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

And One Day A Missionary And His Wife Came With A Harmonium And

Tracts. The Scene Was So Evocative Of The Civilization From Which

Mike Had Fled,  That He At Once Was Drawn By A Power He Could Not

Explain Towards Them. He Told The Woman That He Had Adopted Arab

Life; Explaining That The Barbaric Soul Of Some Ancestor Lived In

Him,  And That He Was Happy With These Primitive People. He Too Was A

Missionary,  And Had Come To Warn And To Save Them From Christianity

And All Its Corollaries--Silk Hats,  Piano Playing,  Newspapers,  And

Patent Medicines. The English Woman Argued With Him Plaintively; The

Husband Pressed A Bundle Of Tracts Upon Him; And This Very English

Couple Hoped He Would Come And See Them When He Returned To Town.

Mike Thanked Them,  Insisting,  However,  That He Would Never Leave His

Beloved Desert,  Or Desert His Friends. Next Day,  However,  He Forgot

To Fall On His Knees At Noon,  And Outside The Encampment Stood

Looking In The Direction Whither The Missionaries Had Gone. A Strange

Sadness Seemed To Have Fallen Upon Him; He Cared No More For Plans

For Slave-Trading In The Interior,  Or Plunder In The Desert. The

Scent Of The White Woman's Skin And Hair Was In His Nostrils; The

Nostalgia Of The Pavement Had Found Him,  And He Knew He Must Leave

The Desert. One Morning He Was Missed In The Sahara,  And A Fortnight

After He Was Seen In The Strand,  Rushing Towards Lubini's.

"My Dear Fellow," He Said,  Catching Hold Of A Friend's Arm,  "I've

Been Living With The Arabs For The Last Two Years. Fancy,  Not To Have

Seen A 'Tart' Or Drunk A Bottle Of Champagne For Two Years! Come And

Dine With Me. We'll Go On Afterwards To The Troc'."

Mike Looked Round As If To Assure Himself That He Was Back Again

Dining At Lubi's. It Was The Same Little White-Painted Gallery,

Filled With Courtesans,  Music-Hall Singers,  Drunken Lords,  And

Sarcastic Journalists. He Noticed,  However,  That He Hardly Knew A

Single Face,  And Was Unacquainted With The Amours Of Any Of The

Women. He Inquired For His Friends. Muchross Was Not Expected To

Live,  Laura Was Underground,  And Her Sister Was In America. Joining

In The General Hilarity,  He Learnt That As The Singer Declined The

Prize-Fighter Was Going Up In Popular Estimation. A Young And Drunken

Lord Offered To Introduce Him "To A Very Warm Member."

He Felt Sure,  However,  That The Royal Would Stir In Him The Old

Enthusiasms,  And His Heart Beat When He Saw In A Box Kitty Carew,

Looking Exactly The Same As The Day He Had Left Her; But She Insisted

On Taking Credit For Recognizing Him--So Changed Was He. He Felt

Somewhat Provincial,  And No Woman Noticed Him,  And It Was Clear That

Kitty Was No Longer Interested In Him. The Conversation Languished,

He Did Not Understand The Allusions,  And He Was Surprised And A

Little Alarmed,  Indeed,  To Find That He Did Not Even Desire Their

Attention.

A Few Weeks Afterwards He Received An Invitation To A Ball. It Was

From A Woman Of Title,  The Address Was Good,  And He Resolved To Go.

It Was To One Of The Queen Anne Houses With Which Chelsea Abounds,

And As He Drove Towards It He Noted The Little Windows Aflame With

Light And Colour In The Blue Summer Night. On The Carved Cramped

Staircases Women Struck Him As Being More Than Usually Interesting,

And The Distinguished Air Of The Company Moved Him With Pleasurable

Sensations. A Thick Creamy Odour Of White Flowers Gratified The

Nostrils; The Slender Backs Of The Girls,  The Shoulder-Blades

Squeezed Together By The Stays,  Were Full Of Delicate Lines And

Tints. Mike Saw A Tall Blonde Girl,  Slight As A Reed,  So Blonde That

She Was Almost An Albino,  Her Figure In Green Gauze Swaying. He Saw A

Girl So Brown That He Thought Of Palms And Cocoa-Nuts; She Passed Him

Smiling,  All Her Girlish Soul Awake In The Enchantment Of The Dance.

He Said--

"No,  I Don't Want To Be Introduced; She'd Only Bore Me; I Know

Exactly All She Would Say."

Studying These,  He Thought Vaguely Of Dancing A Quadrille,  And Was

Glad When The Lady Said She Never Danced. With A View To Astonish

Her,  He Said--

"Since I Became A Student Of Schopenhauer I Have Given Up Waltzing.

Now I Never Indulge In Anything But A Square."

For A Few Moments His Joke Amused Him,  And He Regretted That John

Norton,  Who Would Understand Its Humour,  Was Not There To Laugh At

It. Having Eaten Supper He Chose The Deepest Chair Among The

Clustered Furniture Of The Drawing-Room,  And Watched In Spleenic

Interest A Woman Of Thirty Flirting With A Young Man.

The Panelled Skirt Stretched Stiffly Over The Knees,  The Legs Were

Crossed,  One Drawn Slightly Back. The Young Man Sat Awkwardly On The

Edge Of The Sofa Nursing His Silk Foot. She Looked At Him Over Her

Fan,  Inclining Her Blonde Head In Assent From Time To Time. The Young

Man Was Delicate--A Red Blonde. The Wall,  Laden With Heavy Shelves,

Was Covered With An Embossed Paper Of A Deep Gold Hue. A Piece Of

Silk,  Worked With Rich Flowers,  Concealed The Volumes In A Light

Bookcase. A Lamp,  Set On A Tall Brass Rod,  Stood Behind The Lady,

Flooding Her Hair With Yellow Light,  And Its Silk Shade Was Nearly

The Same Tint As The Lady's Hair. The Costly Furniture,  The Lady And

Her Lover,  The One In Black And White,  The Other In Creamy Lace,  The

Panelled Skirt Extended Over Her Knees,  Filled The Room Like A

Picture--An Enticing But Somewhat Vulgar Picture Of Modern Refinement

And Taste. Mike Watched Them Curiously.

"Five Years Ago," He Thought,  "I Was Young Like He Is; My Soul

Thrilled As His Is Thrilling Now."

Then,  Seeing A Woman Whom He Knew Pass The Door On Her Way To The

Ball-Room,  He Asked Her To Come And Sit With Him. He Did So

Remembering The Tentative Steps They Had Taken In Flirtation Three

Years Ago. So By Way Of Transition,  He Said--

"The Last Time We Met We Spoke Of The Higher Education Of Women,  And

You Said That Nothing Sharpened The Wits Like Promiscuous Flirtation.

Enchanting That Was,  And It Made Poor Mrs.--Mrs.--I Really Can't

Remember--A Lady With Earnest Eyes--Look So Embarrassed."

"I Don't Believe I Ever Said Such A Thing; Anyhow,  If I Did,  I've

Entirely Changed My Views."

"What A Pity! But--Perhaps You Have Finished Your Education?"

"Yes,  That's It; And Now I Must Go Up-Stairs. I Am Engaged For This

Dance."

"Clearly I'm Out Of It," Thought Mike. "Not Only Do People See Me

With New Eyes,  But I See Them With Eyes That I Cannot Realize As

Mine."

The Drawing-Room Was Empty; All Had Gone Up-Stairs To Dance,  So,

Finding Himself Alone,  He Went To A Mirror To Note The Changes. At

First He Seemed The Same Mike Fletcher; But By Degrees He Recognized,

Or Thought He Recognized,  Certain Remote And Subtle Differences. He

Thought That The Tenderness Which Used To Reside In His Eyes Was

Evanescent Or Gone. This Tenderness Had Always Been To Him A Subject

Of Surprise,  And He Had Never Been Able To Satisfactorily Explain Its

Existence,  Knowing As He Knew How All Tenderness Was In Contradiction

To His True Character; At Least,  As He Understood Himself. This

Tenderness Was Now Replaced By A Lurking Evil Look,  And He Remembered

That He Had Noted Such Evil Look In Certain Old Libertines. Certain

Lines About The Face Had Grown Harder,  The Hollow Freckled Cheeks

Seemed To Have Sunk A Little,  And The Pump-Handle Chin Seemed To Be

Defining Itself,  Even To Caricature. There Was Still A Certain Air Of

_Bravoure_,  Of Truculence,  Which Attracted,  And Might Still Charm. He

Turned From The Mirror,  Went Up-Stairs,  And Danced Three Or Four

Times. He Remained Until The Last,  And Followed By An Increasing

Despair He Muttered,  As He Got Into A Hansom--

"If This Is Civilization I'd Better Go Back To The Arabs."

The Solitude Of His Rooms Chilled Him In The Roots Of His Mind; He

Looked Around Like A Hunted Animal. He Threw Himself Into An

Arm-Chair. Like A Pure Fire Ennui Burned In His Heart.

"Oh,  For Rest! I'm Weary Of Life. Oh,  To Slip Back Into The

Unconscious,  Whence We Came,  And Pass For Ever From The Fitful

Buzzing Of The Midges. To Feel That Sharp,  Cruel,  Implacable

Externality Of Things Melt,  Vanish,  And Dissolve!

"The Utter Stupidity Of Life! There Never Was Anything So Stupid; I

Mean The Whole Thing--Our Ideas Of Right And Wrong,  Love And Duty,

Etc. Great Scott! What Folly. The Strange Part Of It All Is Man's

Inability To Understand The Folly Of Living. When I Said To That

Woman To-Night That I Believed That The Only Evil Is To Bring

Children Into The World,  She Said,  'But Then The World Would Come To

An End.' I Said,  'Do You Not Think It Would Be A Good Thing If It

Did?' Her Look Of Astonishment Proved How Unsuspicious She Is Of The

Truth. The Ordinary Run Of Mortals Do Not See Into The Heart Of

Things,  Nor Do We,  Except In Terribly Lucid Moments; Then,  Seeing

Life Truly,  Seeing It In Its Monstrous Deformity,  We Cry Out Like

Children In The Night.

"Then Why Do We Go To Death With Terror-Stricken Faces And Reluctant

Feet? We Should Go To Death In Perfect Confidence,  Like A Bride To

Her Husband,  And With Eager And Smiling Eyes. But He Who Seeks Death

Goes With Wild Eyes--Upbraiding Life For Having Deceived Him; As If

Life Ever Did Anything Else! He Goes To Death As A Last Refuge. None

Go To Death In Deep Calm And Resignation,  As A Child Goes To The Kind

And Thoughtful Nurse In Whose Arms He Will Find Beautiful Rest.

"It Was In This Very Room I Spoke To Lady Helen For The Last Time.

She Understood Very Well Indeed The Utter Worthlessness Of Life. How

Beautiful Was Her Death! That White Still Face,  With Darkness

Stealing From The Closed Lids,  A Film Of Light Shadow,  Symbol Of

Deeper Shadow. The Unseen But Easily Imagined Hand Grasping The

Pistol,  The Unseen But Imagined Red Stain Upon The Soft Texture Of

The Chemise! I Might Have Loved Her. She Saw Into The Heart Of

Things,  And Like A Reasonable Being,  Which She Was,  Resolved To Rid

Herself Of The Burden. We Discussed The Whole Question In The Next

Room; And I Remember I Was Surprised To Find That She Was In No Wise

Deceived By The Casual Fallacy Of The Fools Who Say That The Good

Times Compensate For The Bad. Ah! How Little They Understand!

Pleasure! What Is It But The Correlative Of Pain? Nothing Short Of

Man's