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

That The Bird Should Appear In A Raw Or Cindery

Condition,  Which Would Certainly Be The Case If She Did Not See To

It. The Jam-Pudding Was Boiling And Would Be Taken Out Of The Pot At

A Fixed Time. And With Baby Upon Her Breast,  She Watched Sally Scrape

And Clean The Fish And Beat The Steak; Then,  Hearing The Front Door

Open,  She Buttoned Her Dress,  Put Baby In His Cot,  And Went To Meet

Her Visitor. Mike Said He Had Never Seen Her Looking So Well; But In

Truth He Thought She Had Grown Fat And Coarse; And In Half An Hour He

Had Realized All The Detail Of Their Misfortune. He Guessed That She

Had Helped To Cook The Dinner,  That The Wine Had Come From The

Public-House,  That They Had Given Up Their Room To Him,  And Were

Sleeping In Some Small Cupboard-Like Place At The End Of The Passage.

 

Of The Many Various Unpleasantnesses Of Married Life Which Had

Crowded Into His Consciousness Since He Had Been In The Cottage,  This

Impressed Him The Most. He Went To Sleep Thinking Of It,  And When He

Sat Down To Write Next Morning (A Little Study Had Been Arranged For

Him),  It Was The First Thought That Stirred In Him.

 

"How Fearfully Unpleasant!--And After Having Been Married For Nearly

Two Years! I Could Not Do It. If I Were Married--Even If I Were To

Marry Lily,  I Should Insist On Having Separate Rooms. Even With

Separate Rooms Marriage Is Intolerable. How Much Better To See Her

Sometimes,  Sigh For Her From Afar,  And So Preserve One's Ideal.

Married! One Day I Should Be Sure To Surprise Her Washing Herself;

Chapter 7 Pg 85

And I Know Of No More Degrading Spectacle Than That Of A Woman

Washing Herself Over A Basin. Degas Painted It Once. I'd Give

Anything To Have That Picture."

 

But He Could Not Identify Lily As Forming Part Of That Picture; His

Imagination Did Not Help Him,  And He Could Only See Her Staid And

Gracious,  Outside All The Gross Materialism Of Life. He Felt That

Lily Would Never Lose Her Dignity And Loveliness,  Which In Her Were

One,  And In His Mind She Ever Stood Like A Fair Statue Out Of Reach

Of The Mud And The Contumely Of The Common Street; And Ashamed,  An

Unsuccessful Iconoclast,  He Could Not Do Otherwise Than Kneel And

Adore.

 

And When At The End Of A Week He Received An Invitation To A Ball

Where He Thought She Would Be,  He Must Perforce Obey,  And Go With

Tremulous Heart. She Was Engaged In A Quadrille That Passed To And

Fro Beneath Blue Tapestry Curtains,  And He Noticed The Spray Of

Lilies Of The Valley In Her Bodice,  So Emblematic Did They Seem Of

Her. Beneath The Blue Curtain She Stood Talking To Her Partner After

The Dance; And He Did Not Go To Speak To Her,  But Remained Looking.

They Only Danced Together Twice; And That Evening Was Realized By Him

In A Strangely Intense And Durable Perception Of Faint Scent And

Fluent Rhythm. The Sense Of Her Motion,  Of Her Frailness,  Lingered In

His Soul Ever Afterwards. And He Remembered Ever Afterwards The

Moments He Spent With Her In A Distant Corner--The Palm,  The Gold Of

The Screen,  The Movement Of Her White Skirt As She Sat Down. All Was,

As It Were,  Bitten Upon His Soul--Exquisite Etchings! Even The Pauses

In The Conversation Were Remembered; Pauses Full Of Mute Affection;

Pauses Full Of Thought Unexpressed,  Falling In Sharp Chasms Of

Silence. In Such Hours And In Such Pauses Is The Essence Of Our

Lives,  The Rest Is Adjunct And Decoration. He Watched,  Fearing Each

Man That Looked Through The Doorway Might Claim Her For The Next

Dance. His Thought Swept Through His Soul Edgeways. Did He Love Her?

Would He Love Her Always? And He Was Conscious Of The Contrast His

Speech Presented,  To The Tumult That Raged And Shrieked Within Him.

Yet He Couldn't Speak The Word,  And He Cursed His Little Cowardice.

 

The Ball Came And Went--A Little Year With Its Four Seasons; And When

In The Hall He Stood By Her,  Helping Her With Her Cloak (Silk And

Gray Fur,  Folding The Delicate Line Of The Neck),  And Became Aware

That Even Those Last Moments Did Not Hold The Word His Soul Was

Whispering,  He Cursed His Cowardice,  And,  Weary Of Himself,  He Turned

Down The Dark Street,  Feeling That He Had Lost His Life.

 

"Now All Is Ended," He Thought,  "I'm Like A Convict Who Attempted

Escape And Has Been Brought Back And Yoked Again In The Sweaty And

Manacled Gang; And I Must Continue In And Bear With This Life Of

Gross Sensuality And Dirty Journalism,  'Which I Have Borne And Yet

Must Bear'--A Wearisome Repetition Of What Has Been Done And Re-Done

A Thousand Times,  'Till Death-Like Sleep Shall Steal On Me,' And I

May Hear Some Horrible Lodging-House Keeper 'Breathe O'er My Dying

Brain A Last Monotony.' And In Various Degradations My Intellect Will

Suffer,  Will Decay; But With Her Refining And Elevating Influence,  I

Might Be A Great Writer. It Is Certain That The Kernel Of Art Is

Aspiration For Higher Things; At All Events,  I Should Lead A Cleanly

Life. If I Were Married To Her I Should Not Write This Book. It

Certainly Is A Disgraceful Book; And Yet It Amuses Me."

 

His Thoughts Paused,  Then An Idea Came,  And With His Pen He Pursued

It And The Quickly Rising Flight Which Followed For A Couple Of

Hours.

 

"Why Should I Not Write And Ask Her To Marry Me?" He Smiled At The

Thought,  But The Thought Was Stronger Than He,  And He Went To Bed

Thinking Of Her,  And He Rose Thinking Of Her; And The Desire To Write

And Tell Her That He Loved Her And Wanted Her For Wife Persisted; He

Shook It Off A Dozen Times,  But It Grew More And More Poignant,  Until

It Settled On His Heart,  A Lancinating Pain Which Neither Work Nor

Pleasure Could Remove. Daily He Grew Feebler,  Losing At Each Effort

Some Power Of Resistance. One Day He Took Up The Pen To Write The

Irrevocable. But The Reality Of The Ink And Paper Frightened Him.

Chapter 7 Pg 86

"Will You Be My Wife?" Seemed To Him Silly. Even In This Crisis

Self-Esteem Lay Uppermost In His Mind; And He Wrote Many Letters

Before He Felt Certain He Had Guarded Himself Against Ridicule. At

Last He Folded Up A Sheet Upon Which He Had Written--"Dearest Lily,

You Are The Only Woman I May Love; Will You Allow Me To Love You For

Ever?" He Put This Into An Envelope And Directed It; Nothing Remained

But To Post It. The Clock Told Him He Could Catch The Post If He

Started Away At Once,  But He Drew Back,  Frightened At The Reality Of

The Post-Office,  And Decided To Sleep Over His Letter.

 

The Night Was Full Of Lily--Fair,  Chaste Dreams,  Whence He Rose As

From A Bath Clothed In The Samite Of Pure Delight. While Dressing He

Felt Sure That Marriage--Marriage With Lily Must Be The Realization

Of Such Dreams,  And That It Would Be Folly Not To Post His Letter.

Still,  It Might Be As Well To Hear The Opinion Of One Who Had Taken

The Important Step,  And After Breakfast He Drew Frank Into

Conversation About Lizzie.

 

"I Am Quite Happy," He Said. "Lizzie Is A Good Wife,  And I Love Her

Better To-Day Than The Day I Married Her; But The Price I Paid For

Her Was Too High. Mount Rorke Has Behaved Shamefully,  And So Has

Everybody But You. I Never See Any Of The Old Lot Now. Snowdown Came

Once To Dine About A Year Ago,  But I Never Go Anywhere Where Lizzie

Is Not Asked. Mount Rorke Has Only Written Once Since My Marriage,

And Then It Was To Say He Never Wished To See Me Again. The Next I

Heard Was The Announcement Of His Marriage."

 

"So He Has Married Again," Said Mike,  Looking At Frank,  And Then He

Thought--"So You Who Came From The Top Shall Go To The Bottom! Shall

He Who Came From The Bottom Go To The Top?"

 

"I Have Not Heard Yet Of A Child. I Have Tried To Find Out If One Is

Expected; But What Does It Matter?--Mount Rorke Wouldn't Give Me A

Penny-Piece To Save Me From Starvation,  And I Should Have Time To

Starve A Good Many Times Before He Goes Off The Hooks. I Don't Mind

Telling You I'm About As Hard Up As A Man Possibly Can Be. I Owe

Three Quarters' Rent For My Rooms In Temple Gardens,  Nearly Two

Hundred Pounds. The Inn Is Pressing Me,  And I Can't Get Three Hundred

For My Furniture,  And I'm Sure I Paid More Than Fifteen Hundred For

What There Is There."

 

"Why Don't You Sell A Share In The Paper?"

 

"I Have Sold A Small Part Of It,  A Very Small Part Of It,  A Fifth,

And There Is A Fellow Called Thigh--You Know The Fellow,  He Has

Edited Every Stupid Weekly That Has Appeared And Disappeared For The

Last Ten Years--Well,  He Has Got Hold Of A Mug,  And By All Accounts A

Real Mug,  One Of The Right Sort,  A Mr. Beacham Brown. Mr. Brown Wants

A Paper,  And Has Commissioned Thigh To Buy Him One. Thigh Wants Me To

Sell A Half Share In The _Pilgrim_ For A Thousand,  But I Shall Have

To Give Thigh Back Four Hundred; And I Shall--That Is To Say,  I Shall

If I Agree To Thigh's Terms--Become Assistant Editor At A Salary Of

Six Pounds A Week; Two Pounds A Week Of Which I Shall Have To Hand

Over To Thigh,  Who Comes In As Editor At A Salary Of Ten Pounds A

Week. All The Staff Will Be Engaged On Similar Conditions. Thigh Is

'Working' Beacham Brown Beautifully--He Won't Have A Sixpence To

Bless Himself With When Thigh Has Done With Him."

 

"And Are You Going To Accept Thigh's Terms?"

 

"Not If I Can Possibly Help It. If Your Articles Send Up The

Circulation And My New Advertising Agent Can Do The West End

Tradesmen For A Few More Advertisements,  I Shall Stand Off And Wait

For Better Terms. My New Advertising Agent Is A Wonder,  The Finest In

Christendom. The Other Day A Bond Street Jeweller Who Advertises With

Us Came Into My Office. He Said,  'Sir,  I Have Come To Ask You If You

Circulate Thirty Thousand Copies A Week.' 'Well,' I Said,  'Perhaps

Not Quite.' 'Then,  Sir,' He Replied,  'You Will Please Return Me My

Money; I Gave Your Agent My Advertisement Upon His Implicit Assurance

That You Circulated Thirty Thousand A Week.' I Said There Must Be

Some Mistake; Mr. Tomlinson Happens To Be In The Office,  If You'll