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

Two Dingy Barmaids Served Actors

From The Adjoining Theatre With Whisky-And-Water. The Contributors To

The _Pilgrim_ Had Selected A Box,  And Were Clamouring For Food.

Smacking His Lips,  The Head-Waiter,  An Antiquity Who Cashed Cheques

And Told Stories About Mr. Dickens And Mr. Thackeray,  Stopped In

Front Of This Table.

 

"Roast Beef,  Very Nice--A Nice Cut,  Sir; Saddle Of Mutton Just Up."

 

All Decided For Saddle Of Mutton.

 

"Saddle Of Mutton,  Number Three."

 

Greasy And White The Carver Came,  And As If The Meat Were A Delight

The Carver Sliced It Out. Some One Remarked This.

 

"That Is Nothing," Said Thompson; "You Should Hear Hopkins Grunting

As He Cuts The Venison On Tuesdays And Fridays,  And How He Sucks His

Lips As He Ladles Out The Gravy. We Only Enjoy A Slice Or Two,

Whereas His Pleasure Ends Only With The Haunch."

 

The Evening Newspapers Were Caught Up,  Glanced At,  And Abused As

Worthless Rags,  And The Editors Covered With Lively Ridicule.

 

The Conversation Turned On Boulogne,  Where Mike Had Loved Many

Solicitors' Wives,  And Then On The Impurity Of The Society Girl And

The Prurient Purity Of Her Creation--The "English" Novel.

 

"I Believe That It Is So," Said Harding; "And In Her Immorality We

Find The Reason For All This Bewildering Outcry Against The Slightest

License In Literature. Strange That In A Manifestly Impure Age There

Should Be A National Tendency Towards Chaste Literature. I Am Not

Sure That A Moral Literature Does Not Of Necessity Imply Much Laxity

In Practical Morality. We Seek In Art What We Do Not Find In

Ourselves,  And It Would Be True To Nature To Represent An Unfortunate

Woman Delighting In Reading Of Such Purity As Her Own Life Daily

Insulted And Contradicted; And The Novel Is The Rag In Which This

Leper Age Coquets Before The Mirror Of Its Hypocrisy,  Rehearsing The

Deception It Would Practise On Future Time."

 

"You Must Consider The Influence Of Impure Literature Upon Young

People," Said John.

 

"No,  No; The Influence Of A Book Is Nothing; It Is Life That

Influences And Corrupts. I Sent My Story Of A Drunken Woman To

Randall,  And The Next Time I Heard From Him He Wrote To Say He Had

Married His Mistress,  And He Knew She Was A Drunkard."

 

"It Is Easy To Prove That Bad Books Don't Do Any Harm; If They Did,

By The Same Rule Good Books Would Do Good,  And The World Would Have

Been Converted Long Ago," Said Frank.

 

Harding Thought How He Might Best Appropriate The Epigram,  And When

The Influence Of The Liberty Lately Acquired By Girls Had Been

Discussed--The Right To Go Out Shopping In The Morning,  To Sit Out

Dances On Dark Stairs; In A Word,  The Decadence And Overthrow Of The

Chaperon--The Conversation Again Turned On Art.

 

"It Is Very Difficult," Said Harding,  "To Be Great As The Old Masters

Chapter 3 Pg 28

Were Great. A Man Is Great When Every One Is Great. In The Great Ages

If You Were Not Great You Did Not Exist At All,  But In These Days

Everything Conspires To Support The Weak."

 

Out Of Deference To John,  Who Had Worn For Some Time A Very Solid

Look Of Disapproval,  Mike Ceased To Discourse On Half-Hours Passed On

Staircases,  And In Summer-Houses When The Gardener Had Gone To

Dinner,  And He Spoke About Naturalistic Novels And An Exhibition Of

Pastels.

 

"As Time Goes On,  Poetry,  History,  Philosophy,  Will So Multiply That

The Day Will Come When The Learned Will Not Even Know The Names Of

Their Predecessors. There Is Nothing That Will Not Increase Out Of

All Reckoning Except The Naturalistic Novel. A Man May Write Twenty

Volumes Of Poetry,  History,  And Philosophy,  But A Man Will Never Be

Born Who Will Write More Than Two,  At The Most Three,  Naturalistic

Novels. The Naturalistic Novel Is The Essence Of A Phase Of Life

That The Writer Has Lived In And Assimilated. If You Take Into

Consideration The Difficulty Of Observing Twice,  Of The Time An

Experience Takes To Ripen In You,  You Will Easily Understand

_À Priori_ That The Man Will Never Be Born Who Will Write Three

Realistic Novels."

 

Coffee And Cigars Were Ordered,  And Harding Extolled The Charm And

Grace Of Pastels.

 

Thompson Said--"I Keep Pastels For My Hours Of Idleness--Cowardly

Hours,  When I Have No Heart To Struggle With Nature,  And May But

Smile And Kiss My Hand To Her At A Distance. For Dreaming I Know

Nothing Like Pastel; It Is The Painter's Opium Pipe.... Latour Was

The Greatest Pastellist Of The Eighteenth Century,  And He Never

Attempted More Than A Drawing Heightened With Colour. But How

Suggestive,  How Elegant,  How Well-Bred!"

 

Then In Reply To Some Flattery On The Personality Of His Art,

Thompson Said,  "It Is Strange,  For I Assure You No Art Was Ever Less

Spontaneous Than Mine. What I Do Is The Result Of Reflection And

Study Of The Great Masters; Of Inspiration,  Spontaneity,

Temperament--Temperament Is The Word--I Know Nothing. When I Hear

People Talk About Temperament,  It Always Seem To Me Like The Strong

Man In The Fair,  Who Straddles His Legs,  And Asks Some One To Step

Upon The Palm Of His Hand."

 

Drake Joined In The Discussion,  And The Chatter That Came From This

Enormous Man Was As Small As His Head,  Which Sat Like A Pin's-Head

Above His Shoulders. Platt Drifted From The Obscene Into The

Incomprehensible. The Room Was Fast Emptying,  And The Waiter

Loitered,  Waiting To Be Paid.

 

"We Must Be Getting Off," Said Mike; "It Is Nearly Eleven O'clock,

And We Have Still The Best Part Of The Paper To Read Through."

 

"Don't Be In Such A Damned Hurry," Said Frank,  Authoritatively.

 

Harding Bade Them Good-Night At The Door,  And The Editors Walked Down

Fleet Street. To Pass Up A Rickety Court To The Printer's,  Or To Go

Through The Stage-Door To The Stage,  Produced Similar Sensations

In Mike. The White-Washed Wall,  The Glare Of The Raw Gas,  The Low

Monotonous Voice Of The Reading-Boy,  Like One Studying A Part,  Or

Perhaps Like The Murmur Of The Distant Audience; The Boy Coming In

Asking For "Copy" Or Proof,  Like The Call-Boy,  With His "Curtain's

Going Up,  Gentlemen." Is There Not Analogy Between The Preparation

Of The Paper That Will Be Before The Public In The Morning,  And The

Preparation Of The Play That Will Be Before Its Eyes In The Evening?

 

From The Glass Closet Where They Waited For The "Pages," They Could

See The Compositors Bending Over The Forms. The Light Lay Upon A Red

Beard,  A Freckled Neck,  The Crimson Of The Volutes Of An Ear.

 

In The Glass Closet There Were Three Wooden Chairs,  A Table,  And An

Inkstand; On The Shelf By The Door A Few Books--The _London

Chapter 3 Pg 29

Directory_,  An _English Dictionary_,  A _French Dictionary_--The

Titles Of The Remaining Books Did Not Catch The Eye. As They Waited,

For No "Pages" Would Be Ready For Them For Some Time,  Mike Glanced At

Stray Numbers Of Two Trade Journals. It Seemed To Him Strange That

The Same Compositors Who Set Up These Papers Should Set Up The

_Pilgrim_.

 

Presently The "Pages" Began To Come In,  But Long Delays Intervened,

And It Transpired That Some Of The "Copy" Was Not Yet In Type. Frank

Grew Weary,  And He Complained Of Headache,  And Asked Mike To See The

Paper Through For Him. Mike Thought Frank Selfish,  But There Was No

Help For It. He Could Not Refuse,  But Must Wait In The Paraffin-Like

Smell Of The Ink,  Listening To The Droning Voice Of The Reading-Boy.

If He Could Only Get The Proof Of His Poem He Could Kill Time By

Correcting It; But It Could Not Be Obtained. Two Hours Passed,  And

He Still Sat Watching The Red Beard Of A Compositor,  And The Crimson

Volutes Of An Ear. At Last The Printer's Devil,  His Short Sleeves

Rolled Up,  Brought In A Couple Of Pages. Mike Read,  Following The

Lines With His Pen,  Correcting The Literals,  And He Cursed When The

"Devil" Told Him That Ten More Lines Of Copy Were Wanting To Complete

Page Nine. What Should He Write?

 

About Two O'clock,  Holding Her Ball-Skirts Out Of The Dirt,  A Lady

Entered.

 

"How Do You Do,  Emily?" Said Mike. "Just Fancy Seeing You Here,  And

At This Hour!" He Was Glad Of The Interruption; But His Pleasure Was

Dashed By The Fear That She Would Ask Him To Come Home With Her.

 

"Oh,  I Have Had Such A Pleasant Party; So-And-So Sang At Lady

Southey's. Oh,  I Have Enjoyed Myself! I Knew I Should Find You Here;

But I Am Interrupting. I Will Go." She Put Her Arm Round His Neck.

He Looked At Her Diamonds,  And Congratulated Himself That She Was

A Lady.

 

"I Am Afraid I Am Interrupting You," She Said Again.

 

"Oh No,  You Aren't,  I Shall Be Done In Half An Hour; I Have Only Got

A Few More Pages To Read Through. Escott Went Away,  Selfish Brute

That He Is,  And Has Left Me To Do All The Work."

 

She Sat By His Side Contentedly Reading What He Had Written. At

Half-Past Two All The Pages Were Passed For Press,  And They Descended

The Spiral Iron Staircase,  Through The Grease And Vinegar Smell Of

The Ink,  In View Of Heads And Arms Of A Hundred Compositors,  In

Hearing Of The Drowsy Murmur Of The Reading-Boy. Her Brougham Was At

The Door. As She Stepped In Mike Screwed Up His Courage And Said

Good-Bye.

 

"Won't You Come?" She Said,  With Disappointment In Her Eyes.

 

"No,  Not To-Night. I Have Been Slaving At That Paper For The Last

Four Hours. Thanks; Not To-Night. Good-Bye; I'll See You Next Week."

 

The Brougham Rolled Away,  And Mike Walked Home. The Hands Of The

Clocks Were Stretching Towards Three,  And Only A Few Drink-Disfigured

Creatures Of Thirty-Five Or Forty Lingered; So Horrible Were They

That He Did Not Answer Their Salutations.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4 Pg 30

Mike Was In His Bath When Frank Entered.

 

"What,  Not Dressed Yet?"

 

"All Very Well For You To Talk. You Left Me At Eleven To Get The

Paper Out As Best I Could. I Did Not Get Away From The Printer's

Before Half-Past Two."

 

"I'm Very Sorry,  But You've No Idea How Ill I Felt. I Really Couldn't

Have Stayed On. I Heard You Come In. You Weren't Alone."

 

The Room Was Pleasant With The Eau De Lubin,  And Mike's Beautiful

Figure Appealed To Frank's Artistic Sense; And He Noticed It In

Relation To The Twisted Oak Columns Of The Bed. The Body,  It Was

Smooth And White As Marble; And The Pectoral Muscles Were Especially

Beautiful When He