Mike Fletcher by George Moore (ebook pc reader .txt) 📕

How Different Is Such Dull Optimism From The Severe Spirit Of Early

Christianity.

Whither Lay His Duty? Must He Burn The Poems? Far Better That They

Should Burn And He Should Save His Soul From Burning. A Sudden Vision

Of Hell,  A Realistic Mediæval Hell Full Of Black Devils And Ovens

Came Upon Him,  And He Saw Himself Thrust Into Flame. It Seemed To Him

Certain That His Soul Was Lost--So Certain,  That The Source Of Prayer

Died Within Him And He Fell Prostrate. He Cursed,  With Curses That

Seared His Soul As He Uttered Them,  Harding,  That Cynical Atheist,

Who Had Striven To Undermine His Faith,  And He Shrank From Thought Of

Fletcher,  That Dirty Voluptuary.

He Went Out For Long Walks,  Hoping By Exercise To Throw Off The Gloom

And Horror Which Were Thickening In His Brain. He Sought Vainly To

Arrive At Some Certain Opinions Concerning His Poems,  And He Weighed

Every Line,  Not Now For Cadence And Colour,  But With A View Of

Determining Their Ethical Tendencies; And This Poor Torn Soul Stood

Trembling On The Verge Of Fearful Abyss Of Unreason And Doubt.

And When He Walked In The Streets,  London Appeared A Dismal,  Phantom

City. The Tall Houses Vanishing In Darkness,  The Unending Noise,  The

Sudden And Vague Figures Passing; Some With Unclean Gaze,  Others In

Mysterious Haste,  The Courtesans Springing From Hansoms And Entering

Their Restaurant,  Lurking Prostitutes,  Jocular Lads,  And Alleys

Suggestive Of Crime. All And Everything That Is City Fell Violently

Upon His Mind,  Jarring It,  And Flashing Over His Brow All The Horror

Of Delirium. His Pace Quickened,  And He Longed For Wings To Rise Out

Of The Abominable Labyrinth.

At That Moment A Gable Of A Church Rose Against The Sky. The Gates

Were Open,  And One Passing Through Seemed To John Like An Angel,  And

Obeying The Instinct Which Compels The Hunted Animal To Seek Refuge

In The Earth,  He Entered,  And Threw Himself On His Knees. Relief

Came,  And The Dread About His Heart Was Loosened In The Romantic

Twilight. One Poor Woman Knelt Amid The Chairs; Presently She Rose

And Went To The Confessional. He Waited His Turn,  His Eyes Fixed On

The Candles That Burned In The Dusky Distance.

"Father,  Forgive Me,  For I Have Sinned!"

The Priest,  An Old Man Of Gray And Shrivelled Mien,  Settled His

Cassock And Mumbled Some Latin.

"I Have Come To Ask Your Advice,  Father,  Rather Than To Confess The

Sins I Have Committed In The Last Week. Since I Have Come To Live In

London I Have Been Drawn Into The Society Of The Dissolute And The

Impure."

"And You Have Found That Your Faith And Your Morals Are Being

Weakened By Association With These Men?"

"I Have To Thank God That I Am Uninfluenced By Them. Their Society

Presents No Attractions For Me,  But I Am Engaged In Literary

Pursuits,  And Most Of The Young Men With Whom I Am Brought In Contact

Lead Unclean And Unholy Lives. I Have Striven,  And Have In Some

Measure Succeeded,  In Enforcing Respect For My Ideals; Never Have

I Countenanced Indecent Conversation,  Although Perhaps I Have Not

Always Set As Stern A Face Against It As I Might Have."

"But You Have Never Joined In It?"

"Never. But,  Father,  I Am On The Eve Of The Publication Of A Volume

Of Poems,  And I Am Grievously Afflicted With Scruples Lest Their

Tendency Does Not Stand In Agreement With The Teaching Of Our Holy

Church."

"Do You Fear Their Morality,  My Son?"

"No,  No!" Said John In An Agitated Voice,  Which Caused The Old Man To

Raise His Eyes And Glance Inquiringly At His Penitent; "The Poem I Am

Most Fearful Of Is A Philosophic Poem Based On Schopenhauer."

"I Did Not Catch The Name."

"Schopenhauer; If You Are Acquainted With His Works,  Father,  You Will

Appreciate My Anxieties,  And Will See Just Where My Difficulty Lies."

"I Cannot Say I Can Call To Mind At This Moment Any Exact Idea Of His

Philosophy; Does It Include A Denial Of The Existence Of God?"

"His Teaching,  I Admit,  Is Atheistic In Its Tendency,  But I Do Not

Follow Him To His Conclusions. A Part Of His Theory--That Of The

Resignation Of Desire Of Life--Seems To Me Not Only Reconcilable With

The Traditions Of The Church,  But May Really Be Said To Have Been

Original And Vital In Early Christianity,  However Much It May Have

Been Forgotten In These Later Centuries. Jesus Christ Our Lord Is The

Perfect Symbol Of The Denial Of The Will To Live."

"Jesus Christ Our Lord Died To Save Us From The Consequences Of The

Sin Of Our First Parents. He Died Of His Own Free-Will,  But We May

Not Live An Hour More Than Is Given To Us To Live,  Though We Desire

It With Our Whole Heart. We May Be Called Away At Any Moment."

John Bent His Head Before The Sublime Stupidity Of The Priest.

"I Was Anxious,  Father,  To Give You In A Few Words Some Account Of

The Philosophy Which Has Been Engaging My Attention,  So That You

Might Better Understand My Difficulties. Although Schopenhauer May Be

Wrong In His Theory Regarding The Will,  The Conclusion He Draws From

It,  Namely,  That We May Only Find Lasting Peace In Resignation,  Seems

To Me Well Within The Dogma Of Our Holy Church."

"It Surprises Me That He Should Hold Such Opinions,  For If He Does

Not Acknowledge A Future State,  The Present Must Be Everything,  And

The Gratification Of The Senses The Only...."

"I Assure You,  Father,  No One Can Be More Opposed To Materialism Than

Schopenhauer. He Holds The World We Live In To Be A Mere

Delusion--The Veil Of Maya."

"I Am Afraid,  My Son,  I Cannot Speak With Any Degree Of Certainty

About Either Of Those Authors,  But I Think It My Duty To Warn You

Against Inclining Too Willing An Ear To The Specious Sophistries Of

German Philosophers. It Would Be Well If You Were To Turn To Our

Christian Philosophers; Our Great Cardinal--Cardinal Newman--Has Over

And Over Again Refuted The Enemies Of The Church. I Have Forgotten

The Name."

"Schopenhauer."

"Now I Will Give You Absolution."

The Burlesque Into Which His Confession Had Drifted Awakened New

Terrors In John And Sensations Of Sacrilege. He Listened Devoutly To

The Prattle Of The Priest,  And To Crush The Rebellious Spirit In Him

He Promised To Submit His Poems; And He Did Not Allow Himself To

Think The Old Man Incapable Of Understanding Them. But He Knew He

Would Not Submit Those Poems,  And Turning From The Degradation He

Faced A Command Which Had Suddenly Come Upon Him. A Great Battle

Raged; And Growing At Every Moment Less Conscious Of All Save His

Soul's Salvation,  He Walked Through The Streets,  His Stick Held

Forward Like A Church Candle.

He Walked Through The City,  Seeing It Not,  And Hearing All Cruel

Voices Dying To One--This: "I Can Only Attain Salvation By The

Elimination Of All Responsibilities. There Is Therefore But One

Course To Adopt." Decision Came Upon Him Like The Surgeon's Knife. It

Was In The Cold Darkness Of His Rooms In Pump Court. He Raised His

Face,  Deadly Pale,  From His Hands; But Gradually It Went Aflame With

The Joy And Rapture Of Sacrifice,  And Taking His Manuscript,  He

Lighted It In The Gas. He Held It For A Few Moments Till It Was Well

On Fire,  And Then Threw It All Blazing Under The Grate.

An Odour Of Spirits Evaporated In The Warm Winds Of May Which Came

Through The Open Window. The Rich Velvet Sofa Of Early English Design

Was Littered With Proofs And Copies Of The _Pilgrim_,  And The Stamped

Velvet Was Two Shades Richer In Tone Than The Pale Dead-Red Of The

Floorcloth. Small Pictures In Light Frames Harmonized With A Green

Paper Of Long Interlacing Leaves. On The Right,  The Grand Piano And

The Slender Brass Lamps; And The Impression Of Refinement And Taste

Was Continued,  For Between The Blue Chintz Curtains The River Lay

Soft As A Picture Of Old Venice. The Beauty Of The Water,  Full Of

The Shadows Of Hay And Sails,  Many Forms Of Chimneys,  Wharfs,  And

Warehouses,  Made Panoramic And Picturesque By The Motion Of The Great

Hay-Boats,  Were Surely Wanted For The Windows Of This Beautiful

Apartment.

Mike And Frank Stood Facing The View,  And Talked Of Lily Young,  Whom

Mike Was Momentarily Expecting.

"You Know As Much About It As I Do. It Was Only Just At The End That

You Spoke To Your Cousin And I Got In A Few Words."

"What Did You Say?"

"What Could I Say? Something To The Effect That The Convent Must Be A

Very Happy Home."

"How Did You Know She Cared For You?"

"I Always Know That. The Second Time We Went There She Told Me She

Was Going To Leave The Convent. I Asked Her What Had Decided Her To

Take That Step,  And She Looked At Me--That Thirsting Look Which Women

Cannot Repress. I Said I Hoped I Should See Her When She Came To

London; She Said She Hoped So Too. Then I Knew It Was All Right. I

Pressed Her Hand,  And When We Went Again I Said She Would Find A

Letter Waiting For Her At The Post-Office. Somehow She Got The Letter

Sooner Than I Expected,  And Wrote To Say She'd Come Here If She

Could. Here Is The Letter. But Will She Come?"

"Even If She Does,  I Don't See What Good It Will Do You; It Isn't As

If You Were Really In Love With Her."

"I Believe I Am In Love; It Sounds Rather Awful,  Doesn't It? But She

Is Wondrous Sweet. I Want To Be True To Her. I Want To Live For Her.

I'm Not Half So Bad As You Think I Am. I Have Often Tried To Be

Constant,  And Now I Mean To Be. This Ceaseless Desire Of Change Is

Very Stupid,  And It Leads To Nothing. I'm Sick Of Change,  And Would

Think Of None But Her. You Have No Idea How I Have Altered Since I

Have Seen Her. I Used To Desire All Women. I Wrote A Ballade The

Other Day On The Women Of Two Centuries Hence. Is It Not Shocking

To Think That We Shall Lie Mouldering In Our Graves While Women Are

Dancing And Kissing? They Will Not Even Know That I Lived And Was

Loved. It Will Not Occur To Them To Say As They Undress Of An

Evening,