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
Construction Of The Mausoleum In Red Granite, Which He Was Raising In
Memory Of Helen; And This Interest Remained Paramount. He Took Many
Journeys To London On Its Account, And Studied All The Architecture
On The Subject, And With Great Books On His Knees, He Sat In The
Library Making Drawings Or Composing Epitaphs And Memorial Poems.
Belthorpe Park Was Often Full Of Visitors, And When Walking With Them
On The Terraces, His Thoughts Ran On Mount Rorke Castle, His Own
Success, And Frank's Failure; And When He Awoke In The Sweet,
Luxurious Rooms, In The Houses Where He Was Staying, His Brain Filled
With Febrile Sensations Of Triumph, And Fitful Belief That He Was
Above Any Caprice Of Destiny.
It Pleased Him To Write Letters With Belthorpe Park Printed On The
Top Of The First Page, And He Wrote Many For This Reason. Quick With
Affectionate Remembrances, He Thought Of Friends He Had Not Thought
Of For Years, And The Sadnesses Of These Separations Touched Him
Deeply; And The Mutability Of Things Moved Him In His Very Entrails,
And He Thought That Perhaps No One Had Felt These Things As He Felt
Them. He Remembered The Women Who Had Passed Out Of His Life, And
Looking Out On His English Park, Soaking With Rain And Dim With Mist,
He Remembered Those Whom He Had Loved, And The Peak Whence He Viewed
The Desert District Of His Amours--Lily Young. She Haunted In His
Life.
He Saw Himself A Knight In The Tourney, And Her Eyes Fixed On Him,
While He Calmed His Fiery Dexter And Tilted For Her; He Saw Her In
The Silk Comfort Of The Brougham, By His Side, Their Bodies Rocked
Gently Together; He Saw Her In The South When Reading Mrs. Byril's
Descriptions Of Rocky Coast And Olive Fields.
The English Park Lay Deep In Snow, And The Familiar Word Roses Then
Took Magical Significance, And The Imagined Southern Air Was Full Of
Lily.
"There's A Sweet Girl Here, And I'm Sure You Would Like Her; She Is
So Slender, So Blithe And Winsome, And So Wayward. She Has Been Sent
Abroad For Her Health, And Is Forbidden To Go Out After Sunset, But
Will Not Obey. I Am Afraid She Is Dying Of Consumption.... She Has
Taken A Great Fancy To Me. There Is No One In Our Hotel But A Few Old
Maids, Who Discuss The Peerage, And She Runs After Me To Talk About
Men. I Fancy She Must Have Carried On Pretty Well With Some One, For
She Loves Talking About _Him_, And Is Full Of Mysterious Allusions."
The Romance Of The Sudden Introduction Of This Girl Into The
Landscape Took Him By The Throat. He Saw Himself Walking With This
Dying Girl In The Beauty Of Blue Mountains Toppling Into Blue Skies,
And Reflected In Bluer Seas; He Sat With Her Beneath The Palm-Trees;
Palms Spread Their Fan-Like Leaves Upon Sky And Sea, And In The Rich
Green Of Their Leaves Oranges Grew To Deep, And Lemons To Paler,
Gold; And He Dreamed That The Knowledge That The Object Of His Love
Was Transitory, Would Make His Love Perfect And Pure. Now In His
Solitude, With No Object To Break It, This Desire For Love In Death
Haunted In His Mind. It Rose Unbidden, Like A Melody, Stealing Forth
And Surprising Him In Unexpected Moments. Often He Asked Himself Why
He Did Not Pack Up His Portmanteau And Rush Away; And He Was Only
Deterred By The Apparent Senselessness Of The Thought. "What Slaves
We Are Of Habit! Why More Stupid To Go Than To Remain?"
Soon After, He Received Another Letter From Mrs. Byril. He Glanced
Through It Eagerly For Some Mention Of The Girl. Whatever There Was
Of Sweetness And Goodness In Mike's Nature Was Reflected In His Eyes
(Soft Violet Eyes, In Which Tenderness Dwelt), Whatever There Was Of
Evil Was Written In The Lips And Cmmisent_ Où _Hystérisent_ Des Lieux Communs, Ainsi Que
Celle D'aubryet, C'est Une Bonne Fortune De Rencontrer Un Causeur À La
Parole Judicieuse, Relevée D'une Pointe D'ironie Parisienne.
* * * * *
_Lundi 10 Juin_.--Je Suis, Ce Soir, Au Chemin De Fer, À Côté D'un Ouvrier
Complètement Saoul, Qui Répète À Tout Instant: «Non, Je Ne La Foutrais Pas,
Chapter 8 Pg 116Quand On Me Donnerait Tout Paris... Oui Tout Paris, Non Je Ne La Foutrais
Pas!» Et Ce Rabâchage, Un Peu Bredouillant, Est Coupé De Petits Rires
Intérieurs, Et D'imitations De Vagissements D'enfants À La Mamelle. L'on
Pardonne À Cet Alsacien, Dont La Tendresse De La Saoulerie Va À Son Enfant,
À Sa Petite Fille.
* * * * *
_Mardi 11 Juin_.--Un Adorable Mot D'une Vieille Femme Galante, Devenue
Dévote, Sur Le Juif Avec Lequel Elle Vit. Elle Disait À Une Amie: «Tu Ne
Sais Pas, Comme Maintenant Il Est Charmant... Comme Il Est Doux, Même
Quand Il Est Malade... Et Puis, Comme Il Est Bon Pour Le Bon Dieu!»
* * * * *
_Mardi 11 Juin_.--Ce Soir, L'ancien Dîner De Magny, Réduit Par Le Dîner,
Que Donne Au-Dessous De Nous, Hugo, Pour La Centième Représentation De
Ruy-Blas, Se Relève Et Ressemble Presque À Un De Nos Bons Dîners, Du Temps
De Sainte-Beuve. On Y Remue Et On Y Agite Les Plus Grosses Questions. On
Parle Des Troglodytes; De Fragments Générateurs De Métaux, Rapportés Du
Groënland, Et Qu'expérimente Dans Le Moment Berthelot; De Statues
Égyptiennes Du Troisième Siècle, Découvertes Dans Une Pyramide, Et
Démontrant, Comme Moderne, L'introduction Du Hiératisme Dans L'art
Égyptien. On Parle De Grandes Civilisations Ayant Une Littérature, Et
N'ayant Ni Art, Ni Industrie, Ainsi Que La Civilisation Brahmane, Disparue
Sans Laisser De Trace Matérielle. On Parle De L'_Insénescence_ Du Sens
Intime Et Des Trois _Moi_ De Je Ne Sais Quel Savant. On Parle Des Cerveaux
De Sophocle, De Shakespeare, De Balzac.
On Parle Enfin Du Refroidissement Du Globe, Dans Quelques Dizaines De
Millions D'années. C'est L'occasion Pour Berthelot, De Peindre
Pittoresquement La Retraite Dans Les Mines Des Derniers Hommes, Avec Du
Blanc De Champignons Pour Nourriture, Avec Le Gaz Des Marais, Avec Le _Feu
Grisou_ Comme Bon Dieu.
«Mais Peut-Être,--Interrompt Tout-À-Coup Renan, Qui A Écouté Avec Le Plus
Grand Sérieux,--Ces Hommes Là-Dedans, Auront-Ils Une Très Grande Puissance
Métaphysique!»
Et La Sublime Naïveté, Avec Laquelle Il Dit Cela, Fait Éclater De Rire,
Toute La Table.
* * * * *
_Jeudi 20 Juin_.--Lundi--C'était Presque Le Jour De Sa Mort--A Commencé À
Paraître Dans Le Bien Public, Notre Gavarni.
Tous Ces Jours, En Parcourant Le Journal, Ma Pensée Était À L'enragement
De Travail, Avec Lequel Mon Frère Hâtait La Fin De Ce Livre. Je Le
Revoyais, Pendant Nos Tristes Séjours D'hiver, À Trouville, À
Saint-Gratien, Rivé Sur Une Chaise, Dont Je Ne Pouvais L'arracher, Une
Main Labourant Son Front, Comme S'il Lui Fallait Douloureusement Extraire
Les Tours De Phrase, Les Épithètes, Les Mots Spirituels, Autrefois Coulant
Si Facilement Dans Le Courant De Son Écriture.
* * * * *
_Vendredi 21 Juin_.--Je Dîne Ce Soir, Chez Riche, Avec Flaubert, Qui Passe
À Paris Pour Se Rendre À L'inauguration De La Statue De Ronsard, À Vendôme.
Nous Dînons, Bien Entendu, Dans Un Cabinet, Parce Que Flaubert Ne Veut Pas
De Bruit, Ne Tolère Pas Des Individus À Côté De Lui, Et Qu'il Lui Plaît,
Pour Manger, D'ôter Son Habit Et Ses Bottines.
Nous Causons De Ronsard, Puis Tout De Suite, Lui Se Met À Hurler, Moi À
Gémir, Sur La Politique, La Littérature, Les Embêtements De La Vie.
En Sortant, Nous Tombons Sur Aubryet, Qui Nous Apprend Que Saint-Victor
Est De L'inauguration. «Eh Bien, Je N'irai Pas À Vendôme, Me Dit Flaubert,
Non Vraiment, La Sensibilité Est Arrivée Chez Moi À Un État Maladif Tel...
Je Suis Entamé Au Point Que L'idée D'avoir La Figure D'un Monsieur
Chapter 8 Pg 117Désagréable, En Chemin De Fer, Devant Moi... Ça M'Ished With Water-Gourd, A Seven-Foot Staff, And A Gigantic Pipe,
Lingered In The Country Railway-Station. This Shepherd's Skin Was
Like Coffee, And He Wore Hair Hanging Far Over His Shoulders, And His
Beard Reached To His Waist.
Nice! A Town Of Cheap Fashion, A Town Of Glass And Stucco. The
Pungent Odour Of The Eucalyptus Trees, The Light Breeze Stirred Not
The Foliage, Sheared Into Mathematical Lines. It Was Like Yards Of
Baize Dwindling In Perspective; And Between The Tall Trunks Great
Plate-Glass Windows Gleamed, Filled With _L'article De Londres_.
He Drove To The Hotel From Which Mrs. Byril Had Written, And Learnt
That She Had Left Yesterday, And That Mrs. And Miss Young Were Not
Staying There. They Had No Such Name On The Books. Looking On The Sea
And Mountains He Wondered Himself What It All Meant.
Having Bathed And Changed His Clothes, He Sallied Forth In A Cab To
Call At Every Hotel In The Town, And After Three Hours' Fruitless
Search, Returned In Despair. Never Before Had Life Seemed So Sad;
Never Had Fate Seemed So Cruel--He Had Come A Thousand Miles To
Regenerate His Life, And An Accident, The Accident Of A Departure,
Hastened Perhaps Only By A Day, Had Thrown Him Back On The Past; He
Had Imagined A Beautiful Future Made Of Love, Goodness, And Truth,
And He Found Himself Thrown Back Upon The Sterile Shore Of A Past Of
Which He Was Weary, And Of Whose Fruits He Had Eaten Even To Satiety.
After Much Effort He Had Made Sure That Nothing Mattered But Lily,
Neither Wealth Nor Liberty, Nor Even His Genius. In Surrendering All
He Would Have Gained All--Peace Of Mind, Unending Love And Goodness.
Goodness! That Which He Had Never Known, That Which He Now Knew Was
Worth More Than Gratification Of Flesh And Pride Of Spirit.
The Night Was Full Of Tumult And Dreams--Dreams Of Palms, And Seas,
And Endless Love, And In The Morning He Walked Into The Realities Of
His Imaginings.
Passing Through An Archway, He Found Himself In The Gaud Of The
Flower-Market. There A Hundred Umbrellas, Yellow, Red, Mauve And
Magenta, Lemon Yellow, Cadmium Yellow, Gold, A Multi-Coloured Mass
Spread Their Extended Bellies To A Sky Blue As The Blouses.
The Brown Fingers Of The Peasant Women Are Tying And Pressing All The
Miraculous Bloom Of The Earth Into The Fair Fingers Of Saxon
Girls--Great Packages Of Roses, Pink Lilies, Clematis, Stephanotis,
And Honeysuckle. A Gentle Breeze Is Blowing, Rocking The Umbrellas,
Wafting The Odour Of The Roses And Honeysuckle, Bringing Hither An
Odour Of The Lapping Tide, Rocking The Immense Umbrellas. One Huge
And Ungainly Sunshade Creaks, Swaying Its Preposterous Rotundity.
Beneath It The Brown Woman Slices Her Pumpkin. Mike Scanned Every
Thin Face For Lily, And As He Stood Wedged Against A Flower-Stand, A
Girl Passed Him. She Turned. It Was Lily.
"Lily, Is It Possible? I Was Looking For You Everywhere."
"Looking For Me! When Did You Arrive In Nice? How Did You Know I Was
Here?"
"Mrs. Byril Wrote. She Described A Girl, And I Knew From Her
Description It Must Be You. And I Came On At Once."
"You Came On At Once To Find Me?"
"Yes; I Love You More Than Ever. I Can Think Only Of You.... But When
I Arrived I Found Mrs. Byril Had Left, And I Had No Means Of Finding
Your Address."
"You Foolish Boy; You Mean To Say You Rushed Away On The Chance That
I Was The Girl Described In Mrs. Byril's Letter! ...
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