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

Couple Of Chums In A Comfortable Corner,  He Shouted--

 

"Henry,  Get Me A Chop And A Pint Of Bitter."

 

There He Was Sure To Meet A Young Barrister Ready To Talk To Him,  And

They Returned Together,  Swinging Their Sticks,  Happy In Their

Bachelordom,  Proud Of The Old Inns And Courts. Often They Stayed To

Look On The Church,  The Church Of The Knight Templars,  Those Terrible

And Mysterious Knights Who,  With Crossed Legs For Sign Of Mission,

And With Long Swords And Kite-Shaped Shields,  Lie Upon The Pavement

Of The Church.

 

One Wet Night,  When Every Court And Close Was Buried In A Deep,

Cloying Darkness,  And The Church Seemed A Dead Thing,  The Pathetic

Stories Of The Windows Suddenly Became Dreamily Alive,  And The Organ

Sighed Like One Sad At Heart. The Young Men Entered; And In The Pomp

Of The Pipes,  And In Shadows Starred By The Candles,  The Lone

Organist Sat Playing A Fugue By Bach.

 

"It Is," Said Mike,  "Like Turning The Pages Of Some Precious Missal,

Adorned With Gold Thread And Bedazzled With Rare Jewels. It Is Like A

Poem By Edgar Allen Poe." Quelled,  And In Strange Awe They Listened,

And When The Music Ceased,  Unable At Once To Return To The Simple

Prose Of Their Chambers,  They Lingered,  Commenting On The Mock Taste

Of The Architecture Of The Dining-Hall,  And Laughing At The Inflated

Inscription Over The Doorway.

 

"It Is Worse," Said Mike,  "Than The Middle Temple Hall--Far Worse;

But I Like This Old Colonnade,  There Is Something So Suggestive In

This Old Inscription In Bad Latin.

 

 

 

 

     'Vetustissima Templariorum Porticu

      Igne Consumptâ; An 1679

      Nova Hæc Sumptibus Medii

      Templie Extructa An 1681

      Gulielmo Whiteloche Arm

Chapter 7 Pg 75

      Thesauör.'"

 

 

 

 

Once Or Twice A Week Hall Dined At The Cock For The Purpose Of

Meeting His Friends,  Whom He Invited After Dinner To His Rooms To

Smoke And Drink Till Midnight. His Welcome Was So Cordial That All

Were Glad To Come. The Hospitality Was That Which Is Met In All

Chambers In The Temple. Coffee Was Made With Difficulty,  Delay,  And

Uncertain Result; A Bottle Of Port Was Sometimes Produced; Of Whiskey

And Water There Was Always Plenty. Every One Brought His Own Tobacco;

And In Decrepit Chairs Beneath Dangerously-Laden Bookcases Some Six

Or Seven Barristers Enjoyed Themselves In Conversation,  Smoke,  And

Drink. Mike Recognized How Characteristically Temple Was This

Society,  How Different From The Heterogeneous Visitors Of Temple

Gardens In The Heyday Of Frank's Fortune.

 

James Norris Was A Small,  Thin Man,  Dark And With Regular Features,

Clean Shaven Like A Priest Or An Actor,  Vaguely Resembling Both,

Inclining Towards The Hieratic Rather Than To The Histrionic Type. He

Dressed Always In Black,  And The Closely-Buttoned Jacket Revealed The

Spareness Of His Body. He Was Met Often In The Evening,  Going To Dine

At The Cock; But Was Rarely Seen Walking About The Temple In The

Day-Time. It Was Impossible To Meet Any One More Suasive And

Agreeable; His Suavity Was Penetrating As His Small Dark Eyes. He

Lived In Elm Court,  And His Rooms Impressed You With A Sense Of

Cleanliness And Comfort. The Furniture Was All In Solid Mahogany;

There Were No Knick-Knacks Or Any Lightness,  And Almost The Only

Æsthetic Intentions Were A Few Sober Engravings--Portraits Of Men In

Wigs And Breastplates. He Took Pleasure In These And Also In Some

First Editions,  Containing The Original Plates,  Which,  When You Knew

Him Well,  He Produced From The Bookcase And Descanted On Their Value

And Rarity.

 

Mr. Norris Had Always An Excellent Cigar To Offer You,  And He Pressed

You To Taste Of His Old Port,  And His Chartreuse; There Was Whiskey

For You Too,  If You Cared To Take It,  And Allusion Was Made To Its

Age. But It Was Neither An Influence Nor A Characteristic Of His

Rooms; The Port Wine Was. If There Was Fruit On The Sideboard,  There

Was Also Pounded Sugar; And It Is Such Detail As The Pounded Sugar

That Announces An Inveterate Bachelorhood. Some Men Are Born

Bachelors. And When A Man Is Born A Bachelor,  The Signs Unmistakable

Are Hardly Apparent At Thirty; It Is Not Until The Fortieth Year Is

Approached That The Fateful Markings Become Recognizable. James

Norris Was Forty-Two,  And Was Therefore A Full-Fledged Bachelor. He

Was A Bachelor In The Complete Equipment Of His Chambers. He Was

Bachelor In His Arm-Chair And His Stock Of Wine; His Hospitality Was

That Of A Bachelor,  For A Man Who Feels Instinctively That He Will

Never Own A "House And Home" Constructs The Materiality Of His Life

In Chambers Upon A Fuller Basis Than The Man Who Feels Instinctively

That He Will,  Sooner Or Later,  Exchange The Perch-Like Existence Of

His Chambers For The Nest-Like Completeness Of A Home In South

Kensington.

 

James Norris Was Of An Excellent County Family In Essex. He Had A

Brother In The Army,  A Brother In The Civil Service,  And A Brother In

The Diplomatic Service. He Had Also A Brother Who Composed Somewhat

Unsuccessful Waltz Tunes,  Who Borrowed Money,  And James Thought That

His Brother Caused Him Some Anxiety Of Mind. The Eldest Brother,  John

Norris,  Lived At The Family Place,  Halton Grange,  Where He Stayed

When He Went On The Eastern Circuit. James Was Far Too Securely A

Gentleman To Speak Much Of Halton Grange; Nevertheless,  The Flavour

Of Landed Estate Transpired In The Course Of Conversation. He Has

Returned From Circuit,  Having Finished Up With A Partridge Drive,

Etc.

 

James Norris Was A Sensualist. His Sensuality Was Recognizable In The

Close-Set Eyes And In The Sharp Prominent Chin (He Resembled Vaguely

The Portrait Of Baudelaire In _Les Fleurs Du Mal_); He Never Spoke Of

His Amours,  But Occasionally He Would Drop An Observation,  Especially

Chapter 7 Pg 76

If He Were Talking To Mike Fletcher,  That Afforded A Sudden Glimpse

Of A Soul Touched If Not Tainted With Erotism. But James Norris Was

Above All Things Prudent,  And Knew How To Keep Vice Well In Hand.

 

Like Another,  He Had Had His Love Story,  Or That Which In The Life Of

Such A Man Might Pass For A Love Story. He Had Flirted A Great Deal

When He Was Thirty,  With A Married Woman. She Had Not Troubled,  She

Had Only Slightly Eddied,  Stirred With A Few Ripples The Placidity Of

A Placid Stream Of Life. In Hours Of Lassitude It Pleased Him To

Think That She Had Ruined His Life. Man Is Ever Ready To Think That

His Failure Comes From Without Rather Than From Within. He Wrote To

Her Every Week A Long Letter,  And Spent A Large Part Of The Long

Vacation In Her House In Yorkshire,  Telling Her That He Had Never

Loved Any One But Her.

 

James Norris Was An Able Lawyer,  And He Was An Able Lawyer For Three

Reasons. First,  Because He Was A Clear-Headed Man Of The World,  Who

Had Not Allowed His Intelligence To Rust;--It Formed Part Of The

Routine Of His Life To Read Some Pages Of A Standard Author Before

Going To Bed; He Studied All The Notorious Articles That Appeared In

The Reviews,  Attempting The Assimilation Of The Ideas Which Seemed To

Him Best In Our Time. Secondly,  He Was Industrious,  And If He Led An

Independent Life,  Dining Frequently In A Tavern Instead Of Touting

For Briefs In Society,  And So Harmed Himself,  Such Misadventure Was

Counterbalanced By His Industry And His Prudence. Thirdly,  His

Sweetness And Geniality Made Him A Favourite With The Bench. He Had

Much Insight Into Human Nature,  He Studied It,  And Could Detect

Almost At Once The Two Leading Spirits On A Jury; And He Was Always

Aware Of The Idiosyncrasies Of The Judge He Was Pleading Before,  And

Knew How To Respect And To Flatter Them.

 

Charles Stokes Was The Oldest Man Who Frequented Hall's Chambers,  And

His Venerable Appearance Was An Anomaly In A Company Formed

Principally Of Men Under Forty. In Truth,  Charles Stokes Was Not More

Than Forty-Six Or Seven,  But He Explained That Living Everywhere,  And

Doing Everything,  Had Aged Him Beyond His Years. In Mind,  However,  He

Was The Youngest There,  And His Manner Was Often Distressingly

Juvenile. He Wore Old Clothes Which Looked As If They Had Not Been

Brushed For Some Weeks,  And His Linen Was Of Dubious Cleanliness,  And

About His Rumpled Collar There Floated A Half-Tied Black Necktie.

Mike,  Who Hated All Things That Reminded Him Of The Casualness Of

This Human Frame,  Never Was At Ease In His Presence,  And His Eye

Turned In Disgust From Sight Of The Poor Old Gentleman's Trembling

And Ossified Fingers. His Beard Was Long And Almost White; He

Snuffed,  And Smoked A Clay Pipe,  And Sat In The Arm-Chair Which Stood

In The Corner Beneath The Screen Which John Norton Had Left To Hall.

 

He Was Always Addressed As Mr. Stokes; Hall Complimented Him And Kept

Him Well Supplied With Whiskey-And-Water. He Was Listened To On

Account Of His Age--That Is To Say,  On Account Of His Apparent Age,

And On Account Of His Gentleness. Harding Had Described Him As One

Who Talked Learned Nonsense In Sweetly-Measured Intonations. But

Although Harding Ridiculed Him,  He Often Led Him Into Conversation,

And Listened With Obvious Interest,  For Mr. Stokes Had Drifted

Through Many Modes And Manners Of Life,  And Had In So Doing Acquired

Some Vague Knowledge.

 

He Had Written A Book On The Ancient Religions Of India,  Which He

Called The _Cradleland Of Arts And Creeds_,  And Harding,  Ever On The

Alert To Pick A Brain However Poor It Might Be,  Enticed Him Into

Discussion In Which Frequent Allusion Was Made To Vishnu And Siva.

 

Yes,  Drifted Is The Word That Best Expresses Mr. Stokes' Passage

Through Life--He Had Drifted. He Was One Of The Many Millions Who

Live Without A Fixed Intention,  Without Even Knowing What They

Desire; And He Had Drifted Because In Him Strength And Weakness Stood

At Equipoise; No Defect Was Heavy Enough For Anchor,  Nor Was There

Any Quality Large Enough For Sufficient Sail; He Had Drifted From

Country To Country,  From Profession To Profession,  Whither Winds And

Waves Might Bear Him.

 

Chapter 7 Pg 77

"Of Course I'm A Failure," Was A Phrase That Mr. Stokes Repeated With

A Mild,  Gentle Humour,  And Without Any Trace Of Bitterness. He Spoke

Of Himself With The Naïve Candour Of A Docile School-Boy,  Who Has

Taken Up Several Subjects For Examination And Been Ploughed In Them

All. For Mr. Stokes Had Been To Oxford,  And Left It Without Taking A

Degree. Then He Had Gone Into The Army,  And Had Proved Himself A

Thoroughly Inefficient Soldier,  And