Mike Fletcher by George Moore (summer reading list TXT) 📖

Check His Flow Of Words.

 

Without Noticing His Embarrassment,  Frank Said--

 

"After France It Must Have Been A Horrible Change To Come To Ireland.

How Old Were You?"

 

"About Fourteen. I Could Not Endure The Place. Every Day Was So

Appallingly Like The Last. There Was Nothing For Me To Do But To

Dream; I Dreamed Of Everything. I Longed To Get Alone And Let My

Fancy Wander--Weaving Tales Of Which I Was The Hero,  Building Castles

Of Which I Was The Lord."

 

"I Remember Always Hearing Of Your Riding And Shooting. No One Knew

Of Your Literary Tastes. I Don't Mind Telling You That Mount Rorke

Often Suspected You Of Being A Bit Of A Poacher."

 

Mike Laughed.

 

"I Believe I Have Knocked Down A Pheasant Or Two. I Was An Odd

Mixture--Half A Man Of Action,  Half A Man Of Dreams. My Position In

Cashel Was Unbearable. My Mother Was A Lady; My Father--You Know How

He Had Let Himself Down. You Cannot Imagine The Yearnings Of A Poor

Boy; You Were Brought Up In All Elegance And Refinement. That

Beautiful Park! On Afternoons I Used To Walk There,  And I Remember

The Very Moments I Passed Under The Foliage Of The Great Beeches And

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Lay Down To Dream. I Used To Wander To The Outskirts Of The Wood As

Near As I Dared To The Pleasure-Grounds,  And Looking On The Towers

Strove To Imagine The Life There. The Bitterest Curses Lie In The

Hearts Of Young Men Who,  Understanding Refinement And Elegance,  See

It For Ever Out Of Their Reach. I Used To Watch The Parade Of Dresses

Passing On The Summer Lawns Between The Firs And Flowering Trees.

What Graceful And Noble Words Were Spoken!--And That Man Walking Into

The Poetry Of The Laburnum Gold,  Did He Put His Arm About Her? And I

Wondered What Silken Ankles Moved Beneath Her Skirts. My Brain Was On

Fire,  And I Was Crazed; I Thought I Should Never Hold A Lady In My

Arms. A Lady! All The Delicacy Of Silk And Lace,  High-Heeled Shoes,

And The Scent And Colour Of Hair That A _Coiffeur_ Has Braided."

 

"I Think You Are Mad!"

 

Mike Laughed And Continued--

 

"I Was So When I Was Sixteen. There Was A Girl Staying There. Her

Hair Was Copper,  And Her Flesh Was Pink And White. Her Waist,  You

Could Span It. I Saw Her Walking One Day On ..."

 

"You Must Mean Lady Alice Hargood,  A Very Tall Girl?"

 

"Yes; Five Feet Seven,  Quite. I Saw Her Walking On The Terrace With

Your Uncle. Once She Passed Our House,  And I Smarted With Shame Of It

As Of Some Restless Wound,  And For Days I Remembered I Was Little

Better Than A Peasant. Originally We Came,  As You Know,  Of Good

English Stock,  But Nothing Is Vital But The Present. I Cried And

Cursed My Existence,  My Father And The Mother That Bore Me,  And That

Night I Climbed Out By My Window And Roved Through The Dark About The

Castle So Tall In The Moonlight. The Sky That Night Was Like A Soft

Blue Veil,  And The Trees Were Painted Quite Black Upon It. I Looked

For Her Window,  And I Imagined Her Sleeping With Her Copper Hair

Tossed In The Moonlight,  Like An Illustration In A Volume Of Shelley.

 

"You Remember The Old Wooden Statue Of A Nymph That Stood In The

Sycamores At The End Of The Terraces; She Was The First Naked Woman I

Saw. I Used To Wander About Her,  Sometimes At Night,  And I Have Often

Climbed About And Hung Round Those Shoulders,  And Ever Since I Have

Always Met That Breast Of Wood. You Have Been Loved More Truly; You

Have Been Possessed Of Woman More Thoroughly Than I. Though I Clasp A

Woman In My Arms,  It Is As If The Atlantic Separated Us. Did I Never

Tell You Of My First Love Affair? That Was The Romance Of The Wood

Nymph. One Evening I Climbed On The Pedestal Of My Divinity,  My Cheek

Was Pale ..."

 

"For God's Sake,  Leave Out The Poetics,  And Come To The Facts."

 

"If You Don't Let Me Tell My Story In My Own Way I Won't Tell It At

All. Out Of My Agony Prayer Rose To Alice,  For Now It Pleased Me To

Fancy There Was Some Likeness Between This Statue And Lady Alice. The

Dome Of Leafage Was Sprinkled With The Colour Of The Sunset,  And As I

Pressed My Lips To The Wooden Statue,  I Heard Dead Leaves Rustling

Under A Footstep. Holding The Nymph With One Arm,  I Turned And Saw A

Lady Approaching. She Asked Me Why I Kissed The Statue. I Looked Away

Embarrassed,  But She Told Me Not To Go,  And She Said,  'You Are A

Pretty Boy.' I Said I Had Never Seen A Woman So Beautiful. Again

I Grew Ashamed,  But The Lady Laughed. We Stood Talking In The

Stillness. She Said I Had Pretty Hands,  And Asked Me If I Regretted

The Nymph Was Not A Real Woman. She Took My Hands. I Praised Hers,

And Then I Grew Frightened,  For I Knew She Came From The Castle; The

Castle Was To Me What The Ark Of The Covenant Was To An Israelite.

She Put Her Arm About Me,  And My Fears Departed In The Thrilling Of

An Exquisite Minute. She Kissed Me And Said,  'Let Us Sit Down.'"

 

"I Wonder Who She Was! What Was Her Name? You Can Tell Me."

 

"No,  I Never Mention Names; Besides,  I Am Not Certain She Gave Her

Right Name."

 

"Are You Sure She Was Staying At The Castle? For If So,  There Would

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Be No Use For Her To Conceal Her Name. You Could Easily Have Found

It Out."

 

"Oh,  Yes,  She Was Staying At The Castle; She Talked About You All.

Don't You Believe Me?"

 

"What,  All About The Nymph? I Am Certain You Thought You Ought To

Have Loved Her,  And If What Harding Says Is Right,  That There Is More

Truth In What We Think Than In What We Do,  I'm Sure You Might Say

That You Had Been On A Wedding-Tour With One Of The Gargoyles."

 

Mike Laughed; And Frank Did Not Suspect That He Had Annoyed Him.

Mike's Mother Was A Frenchwoman,  Whom John Fletcher Had Met In Dublin

And Had Pressed Into A Sudden Marriage. At The End Of Three Years Of

Married Life She Had Been Forced To Leave Him,  And Strange Were The

Legends Of The Profanities Of That Bed. She Fled One Day,  Taking Her

Son With Her. Fletcher Did Not Even Inquire Where She Had Gone; And

When At Her Death Mike Returned To Ireland,  He Found His Father In A

Small Lodging-House Playing The Flute. Scarcely Deigning To Turn His

Head,  He Said--"Oh! Is That You,  Mike?--Sit Down."

 

At His Father's Death,  Mike Had Sold The Lease Of The Farm For Three

Hundred Pounds,  And With That Sum And A Volume Of Verse He Went To

London. When He Had Published His Poems He Wrote Two Comedies. His

Efforts To Get Them Produced Led Him Into Various Society. He Was

Naturally Clever At Cards,  And One Night He Won Three Hundred Pounds.

Journalism He Had Of Course Dabbled In--He Was Drawn Towards It By

His Eager Impatient Nature; He Was Drawn From It By His Gluttonous

And Artistic Nature. Only Ten Pounds For An Article,  Whereas A

Successful "Bridge" Brought Him Ten Times That Amount,  And He

Revolted Against The Column Of Platitudes That The Hours Whelmed In

Oblivion. There Had Been Times,  However,  When He Had Been Obliged To

Look To Journalism For Daily Bread. The _Spectator_,  Always Open To

Young Talent,  Had Published Many Of His Poems; The _Saturday_ Had

Welcomed His Paradoxes And Strained Eloquence; But Whether He Worked

Or Whether He Idled He Never Wanted Money. He Was One Of Those Men

Who Can Always Find Five Pounds In The Streets Of London.

 

We Meet Mike In His Prime--In His Twenty-Ninth Year--A Man Of Various

Capabilities,  Which An Inveterate Restlessness Of Temperament Had

Left Undeveloped--A Man Of Genius,  Diswrought With Passion,

Occasionally Stricken With Ambition.

 

"Let Me Have Those Glasses. There She Is! I Am Sure It Is She--There,

Leaning Against The Embankment. Yes,  Yes,  It Is She. Look At Her. I

Should Know Her Figure Among A Thousand--Those Frail Shoulders,  That

Little Waist; You Could Break Her Like A Reed. How Sweet She Is On

That Background Of Flowing Water,  Boats,  Wharfs,  And Chimneys; It All

Rises About Her Like A Dream,  And All Is As Faint Upon The Radiant

Air As A Dream Upon Happy Sleep. So She Is Coming To See Me. She Will

Keep Her Promise. I Shall Love Her. I Feel At Last That Love Is Near

Me. Supposing I Were To Marry Her?"

 

"Why Shouldn't You Marry Her If You Love Her? That Is To Say,  If This

Is More Than One Of Your Ordinary Caprices,  Spiced By The Fact That

Its Object Is A Nun."

 

The Men Looked At Each Other For A Moment Doubtful. Then Mike

Laughed.

 

"I Hope I Don't Love Her Too Much,  That Is All. But Perhaps She Will

Not Come. Why Is She Standing There?"

 

"I Should Laugh If She Turned On Her Heel And Walked Away Right Under

Your Very Nose."

 

A Cloud Passed Over Mike's Face.

 

"That's Not Possible," He Said,  And He Raised The Glass. "If I

Thought There Was Any Chance Of That I Should Go Down To See Her."

 

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"You Couldn't Force Her To Come Up. She Seems To Be Admiring The

View."

 

Then Lily Left The Embankment And Turned Towards The Temple.

 

"She Is Coming!" Mike Cried,  And Laying Down The Opera-Glass He Took

Up The Scent And Squirted It About The Room. "You Won't Make Much

Noise,  Like A Good Fellow,  Will You? I Shall Tell Her I Am Here

Alone."

 

"I Shall Make No Noise--I Shall Finish My Article. I Am Expecting

Lizzie About Four; I Will Slip Out And Meet Her In The Street.

Good-Bye."

 

Mike Went To The Head Of The Staircase,  And Looking Down The

Prodigious Height,  He Waited. It Occurred To Him That If He Fell,  The

Emparadised Hour Would Be Lost For Ever. If She Were To Pass Through

The Temple Without Stopping At No. 2! The Sound Of Little Feet And

The Colour Of A Heliotrope Skirt Dispersed His Fears,  And He Watched

Her Growing Larger As She Mounted Each Flight Of Stairs; When She

Stopped To Take Breath,