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

Mike,  And Mike Felt That If He Had The Money On,  And With Longley For

A Partner,  He Could Play As He Had Never Played Before; And Ignoring

A Young Man Whom He Might Have Rooked At Écarté,  And Avoiding A Rich

Old Gentleman Who Loved His Game Of Piquet,  And On Whom Mike Was Used

To Rely In The Old Days For His Sunday Dinner (He Used To Say The Old

Gentleman Gave The Best Dinners In London; They Always Ran Into A

Tenner),  He Sat Down At The Whist-Table. His Partner Played

Wretchedly,  And Though He Had Longley And Lovegrove Against Him,  He

Could Not Refrain From Betting Ten Pounds On Every Rubber. He Played

Till The Club Closed,  He Played Till He Had Reduced His Balance At

The Bank To Nineteen Pounds.

Haunted By The Five Of Clubs,  Which On One Occasion He Should Have

Played And Did Not,  He Walked Till He Came To The Haymarket. Then He

Stopped. What Could He Do? All The Life Of Idleness And Luxury Which

He Had So Long Enjoyed Faded Like A Dream,  And The Spectre Of Cheap

Lodgings And Daily Journalism Rose Painfully Distinct. He Pitied The

Street-Sweepers,  And Wondered If It Were Possible For Him To Slip

Down Into The Gutter. "When I Have Paid My Hotel Bill,  I Shan't Have

A Tenner." He Thought Of Mrs. Byril,  But The Idea Did Not Please Him,

And He Remembered Frank Had Told Him He Had A Cottage On The River.

He Would Go There. He Might Put Up For A Night Or Two At Hall's.

"I Will Start A Series Of Articles To-Morrow. What Shall It Be?" An

Unfortunate Still Stood At The Corner Of The Street. "'Letters To A

Light O' Love!' Frank Must Advance Me Something Upon Them.... Those

Stupid Women! If They Were Not So Witless They Could Rise To Any

Height. If I Had Only Been A Woman! ... If I Had Been A Woman I Should

Have Liked To Have Been Ninon De Lanclos."

When Mike Had Paid His Hotel Bill,  Very Few Pounds Were Left For The

Card-Room,  And Judging It Was Not An Hour In Which He Might Tempt

Fortune,  He "Rooked" A Young Man Remorselessly. Having Thus

Replenished His Pockets He Turned To The Whist-Table For Amusement.

Luck Was Against Him; He Played,  Defying Luck,  And Left The Club

Owing Eighty Pounds,  Five Of Which He Had Borrowed From Longley.

Next Morning As He Dozed,  He Wondered If,  Had He Played The Ten Of

Diamonds Instead Of The Seven Of Clubs,  It Would Have Materially

Altered His Fortune; And From Cards His Thoughts Wandered,  Till They

Took Root In The Articles He Was To Write For The _Pilgrim_. He Was

In Hall's Spare Bed-Room--A Large,  Square Room,  Empty Of All

Furniture Except A Camp Bedstead. His Portmanteau Lay Wide Open In

The Middle Of The Floor,  And A Gaunt Fireplace Yawned Amid Some

Yellow Marbles.

"'Darling,  Like A Rose You Hold The Whole World Between Your Lips,

And You Shed Its Leaves In Little Kisses.' That Will Do For The

Opening Sentences." Then As Words Slipped From Him He Considered The

Component Parts Of His Subject.

"The First Letter Is Of Course Introductory,  And I Must Establish

Certain Facts,  Truths Which Have Become Distorted And Falsified,  Or

Lost Sight Of. Addressing An Ideal Courtesan,  I Shall Say,  'You Must

Understand That The Opening Sentence Of This Letter Does Not Include

Any Part Of The Old Reproach Which Has Been Levelled Against You

Since Man Began To Love You,  And That Was When He Ceased To Be An Ape

And Became Man.

"'If You Were Ever Sphinx-Like And Bloodthirsty,  Which I Very Much

Doubt,  You Have Changed Flesh And Skin,  Even The Marrow Of Your

Bones. In These Modern Days You Are A Kind-Hearted Little Woman Who,

To Pursue An Ancient Metaphor,  Sheds The World Rosewise In Little

Kisses; But If You Did Not So Shed It,  The World Would Shed Itself In

Tears. Your Smiles And Laughter Are The Last Lights That Play Around

The White Hairs Of An Aged Duke; Your Winsome Tendernesses Are The

Dreams Of A Young Man Who Writes "Pars" About You On Friday,  And

Dines With You On Sunday; You Are An Ideal In Many Lives Which

Without You Would Certainly Be Ideal-Less.' Deuced Good That; I

Wish I Had A Pencil To Make A Note; But I Shall Remember It. Then

Will Come My Historical Paragraph. I Shall Show That It Is Only

By Confounding Courtesans With Queens,  And Love With Ambition,

That Any Sort Of Case Can Be Made Out Against The Former. Third

Paragraph--'Courtesans Are A Factor In The Great Problem Of The

Circulation Of Wealth,  Etc.' It Will Be Said That The Money Thus

Spent Is Unproductive.... So Much The Better! For If It Were Given To

The Poor It Would Merely Enable Them To Bring More Children Into The

World,  Thereby Increasing Immensely The General Misery Of The Race.

Schopenhauer Will Not Be Left Out In The Cold After All. Quote

Lecky,--'The Courtesan Is The Guardian Angel Of Our Hearths And

Homes,  The Protector Of Our Wives And Sisters.'"

"Will You Have A Bath This Morning,  Sir?" Cried The Laundress,

Through The Door.

"Yes,  And Get Me A Chop For Breakfast."

"I Shall Tell Her (The Courtesan,  Not The Laundress) How She May

Organize The Various Forces Latent In Her And Culminate In A Power

Which Shall Contain In Essence The United Responsibilities Of Church,

Music-Hall,  And Picture Gallery." Mike Turned Over On His Back And

Roared With Laughter. "Frank Will Be Delighted. It Will Make The

Fortune Of The Paper. Then I Shall Attack My Subject In Detail.

Dress,  House,  Education,  Friends,  Female And Male. Then The

Money Question. She Must Make A Provision For The Future.

Charming Chapter There Is To Be Written On The Old Age Of The

Courtesan--Charities--Ostentatious Charities--Charitable Bazaars,

Reception Into The Roman Catholic Faith."

"Shall I Bring In Your Hot Water,  Sir?" Screamed The Laundress.

"Yes,  Yes.... Shall My Courtesan Go On The Stage? No,  She Shall Be A

Pure Courtesan,  She Shall Remain Unsullied Of Any Labour. She Might

Appear Once On The Boards;--No,  No,  She Must Remain A Pure Courtesan.

Charming Subject! It Will Make A Book. Charming Opportunity For Wit,

Satire,  Fancy. I Shall Write The Introductory Letter After

Breakfast."

Frank Was In Shoaling Water,  And Could Not Pay His Contributors; But

Mike Could Get Blood Out Of A Turnip,  And Frank Advanced Him Ten

Pounds On The Proposed Articles. Frank Counted On These Articles To

Whip Up The Circulation,  And Mike Promised To Let Him Have Four

Within The Week,  And Left The Cottage At Henley,  Where Frank Was

Living,  Full Of Dreams Of Work. And Every Morning Before He Got Out

Of Bed He Considered And Reconsidered His Subject,  Finding Always

More Than One Idea,  And Many A Witty Fancy; And Every Day After

Breakfast The Work Undone Hung Like A Sword Between Hall And Him As

They Sat Talking Of Their Friends,  Of Art,  Of Women,  Of Things That

Did Not Interest Them. They Hung Around Each Other,  Loth Yet Desirous

To Part; They Followed Each Other Through The Three Rooms,  Buttoning

Their Braces And Shirt-Collars. And When Conversation Had Worn Itself

Out,  Mike Accepted Any Pretext To Postpone The Day's Work. He Had To

Fetch Ink Or Cigarettes.

But He Was Always Detained,  If Not By Friends,  By The Beauty Of The

Gardens Or The River. Never Did The Old Dining-Hall And The

Staircases,  Balustraded--On Whose Gray Stone A Leaf,  The First Of

Many,  Rustles--Seem More Intense And Pregnant With That Mystic

Mournfulness Which Is The Thames,  And Which Is London. The Dull

Sphinx-Like Water Rolling Through Multitude Of Bricks,  Seemed To Mark

On This Wistful Autumn Day A More Melancholy Enchantment,  And Looking

Out On The Great Waste Of Brick Delicately Blended With Smoke And

Mist,  And Seeing The Hay-Boats Sailing Picturesquely,  And The Tugs

Making For Blackfriars,  Long Lines Of Coal-Barges In Their Wake,

Laden So Deep That The Water Slopped Over The Gunwales,  He Thought Of

The Spring Morning When He Had Waited There For Lily. How She

Persisted In His Mind! Why Had He Not Asked Her To Marry Him Instead

Of Striving To Make Her His Mistress? She Was Too Sweet To Be Cast

Off Like The Others; She Would Have Accepted Him If He Had Asked Her.

He Had Sacrificed Marriage For Self,  And What Had Self Given Him?

Mike Was Surprised At These Thoughts,  And Pleased,  For They Proved A

Certain Residue Of Goodness In Him; At All Events,  Called Into His

Consideration A Side Of His Nature Which He Was Not Wearisomely

Familiar With. Then He Dismissed These Thoughts As He Might Have The

Letter Of A Determined Creditor. He Could Still Bid Them Go. And

Having Easily Rid Himself Of Them,  He Noticed The Porters In Their

White Aprons,  And The Flight Of Pigeons,  The Sacred Birds Of The

Temple,  Coming Down From The Roofs. And He Loved Now More Than Ever

Fleet Street,  And The Various Offices Where He Might Idle,  And The

Various Luncheon-Bars To Which He Might Adjourn With One Of The

Staff,  Perhaps With The Editor Of One Of The Newspapers. The October

Sunlight Was Warm And Soft,  Greeted His Face Agreeably As He Lounged,

Stopping Before Every Shop In Which There Were Books Or Prints.

Ludgate Circus Was Always A Favourite With Him,  Partly Because He

Loved St. Paul's,  Partly Because Women Assembled There; And Now In

The Mist,  Delicate And Pure,  Rose Above The Town The Lovely Dome.

"None But The Barbarians Of The Thames," Thought Mike,  "None Other

Would Have Allowed That Most Shameful Bridge."

Mike Hated Simpson's. He Could Not Abide The Stolid City Folk,  Who

Devour There Five And Twenty Saddles Of Mutton In An Evening. He

Liked Better The Cock Tavern,  Quiet,  Snug,  And Intimate. Wedged With

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