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

Glories Of

Veronese. As It Is With Painters So It Is With Poets,  And Wolf Cubs

Tear The Pages Of The Last _Divine Comedy_ In The World. Rome Is His

Great Agony,  Her Shameful History Falls Before His Eyes Like A

Painted Curtain. All The Inner Nature Of Life Is Revealed To Him,  And

He Sees Into The Heart Of Things As Did Christ In The Garden Of

Gethsemane--Christ,  That Most Perfect Symbol Of The Denial Of The

Will To Live; And,  Like Christ,  He Cries That The World May Pass From

Him.

 

"But In Resignation,  Hatred And Horror Vanish,  And He Muses Again On

The More Than Human Redemption,  The Great Atonement That Man Has Made

For His Shameful Life's History; And Standing Amid The Orange And

Almond Trees,  Amid A Profusion Of Bloom That The World Seems To Have

Brought For Thank-Offering,  Amid An Apparent And Glorious Victory Of

Inanimate Nature,  He Falls Down In Worship Of His Race That Had

Freely Surrendered All,  Knowing It To Be Nothing,  And In Surrender

Had Gained All.

 

"In That Moment Of Intense Consciousness A Cry Breaks The Stillness,

And Searching Among The Marbles He Finds A Dying Woman. Gathering

Some Fruit,  He Gives Her To Eat,  And They Walk Together,  She

Considering Him As Saviour And Lord,  He Wrapped In The Contemplation

Of The End. They Are The End,  And All Paling Fascination,  Which Is

The World,  Is Passing From Them,  And They Are Passing From It. And

The Splendour Of Gold And Red Ascends And Spreads--Crown And Raiment

Of A World That Has Regained Its Primal Beauty.

 

"'We Are Alone,' The Woman Says. 'The World Is Ours; We Are As King

And Queen,  And Greater Than Any King Or Queen.'

 

"Her Dark Olive Skin Changes About The Neck Like A Fruit Near To

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Ripen,  And The Large Arms,  Curving Deeply,  Fall From The Shoulder In

Superb Indolences Of Movement,  And The Hair,  Varying From Burnt-Up

Black To Blue,  Curls Like A Fleece Adown The Shoulders. She Is Large

And Strong,  A Fitting Mother Of Man,  Supple In The Joints As The

Young Panther That Has Just Bounded Into The Thickets; And Her Rich

Almond Eyes,  Dark,  And Moon-Like In Their Depth Of Mystery,  Are Fixed

On Him. Then He Awakes To The Danger Of The Enchantment; But She

Pleads That They,  The Last Of Mankind,  May Remain Watching Over Each

Other Till The End; And Seeing His Eyes Flash,  Her Heart Rejoices.

And Out Of The Glare Of The Moon They Passed Beneath The Sycamores.

And Listening To The Fierce Tune Of The Nightingales In The Dusky

Daylight There,  Temptation Hisses Like A Serpent; And The Woman

Listens,  And Drawing Herself About The Man,  She Says--

 

"'The World Is Ours; Let Us Make It Ours For Ever; Let Us Give Birth

To A New Race More Great And Beautiful Than That Which Is Dead. Love

Me,  For I Am Love; All The Dead Beauties Of The Race Are Incarnate In

Me. I Am The Type And Epitome Of All. Was The Venus We Saw Yesterday

Among The Myrtles More Lovely Than I?'

 

"But He Casts Her From Him,  Asking In Despair (For He Loves Her) If

They Are To Renew The Misery And Abomination Which It Required All

The Courage And All The Wisdom Of All The Ages To Subdue? He Calls

Names From Love's Most Fearful Chronicle--Cleopatra,  Faustina,

Borgia. A Little While And Man's Shameful Life Will No Longer Disturb

The Silence Of The Heavens. But No Perception Of Life's Shame Touches

The Heart Of The Woman. 'I Am Love,' She Cries Again. 'Take Me,  And

Make Me The Mother Of Men. In Me Are Incarnate All The Love Songs Of

The World. I Am Beatrice; I Am Juliet. I Shall Be All Love To

You--Fair Rosamond And Queen Eleanor. I Am The Rose! I Am The

Nightingale!'

 

"She Follows Him In All Depths Of The Forests Wherever He May Go. In

The White Morning He Finds Her Kneeling By Him,  And In Blue And Rose

Evening He Sees Her Whiteness Crouching In The Brake. He Has Fled To

A Last Retreat In The Hills Where He Thought She Could Not Follow,

And After A Long Day Of Travel Lies Down. But She Comes Upon Him In

His First Sleep,  And With Amorous Arms Uplifted,  And Hair Shed To The

Knee,  Throws Herself Upon Him. It Is In The Soft And Sensual Scent Of

The Honeysuckle. The Bright Lips Strive,  And For An Instant His Soul

Turns Sick With Famine For The Face; But Only For An Instant,  And In

A Supreme Revulsion Of Feeling He Beseeches Her,  Crying That The

World May Not End As It Began,  In Blood. But She Heeds Him Not,  And

To Save The Generations He Dashes Her On The Rocks.

 

"Man Began In Bloodshed,  In Bloodshed He Has Ended.

 

"Standing Against The Last Tinge Of Purple,  He Gazes For A Last Time

Upon The Magnificence Of A Virgin World,  Seeing The Tawny Forms Of

Lions In The Shadows,  Watching Them Drinking At The Stream."

 

"Adam And Eve At The End Of The World," Said Drake. "A Very Pretty

Subject; But I Distinctly Object To An Eve With Black Hair. Eve And

Golden Hair Have Ever Been Considered Inseparable Things."

 

"That's True," Said Platt; "The Moment My Missis Went Wrong Her Hair

Turned Yellow."

 

Mike Joined In The Jocularity,  But At The First Pause He Asked Escott

What He Thought Of His Poem.

 

"I Have Only One Fault To Find. Does Not The _Dénouement_ Seem Too

Violent? Would It Not Be Better If The Man Were To Succeed In

Escaping From Her,  And Then Vexed With Scruples To Return And Find

Her Dead? What Splendid Lamentations Over The Body Of The Last

Woman!--And As The Man Wanders Beneath The Waxing And Waning Moon He

Hears Nature Lamenting The Last Woman. Mountains,  Rocks,  Forests,

Speak To Him Only Of Her."

 

"Yes,  That Would Do.... But No--What Am I Saying? Such A Conclusion

Would Be In Exact Contradiction To The Philosophy Of My Poem. For It

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Is Man's Natural And Inveterate Stupidity (Schopenhauer Calls It

Will) That Forces Man To Live And Continue His Species. Reason Is The

Opposing Force. As Time Goes On Reason Becomes More And More

Complete,  Until At Last It Turns Upon The Will And Denies It,  Like

The Scorpion,  Which,  If Surrounded By A Ring Of Fire,  Will Turn And

Sting Itself To Death. Were The Man To Escape,  And Returning Find The

Woman Dead,  It Would Not Be Reason But Accident Which Put An End To

This Ridiculous World."

 

Seeing That Attention Was Withdrawn From Him Drake Filled His Pockets

With Cigarettes,  Split A Soda With Platt,  And Seized Upon The

Entrance Of Half A Dozen Young Men As An Excuse For Ceasing To Write

Paragraphs. Although It Had Only Struck Six They Were All In Evening

Dress. They Were Under Thirty,  And In Them Elegance And Dissipation

Were Equally Evident. Lord Muchross,  A Clean-Shaven Johnnie,  Walked

At The Head Of The Gang,  Assuming By Virtue Of His Greater Volubility

A Sort Of Headship. Dicky,  The Driver,  A Stout Commoner,  Spoke Of

Drink; And A Languid Blonde,  Lord Snowdown,  Leaned Against The

Chimney-Piece Displaying A Thin Figure. The Others Took Seats And

Laughed Whenever Lord Muchross Spoke.

 

"Here We Are,  Old Chappie,  Just In Time To Drink To The Health Of The

Number. Ha,  Ha,  Ha! What Damned Libel Have You In This Week? Ha,  Ha!"

 

"Awful Bad Head,  A Heavy Day Yesterday," Said Dicky--"Drunk Blind."

 

"Had To Put Him In A Wheelbarrow,  Wheeled Him Into A Greengrocer's

Shop,  Put A Carrot In His Mouth,  And Rang The Bell," Shouted

Muchross.

 

"Ha,  Ha,  Ha!" Shouted The Others.

 

"Had A Rippin' Day All The Same,  Didn't We,  Old Dicky? Went Up The

River In Snowdown's Launch. Had Lunch By Tag's Island,  Went As Far As

Datchet. There We Met Dicky; He Tooted Us Round By Staines. There We

Got In A Fresh Team,  Galloped All The Way To Houndslow. Laura Brought

Her Sister. Kitty Was With Us. Made Us Die With A Story She Told Us

Of A Fellow She Was Spoony On. Had To Put Him Under The Bed....

Ghastly Joke,  Dear Boy!"

 

Amid Roars Of Laughter Dicky's Voice Was Heard--

 

"She Calls Him Love's Martyr; He Nearly Died Of Bronchitis,  And

Became A Priest. Kitty Swears She'll Go To Confession To Him One Of

These Days."

 

"By Jove,  If She Does I'll Publish It In The _Pilgrim_."

 

"Too Late This Week," Mike Said To Frank.

 

"We Got To Town By Half Past Six,  Went Round To The Cri. To Have A

Sherry-And-Bitters,  Dined At The Royal,  Went On To The Pav.,  And On

With All The Girls In Hansoms,  Four In Each,  To Snowdown's."

 

"See Me Dance The Polka,  Dear Boy," Cried The Languid Lord,  Awaking

Suddenly From His Indolence,  And As He Pranced Across The Room Most

Of His Drink Went Over Drake's Neck; And Amid Oaths And Laughter

Escott Besought Of The Revellers To Retire.

 

"We Are Still Four Columns Short,  We Must Get On." And For An Hour

And A Half The Scratching Of The Pens Was Only Interrupted By The

Striking Of A Match And An Occasional Damn. At Six They Adjourned To

The Office. They Walked Along The Strand Swinging Their Sticks,  Full

Of Consciousness Of A Day's Work Done. Drake And Platt,  Who Had

Avenged Some Private Wrongs In Their Paragraphs,  Were Disturbed By

The Fear Of Libel; Harding Gnawed The End Of His Moustache,  And

Reconsidered His Attack On A Contemporary Writer,  Pointing His Gibes

Afresh.

 

They Trooped Up-Stairs,  The Door Was Thrown Open. It Was A Small

Office,  And At The End Of The Partitioned Space A Clerk Sat In Front

Chapter 3 Pg 27

Of A Ledger On A High Stool,  His Face Against The Window. Lounging On

The Counter,  Turning Over The Leaves Of Back Numbers,  They Discussed

The Advertisements. They Stood Up When Lady Helen Entered. [Footnote:

See _A Modern Lover_.] She Had Come To Speak To Frank About A Poem,

And She Only Paused In Her Rapid Visit To Shake Hands With Harding,

And She Asked Mike If His Poems Would Be Published That Season.

 

The Contributors To The _Pilgrim_ Dined Together On Wednesday,  And

Spent Four Shillings A Head In An Old English Tavern,  Where Unlimited

Joint And Vegetables Could Be Obtained For Half-A-Crown. The

Old-Fashioned Boxes Into Which The Guests Edged Themselves Had Not

Been Removed,  And About The Mahogany Bar,  Placed In The Passage In

Front Of The Proprietress's Parlour,