Mike Fletcher, George Moore [reading books for 4 year olds .TXT] 📗
- Author: George Moore
Book online «Mike Fletcher, George Moore [reading books for 4 year olds .TXT] 📗». Author George Moore
Cet Argot Mystique, Creux Et Sonore, Avec Lequel Pontifient Des Hommes
Comme Michelet, Comme Hugo, Cherchant À S'imposer À Leur Entourage, Ainsi
Que Des Vaticinateurs Ayant Commerce Avec Les Dieux.
* * * * *
_Dimanche De Pâques 1er Avril_.--Au Lit, Où Je Passe Ma Journée, Je Pense
Combien Cette Semaine Sainte M'est Mauvaise, Depuis Des Années, Combien
Elle Emporte De Ma Vitalité, À Chaque Renouveau Des Printemps. Je Ne Peux
Traverser Les Tiédeurs Et Les Frigidités De L'air, Je Ne Peux Vivre Dans
L'aigreur De L'atmosphère Du Printemps, Sans Être Malade, Et Malade D'un
Certain Malaise Qui Me Met En Communication Avec La Mort.
Cette Semaine Est Pour Moi, Tant Qu'elle Dure, Comme Une Entrée En
Chapelle. Avec Cette Idée Persistante De La Mort, Qui Me Rapproche D'une
Autre Mort, Avec Le Vague De L'esprit, Et Cette _En Allée De Soi-Même_ Que
Donne Le Lit, Toute La Journée, Je L'ai Passée Avec Mon Frère, Ainsi Que
Dans La Fréquentation D'un Vivant Avec Une Ombre, Comme Si, Ce Jour-Là, Le
Christ, Pour L'anniversaire De Sa Résurrection, Donnait Congé Aux Âmes Des
Morts, Et Leur Permettait De Vivre Autour Des Vivants, Invisibles, Mais
Amoureusement Présents.
* * * * *
_Mardi 3 Avril_.--C'est Bien L'homme Le Plus Mal Élevé, Et Le Plus
Furibondement Comique Qui Soit, Que Ce Charles Blanc. Aujourd'hui, À
Propos D'une Assertion Quelconque De Renan, Il S'est Mis À Vociférer, Que
Toutes Les Histoires De La Révolution Étaient Des Mensonges, Que Tous Les
Historiens Étaient Des Imposteurs,--Et Qu'il N'y ARank Without His Wife, And Lizzie Would Prejudice Him In The Eyes Of
The County People. Then, As His Thoughts Detached Themselves, He
Exclaimed Against The Sepulchral Solemnity Of The Library. The House
Was Soundless. At The Window He Heard The Soft Moonlight-Dreaming Of
The Rooks; And When He Threw Open The Window The White Peacock
Roosting There Flew Away And Paraded On The Pale Sward Like A Watteau
Lady.
Next Morning, Rousing In The Indolence Of A Bed Hung With Curtains Of
Indian Pattern, Mike Said To The Footman Who Brought In His Hot
Water--
"Tell The Coachman That I Shall Go Out Riding After Breakfast."
"What Horse Will You Ride, Sir?"
"I Don't Know What Horses You Have In The Stable."
"Well, Sir, You Can Ride Either Her Ladyship's Hunter Or The Mare
That Brought You From The Station In The Dog-Cart."
"Very Well. I'll Ride Her Ladyship's Hunter. (My Hunter, Damn The
Fellow," He Said, Under His Breath.) "And Tell The Bailiff I Shall
Chapter 8 Pg 113Want Him; Let Him Come Round On His Horse. I Shall Go Over The Farms
With Him."
The Morning Was Chilly. He Stood Before The Fire While The Butler
Brought In Eggs, Kidneys, Devilled Legs Of Fowl, And Coffee. The
Beauty Of The Coffee-Pot Caught His Eye, And He Admired The Plate
That Made Such Rich Effect On The Old Chippendale Sideboard. The
Peacocks On The Window-Sills, Knocking With Their Strong Beaks For
Bread, Pleased Him; They Recalled Evenings Passed With Helen; She Had
Often Spoken Of Her Love For These Birds. He Went To The Window With
Bread For The Peacocks, And The Landscape Came Into His Eyes: The
Clump Of Leafless Trees On The Left, Rugged And Untidy With Rooks'
Nests; The Hollow, Dipping Plain, Melancholy Of Aspect Now, Misty,
Gray And Brown Beneath A Lowering Sky, Dipping And Then Rising In A
Long, Wide Shape, And Ringing The Sky With A Brown Line. The Terrace
With Its Straight Walks, Balustrades, Urns, And Closely-Cropped Yews
Was A Romantic Note, Severe, Even Harsh.
One Day, Wandering From Room To Room, He Found Himself In Helen's
Bedroom. "There Is The Bed She Died In, There Is The Wardrobe." Mike
Opened The Wardrobe. He Turned The Dresses Over, Seeking For Those He
Knew; But He Had Not Seen Her For Three Years, And There Were New
Dresses, And He Had Forgotten The Old. Suddenly He Came Upon One Of
Soft, Blue Material, And He Remembered She Wore That Dress The First
Time She Sat On His Knees. Feeling The Need Of An Expressive Action,
He Buried His Face In The Pale Blue Dress, Seeking In Its Softness
And Odour Commemoration Of Her Who Lay Beneath The Pavement. How
Desolate Was The Room! He Would Not Linger. This Room Must Be Forever
Closed, Left To The Silence, The Mildew, The Dust, And The Moth. None
Must Enter Here But He, It Must Be Sacred From Other Feet. Once A
Year, On Her Anniversary, He Would Come To Mourn Her, And Not On The
Anniversary Of Her Death, But On That Of Their First Kiss. He Had
Forgotten The Exact Day, And Feared He Had Not Preserved All Her
Letters. Perhaps She Had Preserved His.
Moved With Such An Idea He Passed Out Of Her Bedroom, And Calling For
_His_ Keys, Went Into Her Boudoir And Opened Her Escritoire, And Very
Soon He Found His Letters; Almost The First He Read, Ran As Follows--
"My Dear Helen,
"I Am Much Obliged To You For Your Kind Invitation. I Should Like
Very Much To Come And Stay With You, If I May Come As Your Friend.
You Must Not Think From This That I Have Fallen In Love With Some One
Else; I Have Not. I Have Never Seen Any One I Shall Love Better Than
You; I Love You To-Day As Well As Ever I Did; My Feelings Regarding
You Have Changed In Nothing, Yet I Cannot Come As Your Lover. I Am
Ashamed Of Myself, I Hate Myself, But It Is Not My Fault.
"I Have Been Your Lover For More Than A Year, And I Could Not Be Any
One's Lover--No, Not If She Were Venus Herself--For A Longer Time.
"My Heart Is Full Of Regret. I Am Losing The Best And Sweetest
Mistress Ever Man Had. No One Is Able To Appreciate Your Worth Better
Than I. Try To Understand Me; Do Not Throw This Letter Aside In A
Rage. You Are A Clever Woman; You Are, I Know, Capable Of
Understanding It. And If You Will Understand, You Will Not Regret;
That I Swear, For You Will Gain The Best And Most Loyal Friend. I Am
As Good A Friend As I Am A Worthless Lover. Try To Understand, Helen,
I Am Not Wholly To Blame.
"I Love You--I Esteem You Far More To-Day Than I Did When I First
Knew You. Do Not Let Our Love End Upon A Miserable Quarrel--The
Commonplace Quarrel Of Those Who Do Not Know How To Love."
Chapter 8 Pg 114
He Turned The Letter Over. He Was The Letter; That Letter Was His
Shameful Human Nature; And Worse, It Was The Human Nature Of The
Whole Wide World. On The Same Point, Or On Some Other Point, Every
Human Being Was As Base As He. Such Baseness Is The Inalienable
Birth-Stain Of Human Life. His Poem Was No Pretty Imagining, But The
Eternal, Implacable Truth. It Were Better That Human Life Should
Cease. Until This Moment He Had Only Half Understood Its Awful, Its
Terrifying Truth.... It Were Better That Man Ceased To Pollute The
Earth. His History Is But The Record Of Crime; His Existence Is But A
Disgraceful Episode In The Life Of One Of The Meanest Of The Planets.
We Cannot Desire What We Possess, And So We Progress From Illusion To
Illusion. But When We Cease To Distinguish Between Ourself And
Others, When Our Thoughts Are No Longer Set On The Consideration Of
Our Own Embarrassed Condition, When We See Into The Heart Of Things,
Which Is One, Then Disappointment And Suffering Cease To Have Any
Meaning, And We Attain That True Serenity And Peace Which We
Sometimes See Reflected In A Seraph's Face By Raphael.
As Mike's Thoughts Floated In The Boundless Atmosphere Of
Schopenhauer's Poem, Of The Denial Of The Will To Live, He Felt
Creeping Upon Him, Like Sleep Upon Tired Eyelids, All The Sweet And
Suasive Fascination Of Death. "How Little," He Thought, "Does Any Man
Know Of Any Other Man's Soul. Who Among My Friends Would Believe That
I, In All My Intense Joys And Desire Of Life, Am Perhaps, At Heart,
The Saddest Man, And Perhaps Sigh For Death More Ardently, And Am
Tempted To Cull The Dark Fruit Which Hangs So Temptingly Over The
Wall Of The Garden Of Life More Ardently Than Any One?"
A Few Days After, His Neighbour, Lord Spennymoor, Called, And His
Visit Was Followed By An Invitation To Dinner. The Invitation Was
Accepted. Mike Was On His Best Behaviour. During Dinner He Displayed
As Much Reserve As His Nature Allowed Him To, But Afterwards,
Yielding To The Solicitations Of The Women, He Abandoned Himself, And
When Twelve O'clock Struck They Were Still Gathered Round Him,
Listening To Him With Rapt Expression, As If In Hearing Of Delightful
Music. Awaking Suddenly To A Sense Of The Hour And His Indiscretion,
He Bade Lord Spennymoor, Who Had Sat Talking All Night With His
Brother In A Far Corner, Good-Night.
When The Sound Of The Wheels Of His Trap Died Away, When The Ladies
Had Retired, Lord Spennymoor Returned To The Smoking-Room, And At The
End Of A Long Silence Asked His Brother, Who Sat Smoking Opposite
Him, What He Thought Of Fletcher.
"He Is One Of Those Men Who Attract Women, Who Attract Nine People
Out Of Ten.... Call It Magnetism, Electro-Biology, Give It What Name
You Will. The Natural Sciences----"
"Never Mind The Natural Sciences. Do You Think That Either Of My
Girls Were--Victoria, For Instance, Was Attracted By Him? I Don't
Believe For A Moment His Story Of Having Saved Lady Seeley From
Drowning In Italy, But I'm Bound To Say He Told It Very Well. I Can
See The Girls Sitting Round Him Listening. Poor Mrs. Dickens, Her
Eyes Were----"
"I Shan't Ask Her Here Again.... But Tell Me, Do You Think He'll
Marry?"
"It Would Be Very Hard To Say What Will Become Of Him. He May
Suddenly Weary Of Women And Become A Woman-Hater, Or Perhaps He May
Develop Into A Sort Of Baron Hulot. He Spoke About His Writings--He
May Become Ambitious, And Spend His Life Writing Epics.... He May Go
Mad! He Seemed Interested In Politics, He May Go Into Parliament; I
Fancy He Would Do Very Well In Parliament. A Sudden Loathing Of
Civilization May Come Upon Him And Send Him To Africa Or The Arctic
Regions. A Man's End Is Always Infinitely More In Accordance With His
True Character Than Any Conclusion We Could Invent. No Writer, Even
If He Have Genius, Is So Extravagantly Logical As Nature."
During The Winter Months Mike Was Extensively Occupied With The
Chapter 8 Pg 115
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