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

Success And Failure.

"But Now I Remember She Did Not Die For Any Profound Belief In The

Worthlessness Of Life,  But Merely On Account Of A Vulgar Love Affair.

That Letter Was Quite Conclusive. It Was Written From The Alexandra

Hotel. It Was A Letter Breaking It Off (Strange That Any One Should

Care To Break Off With Lady Helen!); She Stopped To See Him,  In The

Hope Of Bringing About A Reconciliation. Quite A Bank Holiday Sort Of

Incident! She Did Not Deny Life; But Only That Particular Form In

Which Life Had Come To Her. Under Such Circumstances Suicide Is

Unjustifiable.

"There! I'm Breaking Into What John Norton Would Call My

Irrepressible Levity. But There Is Little Gladness In Me. Ennui Hunts

Me Like A Hound,  Loosing Me For A Time,  But Finding The Scent Again

It Follows--I Struggle--Escape--But The Hour Will Come When I Shall

Escape No More. If Lily Had Not Died,  If I Had Married Her,  I Might

Have Lived. In Truth,  I'm Not Alive,  I'm Really Dead,  For I Live

Without Hope,  Without Belief,  Without Desire. Ridiculous As A Wife

And Children Are When You Look At Them From The Philosophical Side,

They Are Necessary If Man Is To Live; If Man Dispenses With The

Family,  He Must Embrace The Cloister; John Has Done That; But Now I

Know That Man May Not Live Without Wife,  Without Child,  Without God!"

  *        *        *        *        *        *

Next Day,  After Breakfast,  He Lay In His Arm-Chair,  Thinking Of The

Few Hours That Lay Between Him And The Fall Of Night. He Sought To

Tempt His Jaded Appetite With Many Assorted Dissipations,  But He

Turned From All In Disgust,  And Gambling Became His Sole Distraction.

Every Evening About Eleven He Was Seen In Piccadilly,  Going Towards

Arlington Street,  And Every Morning About Four The Street-Sweepers

Saw Him Returning Home Along The Strand. Then,  Afraid To Go To Bed,

He Sometimes Took Pen And Paper And Attempted To Write Some Lines Of

His Long-Projected Poem. But He Found That All He Had To Say He Had

Said In The Sketch Which He Found Among His Papers. The Idea Did Not

Seem To Him To Want Any Further Amplification,  And He Sat Wondering

If He Could Ever Have Written Three Or Four Thousand Lines On The

Subject.

The Casual Eye And Ear Still Recognized No Difference In Him. There

Were Days When He Was As Good-Looking As Ever,  And Much Of The Old

Fascination Remained: But To One Who Knew Him Well,  As Harding Did,

There Was No Doubt That His Life Had Passed Its Meridian. The Day Was

No Longer At Poise,  But Was Quietly Sinking; And Though The Skies

Were Full Of Light,  The Buoyancy And Blitheness That The Hours Bear

In Their Ascension Were Missing; Lassitude And Moodiness Were Aboard.

More Than Ever Did He Seek Women,  Urged By A Nervous Erethism Which

He Could Not Explain Or Control. Married Women And Young Girls Came

To Him From Drawing-Rooms,  Actresses From Theatres,  Shop-Girls From

The Streets,  And Though Seemingly All Were As Unimportant And

Accidental As The Cigarettes He Smoked,  Each Was A Drop In The Ocean

Of The Immense Ennui Accumulating In His Soul. The Months Passed,

Disappearing In A Sheer And Measureless Void,  Leaving No Faintest

Reflection Or Even Memory,  And His Life Flowed In Unbroken Weariness

And Despair. There Was No Taste In Him For Anything; He Had Eaten Of

The Fruit Of Knowledge,  And With The Evil Rind In His Teeth,  Wandered

An Exile Beyond The Garden. Dark And Desolate Beyond Speech Was His

World; Dark And Empty Of All Save The Eyes Of The Hound Ennui; And By

Day And Night It Watched Him,  Fixing Him With Dull And Unrelenting

Eyes. Sometimes These Acute Strainings Of His Consciousness Lasted

Only Between Entering His Chambers Late At Night And Going To Bed;

And Fearful Of The Sleepless Hours,  Every Sensation Exaggerated By

The Effect Of The Insomnia,  He Sat In Dreadful Commune With The

Spectre Of His Life,  Waiting For The Apparition To Leave Him.

"And To Think," He Cried,  Turning His Face To The Wall,  "That It Is

This _Ego_ That Gives Existence To It All!"

One Of The Most Terrible Of These Assaults Of Consciousness Came Upon

Him On The Winter Immediately On His Return From London. He Had Gone

To London To See Miss Dudley,  Whom He Had Not Seen Since His Return

From Africa--Therefore For More Than Two Years. Only To Her Had He

Written From The Desert; His Last Letters,  However,  Had Remained

Unanswered,  And For Some Time Misgivings Had Been Astir In His Heart.

And It Was With The View Of Ridding Himself Of These That He Had Been

To London. The Familiar Air Of The House Seemed To Him Altered,  The

Servant Was A New One; She Did Not Know The Name,  And After Some

Inquiries,  She Informed Him That The Lady Had Died Some Six Months

Past. All That Was Human In Him Had Expressed Itself In This

Affection; Among Women Lily Young And Miss Dudley Had Alone Touched

His Heart; There Were Friends Scattered Through His Life Whom He Had

Worshipped; But His Friendships Had Nearly All Been,  Though Intense,

Ephemeral And Circumstantial; Nor Had He Thought Constantly And

Deeply Of Any But These Two Women. So Long As Either Lived,  There Was

A Haven Of Quiet Happiness And Natural Peace In Which His Shattered

Spirit Might Rock At Rest; But Now He Was Alone.

Others He Saw With Homes And Family Ties; All Seemed To Have Hopes

And Love To Look To But He--"I Alone Am Alone! The Whole World Is In

Love With Me,  And I'm Utterly Alone." Alone As A Wreck Upon A Desert

Ocean,  Terrible In Its Calm As In Its Tempest. Broken Was The Helm

And Sailless Was The Mast,  And He Must Drift Till Borne Upon Some

Ship-Wrecking Reef! Had Fate Designed Him To Float Over Every Rock?

Must He Wait Till The Years Let Through The Waters Of Disease,  And He

Foundered Obscurely In The Immense Loneliness He Had So Elaborately

Prepared?

Wisdom! Dost Thou Turn In The End,  And Devour Thyself? Dost Thou

Vomit Folly? Or Is Folly Born Of Thee?

Overhead Was Cloud Of Storm,  The Ocean Heaved,  Quick Lightnings

Flashed; But No Waves Gathered,  And In Heavy Sulk A Sense Of Doom Lay

Upon Him. Wealth And Health And Talent Were His; He Had All,  And In

All He Found He Had Nothing;--Yes,  One Thing Was His For

Evermore,--Ennui.

Thoughts And Visions Rose Into Consciousness Like Monsters Coming

Through A Gulf Of Dim Sea-Water; All Delusion Had Fallen,  And He Saw

The Truth In All Its Fearsome Deformity. On Awakening,  The Implacable

Externality Of Things Pressed Upon His Sight Until He Felt He Knew

What The Mad Feel,  And Then It Seemed Impossible To Begin Another

Day. With Long Rides,  With Physical Fatigue,  He Strove To Keep At Bay

The Despair-Fiend Which Now Had Not Left Him Hardly For Weeks. For

Long Weeks The Disease Continued,  Almost Without An Intermission; He

Felt Sure That Death Was The Only Solution,  And He Considered The

Means For Encompassing The End With A Calm That Startled Him.

Nor Was It Until The Spring Months That He Found Any Subjects That

Might Take Him Out Of His Melancholy,  And Darken The Too Acute

Consciousness Of The Truth Of Things Which Was Forcing Him On To

Madness Or Suicide. One Day It Was Suggested That He Should Stand For

Parliament. He Eagerly Seized The Idea,  And His Brain Thronged

Immediately With Visions Of Political Successes,  Of The Parliamentary

Triumphs He Would Achieve. Bah! He Was An Actor At Heart,  And

Required The Contagion Of The Multitude,  And Again He Looked Out Upon

Life With Visionary Eyes. Harsh Hours Fell Behind Him,  Gay Hours

Awaited Him,  Held Hands To Him.

Men Wander Far From The Parent Plot Of Earth; But A Strange Fatality

Leads Them Back,  They Know Not How. None Had Desired To Separate From

All Associations Of Early Life More Than Mike,  And He Was At Once

Glad And Sorry To Find That The Door Through Which He Was To Enter

Parliament Was Cashel. He Would Have Liked Better To Represent An

English Town Or County,  But He Could Taste In Cashel A Triumph Which

He Could Nowhere Else In The World. To Return Triumphant To His

Native Village Is The Secret Of Every Wanderer's Desire,  For There He

Can Claim Not Only Their Applause But Their Gratitude.

The Politics He Would Have To Adopt Made Him Wince,  For He Knew The

Platitudes They Entailed; And In Preference He Thought Of The

Paradoxes With Which He Would Stupefy The House,  The Daring And

Originality He Would Show In Introducing Subjects That,  Till Then,  No

One Had Dared To Touch Upon. With The Politics Of His Party He Had

Little Intention Of Concerning Himself,  For His Projects Were To Make

For Himself A Reputation As An Orator,  And Having Confirmed It To

Seek Another Constituency At The Close Of The Present Parliament.

Such Intention Lay Dormant In The Background Of His Mind,  But He Had

Not Seen Many Irish Nationalists Before He Was Effervescing With

Rhetoric Suitable For The Need Of The Election,  And He Was Sometimes

Puzzled To Determine Whether He Was False Or True.

Driving Through Dublin From The Steamer,  He Met Frank Escott. They

Shouted Simultaneously To Their Carmen To Stop.

"Home To London. I've Just Come From Cashel. I Went To Try To Effect

Some Sort Of Reconciliation With Mount Rorke; But--And You,  Where Are

You Going?"

"I'm Going To Cashel. I'm Going To Contest The Town In The Parnellite

Interest."

Each Pair Of Eyes Was Riveted On The Other. For Both Men Thought Of

The Evening When Mike Had Received The Letter Notifying That Lady

Seeley Had Left Him Five Thousand A Year,  And Frank Had Read In

The Evening Paper That Lady Mount Rorke Had Given Birth To A Son.

Frank Was,  As Usual,  Voluble And Communicative. He Dilated On The

Painfulness Of The Salutations Of The People He Had Met On The

Way Going From The Station To Mount Rorke; And,  Instead Of Walking

Straight In,  As In Old Times,  He Had To Ask The Servant To Take

His Name.

"Burton,  The Old Servant Who Had Known Me Since I Was A Boy,  Seemed

Terribly Cut Up,  And He Was Evidently Very Reluctant To Speak The

Message. 'I'm Very Sorry,  Mr. Frank,' He