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

"How Clever You Are,  Darling! Go There. Do You Hear? Uncle Is

Answering Her. To-Morrow We Shall Find An Opportunity To Get Away;

But Now I Would Not Be Found Out.... I Told Mother You Weren't Here.

Go!"

The Morrow Brought No Opportunity For Flight. Lily Could Not Leave

Her Room,  And It Was Whispered That The Doctors Despaired Of Her

Life. Then Mike Opened His Heart To The Major,  And The Old Soldier

Promised Him His Cordial Support When Lily Was Well. Three Days

Passed,  And Then,  Unable To Bear The Strain Any Longer,  Mike Fled To

Monte Carlo. There He Lost And Won A Fortune. Hence Italy Enticed

Him,  And He Went,  Knowing That He Should Never Go There With Lily.

But Not In Art Nor In Dissipation Did He Find Escape From Her

Deciduous Beauty,  Now Divided From The Grave Only By A Breath,

Beautiful And Divinely Sorrowful In Its Transit.

Some Days Passed,  And Then A Letter From The Major Brought Him Back

Over-Worn With Anxiety,  Wild With Grief. He Found Her Better. She Had

Been Carried Down From Her Room,  And Was Lying On A Sofa By The Open

Window. There Were A Few Flowers In Her Hands,  And When She Offered

Them To Mike She Said With A Kind Of Heine-Like Humour--

"Take Them,  They Will Live Almost As Long As I Shall."

"Lily,  You Will Get Well,  And We Shall See Italy Together. I Had To

Leave You--I Should Have Gone Mad Had I Remained. The Moment I Heard

I Could See You I Returned. You Will Get Well."

"No,  No; I'm Here Only For A Few Days--A Few Weeks At Most. I Shall

Never Go To Italy. I Shall Never Be Your Sweetheart. I'm One Of God's

Virgins. I Belong To My Saint,  My First And Real Sweetheart. You

Remember When I Came To See You In The Temple Gardens,  I Told You

About Him Then,  Didn't I! Ah! Happy,  Happy Aspirations,  Better Even

Than You,  My Darling. And He Is Waiting For Me; I See Him Now. He

Smiles,  And Opens His Arms."

"You'll Get Well. The Sun Of Italy Shall Be Our Heaven,  Thy Lips

Shall Give Me Immortality,  Thy Love Shall Give Me God."

"Fine Words,  My Sweetheart,  Fine Words,  But Death Waits Not For

Love.... Well,  It's A Pity To Die Without Having Loved."

"It Is Worse To Live Without Having Loved,  Dearest--Dearest,  You

Will Live."

He Never Saw Her Again. Next Day She Was Too Ill To Come Down,  And

Henceforth She Grew Daily Weaker. Every Day Brought Death Visibly

Nearer,  And One Day The Major Came To Mike In The Garden And Said--

"It Is All Over,  My Poor Friend!"

Then Came Days Of White Flowers And Wreaths,  And Bouquets And Baskets

Of Bloom,  Stephanotis,  Roses,  Lilies,  And Every White Blossom That

Blows; And So Friends Sought To Cover And Hide The Darkness Of The

Grave. Mike Remembered The Disordered Faces Of The Girls In Church;

Weeping,  They Threw Themselves On Each Other's Shoulders; And The

Mournful Chant Was Sung; And The Procession Toiled Up The Long Hill

To The Cemetery Above The Town,  And Lily Was Laid There,  To Rest

There For Ever. There She Lies,  Facing Italy,  Which She Never Knew

But In Dream. The Wide Country Leading To Italy Lies Below Her,  The

Peaks Of The Rocky Coast,  The Blue Sea,  The Gray-Green Olives

Billowing Like Tides From Hill To Hill; The White Loggias Gleaming In

The Sunlight. His Thoughts Followed The Flight Of The Blue Mountain

Passes That Lead So Enticingly To Italy,  And As He Looked Into The

Distance,  Dim And Faint As The Dream That Had Gone,  There Rose In His

Mind An Even Fairer Land Than Italy,  The Land Of Dream,  Where For

Every One,  Even For Mike Fletcher,  There Grows Some Rose Or Lily

Unattainable.

In The Dreary Drawing-Room,  Amid The Tattered Copies Of The _Graphic_

And _Illustrated London News_,  He Encountered The Inevitable Idle

Woman. They Engaged In Conversation; And He Repeated The Phrases That

Belong Inevitably To Such Occasions.

"How Horrible All This Is," He Said To Himself; "This Is Worse Than

Peeping And Botanizing On A Mother's Grave."

He Desired Supreme Grief,  And Grief Fled From His Lure; And Rhymes

And Images Thronged His Brain; And The Poem That Oftenest Rose In His

Mind,  Seemingly Complete In Cadence And Idea,  Was So Cruel,  That

Lily,  Looking Out Of Heaven,  Seemed To Beg Him To Refrain. But Though

He Erased The Lines On The Paper,  He Could Not Erase Them On His

Brain,  And Baffled,  He Pondered Over The Phenomena Of The Antagonism

Of Desired Aspirations And Intellectual Instincts. He Desired A Poem

Full Of The Divine Grace Of Grief; A Poem Beautiful,  Tender And Pure,

Fresh And Wild As A Dove Crossing In The Dawn From Wood To Wood. He

Desired The Picturesqueness Of A Young Man's Grief For A Dead Girl,

An Adonais Going Forth Into The Glittering Morning,  And Weeping For

His Love That Has Passed Out Of The Sun Into The Shadow. This Is What

He Wrote:

        A Une Poetrenaire.

  We Are Alone! Listen,  A Little While,

  And Hear The Reason Why Your Weary Smile

  And Lute-Toned Speaking Is So Very Sweet

  To Me,  And How My Love Is More Complete

  Than Any Love Of Any Lover. They

  Have Only Been Attracted By The Gray

  Delicious Softness Of Your Eyes,  Your Slim

  And Delicate Form,  Or Some Such Whimpering Whim,

  The Simple Pretexts Of All Lovers;--I

  For Other Reasons. Listen Whilst I Try

  And Say. I Joy To See The Sunset Slope

  Beyond The Weak Hours' Hopeless Horoscope,

  Leaving The Heavens A Melancholy Calm,

  Of Quiet Colour Chaunted Like A Psalm,

  In Mildly Modulated Phrases; Thus

  Your Life Shall Fade Like A Voluptuous

  Vision Beyond The Sight,  And You Shall Die

  Like Some Soft Evening's Sad Serenity ...

  I Would Possess Your Dying Hours; Indeed

  My Love Is Worthy Of The Gift,  I Plead

  For Them.

         Although I Never Loved As Yet,

  Methinks That I Might Love You; I Would Get

  From Out The Knowledge That The Time Was Brief,

  That Tenderness Whose Pity Grows To Grief,

  My Dream Of Love,  And Yea,  It Would Have Charms

  Beyond All Other Passions,  For The Arms

  Of Death Are Stretchéd You-Ward,  And He Claims

  You As His Bride. Maybe My Soul Misnames

  Its Passion; Love Perhaps It Is Not,  Yet

  To See You Fading Like A Violet,

  Or Some Sweet Thought Away,  Would Be A Strange

  And Costly Pleasure,  Far Beyond The Range

  Of Common Man's Emotion. Listen,  I

  Will Choose A Country Spot Where Fields Of Rye

  And Wheat Extend In Waving Yellow Plains,

  Broken With Wooded Hills And Leafy Lanes,

  To Pass Our Honeymoon; A Cottage Where

  The Porch And Windows Are Festooned With Fair

  Green Wreaths Of Eglantine,  And Look Upon

  A Shady Garden Where We'll Walk Alone

  In The Autumn Sunny Evenings; Each Will See

  Our Walks Grow Shorter,  Till At Length To Thee

  The Garden's Length Is Far,  And Thou Wilt Rest

  From Time To Time,  Leaning Upon My Breast

  Thy Languid Lily Face. Then Later Still,

  Unto The Sofa By The Window-Sill

  Thy Wasted Body I Shall Carry,  So

  That Thou Mays't Drink The Last Left Lingering Glow

  Of Even,  When The Air Is Filled With Scent

  Of Blossoms; And My Spirits Shall Be Rent

  The While With Many Griefs. Like Some Blue Day

  That Grows More Lovely As It Fades Away,

  Gaining That Calm Serenity And Height

  Of Colour Wanted,  As The Solemn Night

  Steals Forward Thou Shalt Sweetly Fall Asleep

  For Ever And For Ever; I Shall Weep

  A Day And Night Large Tears Upon Thy Face,

  Laying Thee Then Beneath A Rose-Red Place

  Where I May Muse And Dedicate And Dream

  Volumes Of Poesy Of Thee; And Deem

  It Happiness To Know That Thou Art Far

  From Any Base Desires As That Fair Star

  Set In The Evening Magnitude Of Heaven.

  Death Takes But Little,  Yea,  Thy Death Has Given

  Me That Deep Peace And Immaculate Possession

  Which Man May Never Find In Earthly Passion.

The Composition Of The Poem Induced A Period Of Literary Passion,

During Which He Composed Much Various Matter,  Even Part Of His Great

Poem,  Which He Would Have Completed Had He Not Been Struck By An Idea

For A Novel,  And So Imperiously,  That He Wrote The Book Straight From

End To End. It Was Sent To A London Publisher,  And It Raised Some

Tumult Of Criticism,  None Of Which Reached The Author. When It

Appeared He Was Far Away,  Living In Arab Tents,  Seeking Pleasure At

Other Sources. For Suddenly,  When The Strain Of The Composition Of

His Book Was Relaxed,  Civilization Had Grown Hateful To Him; A

Picture By Fromantin,  And That Painter's Book,  _Un Été Dans Le

Sahara_,  Quickened The Desire Of Primitive Life; He Sped Away,  And

For Nearly Two Years Lived On The Last Verge Of Civilization,

Sometimes Passing Beyond It With The Bedouins Into The Interior,  On

Slave-Trading Or Rapacious Expeditions. The Frequentation Of These

Simple People Calmed The Fever Of Ennui,  Which Had Been Consuming

Him. Nature Leads Us To The Remedy That The Development Of Reason

Inflicts On The Animal--Man. And For More Than A Year Mike Thought He

Had Solved The Problem Of Life; Now He Lived In Peace--Passion Had

Ebbed Almost Out Of Hearing,  And In The Plain Satisfaction Of His

Instincts He Found Happiness.

With The Wild Chieftains,  Their Lances At Rest,  Watching From Behind

A Sandhill,  He Sometimes Thought That The Joy He Experienced Was Akin

To That Which He Had Known In Sussex,  When His Days Were Spent In

Hunting And Shooting; Now,  As Then,  He Found Relief By Surrendering

Himself To The Hygienics Of The Air And Earth. But His Second Return

To Animal Nature Had Been More Violent And Radical; And It Pleased

Him To Think That He Could Desire Nothing But The Arabs With Whom He

Lived,  And Whose Friendship He Had Won. But _Qui A Bu Boira_,  And

Below Consciousness Dead Appetites Were Awakening,  And Would Soon Be

Astir.

The Tribe Had Wandered To An Encampment In The Vicinity Of Morocco;