly,  For A Moment Wondered If The

Novelist Understood Him As He Seemed To Understand Norton.

 

A Knock Was Heard,  And Norton Entered. His Popularity Was Visible In

The Pleasant Smiles And Words Which Greeted Him.

 

"You Are Just The Man We Want," Cried Frank. "We Want To Publish One

Of Your Poems In The Paper This Week."

 

"I Have Burnt My Poems," He Answered,  With Something More Of

Sacerdotal Tone And Gesture Than Usual.

 

All The Scribblers Looked Up. "You Don't Mean To Say Seriously That

You Have Burnt Your Poems?"

 

"Yes; But I Do Not Care To Discuss My Reasons. You Do Not Feel As I

Do."

 

"You Mean To Say That You Have Burnt _The Last Struggle_--The Poem

You Told Us About The Other Night?"

 

"Yes,  I Felt I Could Not Reconcile Its Teaching,  Or I Should Say The

Tendency Of Its Teaching,  To My Religion. I Do Not Regret--Besides,  I

Had To Do It; I Felt I Was Going Off My Head. I Should Have Gone Mad.

I Have Been Through Agonies. I Could Not Think. Thought And Pain And

Trouble Were As One In My Brain. I Heard Voices.... I Had To Do It.

And Now A Great Calm Has Come. I Feel Much Better."

 

"You Are A Curious Chap."

 

Then At The End Of A Long Silence John Said,  As If He Wished To

Change The Conversation--

 

"Even Though I Did Burn My Pessimistic Poem,  The World Will Not Go

Without One. You Are Writing A Poem On Schopenhauer's Philosophy.

It Is Hard To Associate Pessimism With You."

 

"Only Because You Take The Ordinary View Of The Tendency Of

Pessimistic Teaching," Said Mike. "If You Want A Young And Laughing

World,  Preach Schopenhauer At Every Street Corner; If You Want A

Sober Utilitarian World,  Preach Comte."

Chapter 3 Pg 23

 

"Doesn't Much Matter What The World Is As Long As It Is Not Sober,"

Chuckled Platt,  The Paragraph-Writing Youth At The Bottom Of The

Table.

 

"Hold Your Tongue!" Cried Drake,  And He Lighted Another Cigarette

Preparatory To Fixing His Whole Attention On The Paradox That Mike

Was About To Enounce.

 

"The Optimist Believes In The Regeneration Of The Race,  In Its

Ultimate Perfectibility,  The Synthesis Of Humanity,  The Providential

Idea,  And The Path Of The Future; He Therefore Puts On A Shovel Hat,

Cries Out Against Lust,  And Depreciates Prostitution."

 

"Oh,  The Brute!" Chuckled The Wizen Youth,  "Without Prostitutes And

Public-Houses! What A World To Live In!"

 

"The Optimist Counsels Manual Labour For All. The Pessimist Believes

That Forgetfulness And Nothingness Is The Whole Of Man. He Says,  'I

Defy The Wisest Of You To Tell Me Why I Am Here,  And Being Here,  What

Good Is Gained By My Assisting To Bring Others Here.' The Pessimist

Is Therefore The Gay Johnny,  And The Optimist Is The Melancholy

Johnny. The Former Drinks Champagne And Takes His 'Tart' Out To

Dinner,  The Latter Says That Life Is Not Intended To Be Happy

In--That There Is Plenty Of Time To Rest When You Are Dead."

 

John Laughed Loudly; But A Moment After,  Reassuming His Look Of

Admonition,  He Asked Mike To Tell Him About His Poem.

 

"The Subject Is Astonishingly Beautiful," Said Mike; "I Only Speak Of

The Subject; No One,  Not Even Victor Hugo Or Shelley,  Ever Conceived

A Finer Theme. But They Had Execution,  I Have Only The Idea. I

Suppose The World To Have Ended; But Ended,  How? Man Has At Last

Recognized That Life Is,  In Equal Parts,  Misery And Abomination,  And

Has Resolved That It Shall Cease. The Tide Of Passion Has Again

Risen,  And Lashed By Repression To Tenfold Fury,  The Shores Of Life

Have Again Been Strewn With New Victims; But Knowledge--Calm,

Will-Less Knowledge--Has Gradually Invaded All Hearts; And The

Restless,  Shifting Sea (Which Is Passion) Shrinks To Its Furthest

Limits.

 

"There Have Been Messiahs,  There Have Been Persecutions,  But The Word

Has Been Preached Unintermittently. Crowds Have Gathered To Listen

To The Wild-Eyed Prophets. You See Them On The Desert Promontories,

Preaching That Human Life Must Cease; They Call It A Disgraceful

Episode In The Life Of One Of The Meanest Of The Planets--You See

Them Hunted And Tortured As Were Their Ancestors,  The Christians Of

The Reign Of Diocletian. You See Them Entering Cottage Doors And

Making Converts In Humble Homes. The World,  Grown Tired Of Vain

Misery,  Accepts Oblivion.

 

"The Rage And The Seething Of The Sea Is The Image I Select To

Represent The Struggle For Life. The Dawn Is My Image For The

Diffusion And Triumph Of Sufficient Reason. In A Couple Of Hundred

Lines I Have Set My Scene,  And I Begin. It Is In The Plains Of

Normandy; Of Countless Millions Only Two Friends Remain. One Of Them

Is Dying. As The Stars Recede He Stretches His Hand To His Companion,

Breathes Once More,  Looking Him In The Face,  Joyous In The Attainment

Of Final Rest. A Hole Is Scraped,  And The Last Burial Is Achieved.

Then The Man,  A Young Beautiful Man With The Pallor Of Long Vigils

And Spiritual Combat Upon His Face,  Arises.

 

"The Scene Echoes Strangely The Asceticism That Produced It.

Rose-Garden And Vineyard Are Gone; There Are No Fields,  Nor

Hedgerows,  Nor Gables Seen Picturesquely On A Sky,  Human With Smoke

Mildly Ascending. A Broken Wall That A Great Elm Tears And Rends,

Startles The Silence; Apple-Orchards Spread No Flowery Snow,  And The

Familiar Thrushes Have Deserted The Moss-Grown Trees,  In Other Times

Their Trees; And The Virgin Forest Ceases Only To Make Bleak Place

For Marish Plains With Lonely Pools And Stagnating Streams,  Where

Perchance A Heron Rises On Blue And Heavy Wings.

Chapter 3 Pg 24

 

"All The Beautiful Colours The World Had Worn When She Was Man's

Mistress Are Gone,  And Now,  As If Mourning For Her Lover And Lord,

She Is Clad Only In Sombre Raiment. Since Her Lord Departed She Bears

But Scanty Fruit,  And Since Her Lover Left Her,  She That Was Glad Has

Grown Morose; Her Joy Seems To Have Died With His; And The Feeling Of

Gloom Is Heightened,  When At The Sound Of The Man's Footsteps A Pack

Of Wild Dogs Escape From A Ruin,  Where They Have Been Sleeping,  And

Wake The Forest With Lugubrious Yelps And Barks. About The Dismantled

Porches No Single Rose--The Survival Of Roses Planted By Some Fair

Woman's Hand--Remains To Tell That Man Was Once There--Worked There

For His Daily Bread,  Seeking A Goodness And Truth In Life Which Was

Not His Lot To Attain.

 

"There Are Few Open Spaces,  And The Man Has To Follow The Tracks Of

Animals. Sometimes He Comes Upon A Herd Of Horses Feeding In A Glade;

They Turn And Look Upon Him In A Round-Eyed Surprise,  And He Sees

Them Galloping On The Hill-Sides,  Their Manes And Tails Floating In

The Wind.

 

"Paris Is Covered With Brushwood,  And Trees And Wood From The Shore

Have Torn Away The Bridges,  Of Which Only A Few Fragments Remain. Dim

And Desolate Are Those Marshes Now In The Twilight Shedding.

 

"The River Swirls Through Multitudinous Ruins,  Lighted By A Crescent

Moon; Clouds Hurry And Gather And Bear Away The Day. The Man Stands

Like A Saint Of Old,  Who,  On The Last Verge Of The Desert,  Turns And

Smiles Upon The World He Conquered.

 

"The Great Night Collects And Advances In Shadow; And Wandering

Vapour,  Taking Fire In The Darkness,  Rolls,  Tumbling Over And Over

Like Fiery Serpents,  Through Loneliness And Reeds.

 

"But In The Eternal Sunshine Of The South Flowers Have Not Become

Extinct; Winds Have Carried Seeds Hither And Thither,  And The Earth

Has Waxed Lovely,  And The Calm Of The Spiritual Evenings Of The

Adriatic Descend Upon Eternal Perfume And The Songs Of Birds. Symbol

Of Pain Or Joy There Is None,  And The August Silence Is Undisturbed

By Tears. From Rotting Hangings In Venice Rats Run,  And That Idle

Wave Of Palace-Stairs Laps In Listless Leisure The Fallen