Mike Fletcher, George Moore [reading books for 4 year olds .TXT] 📗

Chapter 1 Pg 1

 

Oaths,  Vociferations,  And The Slamming Of Cab-Doors. The Darkness Was

Decorated By The Pink Of A Silk Skirt,  The Crimson Of An Opera-Cloak

Vivid In The Light Of A Carriage-Lamp,  With Women's Faces,  Necks,

And Hair. The Women Sprang Gaily From Hansoms And Pushed Through The

Swing-Doors. It Was Lubini's Famous Restaurant. Within The Din Was

Deafening.

 

  "What Cheer,  'Ria!

   'Ria's On The Job,"

 

Roared Thirty Throats,  All Faultlessly Clothed In The Purest Linen.

They Stood Round A Small Bar,  And Two Women And A Boy Endeavoured

To Execute Their Constant Orders For Brandies-And-Sodas. They Were

Shoulder To Shoulder,  And Had To Hold Their Liquor Almost In Each

Other's Faces. A Man Whose Hat Had Been Broken Addressed Reproaches

To A Friend,  Who Cursed Him For Interrupting His Howling.

 

Issued From This Saloon A Long Narrow Gallery Set With A Single Line

Of Tables,  Now All Occupied By Reproaches To A Friend,  Who Cursed Him

For Interrupting His Howling.

 

Issued From This Saloon A Long Narrow Gallery Set With A Single Line

Of Tables,  Now All Occupied By Supping Courtesans And Their Men. An

Odour Of Savouries,  Burnt Cheese And Vinegar Met The Nostrils,  Also

The Sharp Smell Of A Patchouli-Scented Handkerchief Drawn Quickly

From A Bodice; And A Young Man Protested Energetically Against A Wild

Duck Which Had Been Kept A Few Days Over Its Time. Lubini,  Or Lubi,

As He Was Called By His Pals,  Signed To The Waiter,  And Deciding The

Case In Favour Of The Young Man,  He Pulled A Handful Of Silver Out Of

His Pocket And Offered To Toss Three Lords,  With Whom He Was

Conversing,  For Drinks All Round.

 

"Feeling Awfully Bad,  Dear Boy; Haven't Been What I Could Call Sober

Since Monday. Would You Mind Holding My Liquor For Me? I Must Go And

Speak To That Chappie."

 

Since John Norton Had Come To Live In London,  His Idea Had Been To

Put His Theory Of Life,  Which He Had Defined In His Aphorism,  "Let

The World Be My Monastery," Into Active Practice. He Did Not

Therefore Refuse To Accompany Mike Fletcher To Restaurants And

Music-Halls,  And Was Satisfied So Long As He Was Allowed To

Disassociate And Isolate Himself From The Various Women Who Clustered

About Mike. But This Evening He Viewed The Courtesans With More

Than The Usual Liberalism Of Mind,  Had Even Laughed Loudly When One

Fainted And Was Upheld By Anxious Friends,  The Most Zealous And The

Most Intimate Of Whom Bathed Her White Tragic Face And Listened In

Alarm To Her Incoherent Murmurings Of "Mike Darling,  Oh,  Mike!" John

Had Uttered No Word Of Protest Until Dear Old Laura,  Who Had Never,

As Mike Said,  Behaved Badly To Anybody,  And Had Been Loved By

Everybody,  Sat Down At Their Table,  And The Discussion Turned On Who

Was Likely To Be Bessie's First Sweetheart,  Bessie Being Her Youngest

Sister Whom She Was "Bringing Out." Then He Rose From The Table And

Wished Mike Good-Night; But Mike's Liking For John Was Sincere,  And

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Preferring His Company To Laura's,  He Paid The Bill And Followed His

Friend Out Of The Restaurant; And As They Walked Home Together He

Listened To His Grave And Dignified Admonitions,  And Though John

Could Not Touch Mike's Conscience,  He Always Moved His Sympathies. It

Is The Shallow And The Insincere That Inspire Ridicule And Contempt,

And Even In The Dissipations Of The Temple,  Where He Had Come To

Live,  He Had Not Failed To Enforce Respect For His Convictions And

Ideals.

 

In The Temple John Had Made Many Acquaintances And Friends,  And About

Him Were Found The Contributors To The _Pilgrim_,  A Weekly Newspaper

Devoted To Young Men,  Their Doings,  Their Amusements,  Their

Literature,  And Their Art. The Editor And Proprietor Of This Organ

Of Amusement Was Escott. His Editorial Work Was Principally Done In

His Chambers In Temple Gardens,  Where He Lived With His Friend,  Mike

Fletcher. Of Necessity The Newspaper Drew,  Like Gravitation,  Art

And Literature,  But The Revelling Lords Who Assembled There Were

A Disintegrating Influence,  And Made John Norton A Sort Of Second

Centre; And Harding And Thompson And Others Of Various Temperaments

And Talents Found Their Way To Pump Court. Like Cuckoos,  Some Men Are

Only Really At Home In The Homes Of Others; Others Are Always Ill At

Ease When Taken Out Of The Surroundings Which They Have Composed To

Their Ideas And Requirements; And John Norton Was Never Really John

Norton Except When,  Wrapped In His Long Dressing-Gown And Sitting In

His High Canonical Chair,  He Listened To Harding's Paradoxes Or

Thompson's Sententious Utterances. These Artistic Discussions--When

In The Passion Of The Moment,  All The Cares Of Life Were Lost And

The Soul Battled In Pure Idea--Were Full Of Attraction And Charm

For John,  And He Often Thought He Had Never Been So Happy. And Then

Harding's Eyes Would Brighten,  And His Intelligence,  Eager As A Wolf

Prowling For Food,  Ran To And Fro,  Seeking And Sniffing In All John's

Interests And Enthusiasms. He Was At Once Fascinated By The Scheme

For The Pessimistic Poem And Charmed With The Projected Voyage In

Thibet And The Book On The Great Lamas.

 

One Evening A Discussion Arose As To Whether Goethe Had Stolen From

Schopenhauer,  Or Schopenhauer From Goethe,  The Comparison Of Man's

Life With The Sun "Which Seems To Set To Our Earthly Eyes,  But Which

In Reality Never Sets,  But Shines On Unceasingly." The Conversation

Came To A Pause,  And Then Harding Said--

 

"Mike Spoke To Me Of A Pessimistic Poem He Has In Mind; Did He Ever

Speak To You About It,  Escott?"

 

"I Think He Said Something Once,  But He Did Not Tell Me What It Was

About. He Can Speak Of Nothing Now But A Nun Whom He Has Persuaded

To Leave Her Convent. I Had Thought Of Having Some Articles Written

About Convents,  And We Went To Roehampton. While I Was Talking To My

Cousin,  Who Is At School There,  He Got Into Conversation With One Of

The Sisters. I Don't Know How He Managed It,  But He Has Persuaded Her

To Leave The Convent,  And She Is Coming To See Him To-Morrow."

 

"You Don't Mean To Say," Cried John,  "That He Has Persuaded One Of

The Nuns To Leave The Convent And To Come And See Him In Temple

Gardens? Such Things Should Not Be Permitted. The Reverend Mother Or

Some One Is In Fault. That Man Has Been The Ruin Of Hundreds,  If Not

In Fact,  In Thought. He Brings An Atmosphere Of Sensuality Wherever

He Goes,  And All Must Breathe It; Even The Most Virtuous Are

Contaminated. I Have Felt The Pollution Myself. If The Woman Is

Seventy She Will Look Pleased And Coquette If He Notices Her. The

Fascination Is Inexplicable!"

 

"We All Experience It,  And That Is Why We Like Mike," Said Harding.

"I Heard A Lady,  And A Woman Whose Thoughts Are Not,  I Assure You,

Given To Straying In That Direction,  Say That The First Time She Saw

Him She Hated Him,  But Soon Felt An Influence Like The Fascination

The Serpent Exercises Over The Bird Stealing Over Her. We Find But

Ourselves In All That We See,  Hear,  And Feel. The World Is But Our

Idea. All That Women Have Of Goodness,  Sweetness,  Gentleness,  They

Keep For Others. A Woman Would Not Speak To You Of What Is Bad In

Her,  But She Would To Mike; Her Sensuality Is The Side Of Her Nature

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Which She Shows Him,  Be She Messalina Or St. Theresa; The Proportion,

Not The Principle Is Altered. And This Is Why Mike Cannot Believe In

Virtue,  And Declares His Incredulity To Be Founded On Experience."

 

"No Doubt,  No Doubt!"

 

Fresh Brandies-And-Sodas Were Poured Out,  Fresh Cigars Were Lighted,

And John Descended The Staircase And Walked With His Friends Into

Pump Court,  Where They Met Mike Fletcher.

 

"What Have You Been Talking About To-Night?" He Asked.

 

"We Wanted Norton To Read Us The Pessimistic Poem He Is Writing,  But

He Says It Is In A Too Unfinished State. I Told Him You Were At Work

On One On The Same Subject. It Is Curious That You Who Differ So

Absolutely On Essentials Should Agree To Sink Your Differences At The

Very Point At Which You Are Most Opposed To Principle And Practice."

 

After A Pause,  Mike Said--

 

"I Suppose It Was Schopenhauer's Dislike Of Women That First

Attracted You. He Used To Call Women The Short-Legged Race,  That Were

Only Admitted Into Society A Hundred And Fifty Years Ago."

 

"Did He Say That? Oh,  How Good,  And How True! I Never Could Think

A Female Figure As Beautiful As A Male. A Male Figure Rises To The

Head,  And Is A Symbol Of The Intelligence; A Woman's Figure Sinks To

The Inferior Parts Of The Body,  And Is Expressive Of Generation."

 

As He Spoke His Eyes Followed The Line And Balance Of Mike's Neck And

Shoulders,  Which Showed At This Moment Upon A Dark Shadow Falling

Obliquely Along An Old Wall. Soft,  Violet Eyes In Which Tenderness

Dwelt,  And The Strangely Tall And Lithe Figure Was Emphasized By The

Conventional Pose--That Pose Of Arm And Thigh Which The Greeks Never

Wearied Of. Seeing Him,  The Mind Turned From The Reserve Of The

Christian World Towards The Frank Enjoyment Of The Pagan; And John's

Solid,  Rhythmless Form Was As Symbolic Of Dogma As Mike's Of The

Grace Of Athens.

 

As He Ascended The Stairs,  Having Bidden His Friends Good-Night,  John

Thought Of The Unfortunate Nun Whom That Man Had Persuaded To Leave

Her Convent,  And He Wondered If He Were Justified In Living In Such

Close Communion Of Thought With Those Whose Lives Were Set In All

Opposition To The Principles On Which He Had Staked His Life's Value.

He Was Thinking And Writing The Same Thoughts As Fletcher. They Were

Swimming In The Same Waters; They Were Living The Same Life.

 

Disturbed In Mind He Walked Across The Room,  His Spectacles

Glimmering On His High Nose,  His Dressing-Gown Floating. The

Manuscript Of The Poems Caught His Eyes,  And He Turned Over The

Sheets,  His Hand Trembling Violently. And If They Were Antagonistic

To The Spirit Of His Teaching,  If Not To The Doctrine That The Church

In Her Eternal Wisdom Deemed Healthful And Wise,  And Conducive To The

Best Attainable Morality And Heaven? What A Fearful Responsibility

He Was Taking Upon Himself! He Had Learned In Bitter Experience That

He Must Seek Salvation Rather In Elimination Than In Acceptance Of

Responsibilities. But His Poems Were All He Deemed Best In The World.

For A Moment John Stood Face To Face With,  And He Looked Into The

Eyes Of,  The Church. The Dome Of St. Peter's,  A Solitary Pope,

Cardinals,  Bishops,  And Priests. Oh! Wonderful Symbolization Of Man's

Lust Of Eternal Life!

 

Must He Renounce All His Beliefs? The Wish So Dear To Him That The

Unspeakable Spectacle Of Life Might Cease For Ever; Must He Give

Thanks For Existence Because It Gave Him A Small Chance Of Gaining

Heaven? Then It Were Well To Bring Others Into The World.... True It

Is That The Church Does Not Advance Into Such Sloughs Of Optimism,

But How Different Is Her