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

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 116

Quand 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 117

Désagréable,  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! ...