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

Great Stillness. Then He Thought Of The Old Days When The _Pilgrim_

Was Written In These Rooms,  And Of The Youthfulness Of Those Days;

And He Maddened When He Recalled The Evenings Of Artistic Converse In

John Norton's Room--How High Were Then Their Aspirations! The Temple,

Too,  Seemed To Have Lost Youth And Gaiety. No Longer Did He Meet His

Old Friends In The Eating-Houses And Taverns. Everything Had Been

Dispersed Or Lost. Some Were Married,  Some Had Died.

Then The Solitude Grew More Unbearable And He Turned From It,  Hoping

He Might Meet Some One He Knew. As He Passed Up Temple Lane He Saw A

Slender Woman Dressed In Black,  Talking To The Policemen. He Had

Often Seen Her About The Courts And Buildings,  And Had Accosted Her,

But She Had Passed Without Heeding. Curious To Hear Who And What She

Was,  Mike Entered Into Conversation With One Of The Policemen.

"She! We Calls Her Old Specks,  Sir."

"I Have Often Seen Her About,  And I Spoke To Her Once,  But She Didn't

Answer."

"She Didn't Hear You,  Sir; She's A Little Deaf. A Real Good Sort,

Sir,  Is Old Jenny. She's Always About Here. She Was Brought Out In

The Temple; She Lived Eight Years With A Q.C.,  Sir. He's Dead. A

Strapping Fine Wench She Was Then,  I Can Tell You."

"And What Does She Do Now?"

"She Has Three Or Four Friends Here. She Goes To See Mr.--I Can't

Think Of His Name--You Know Him,  The Red-Whiskered Man In Dr.

Johnson's Buildings. You Have Seen Him In The Probate Court Many A

Time." And Then In Defence Of Her Respectability,  If Not Of Her

Morals,  The Policeman Said,  "You'll Never See Her About The Streets,

Sir,  She Only Comes To The Temple."

Old Jenny Stood Talking To The Younger Member Of The Force. When She

Didn't Hear Him She Cooed In The Soft,  Sweet Way Of Deaf Women; And

Her Genial Laugh Told Mike That The Policeman Was Not Wrong When He

Described Her As A Real Good Sort. She Spoke Of Her Last 'Bus,  And On

Being Told The Time Gathered Up Her Skirts And Ran Up The Lane.

Then The Policemen Related Anecdotes Concerning Their Own And The

General Amativeness Of The Temple.

"But,  Lor,  Sir,  It Is Nothing Now To What It Used To Be! Some Years

Ago,  Half The Women Of London Used To Be In Here Of A Night; Now

There's Very Little Going On--An Occasional Kick Up,  But Nothing To

Speak Of."

"What Are You Laughing At?" Said Mike,  Looking From One To The Other.

The Policemen Consulted Each Other,  And Then One Said--

"You Didn't Hear About The Little Shindy We Had Here Last Night,  Sir?

It Was In Elm Court,  Just Behind You,  Sir. We Heard Some One Shouting

For The Police; We Couldn't Make Out Where The Shouting Came From

First,  We Were Looking About--The Echo In These Courts Makes It Very

Difficult To Say Where A Voice Comes From. At Last We Saw The Fellow

At The Window,  And We Went Up. He Met Us At The Door. He Said,

'Policemen,  The Lady Knocked At My Door And Asked For A Drink; I

Didn't Notice That She Was Drunk,  And I Gave Her A Brandy-And-Soda,

And Before I Could Stop Her She Undressed Herself!' There Was The

Lady Right Enough,  In Her Chemise,  Sitting In The Arm-Chair,  As Drunk

As A Lord,  Humming And Singing As Gay,  Sir,  As Any Little Bird. Then

The Party Says,  'Policeman,  Do Your Duty!' I Says,  'What Is My Duty?'

He Says,  'Policeman,  I'll Report You!' I Says,  'Report Yourself. I

Knows My Duty.' He Says,  'Policeman,  Remove That Woman!' I Says,  'I

Can't Remove Her In That State. Tell Her To Dress Herself And I'll

Remove Her.' Well,  The Long And The Short Of It,  Sir,  Is,  That We Had

To Dress Her Between Us,  And I Never Had Such A Job."

The Exceeding Difficulties Of This Toilette,  As Narrated By The

Stolid Policeman,  Made Mike Laugh Consummately. Then Alternately,  And

In Conjunction,  The Policemen Told Stories Concerning Pursuits

Through The Areas And Cellars With Which King's Bench Walk Abounds.

"It Was From Paper Buildings That The Little Girl Came From Who Tried

To Drown Herself In The Fountain."

"Oh,  I Haven't Heard About Her," Said Mike. "She Tried To Drown

Herself In The Fountain,  Did She? Crossed In Love; Tired Of Life;

Which Was It?"

"Neither,  Sir; She Was A Bit Drunk,  That Was About It. My Mate Could

Tell You About Her,  He Pulled Her Out. She's Up Before The Magistrate

To-Day Again."

"Just Fancy,  Bringing A Person Up Before A Magistrate Because She

Wanted To Commit Suicide! Did Any One Ever Hear Such Rot? If Our Own

Persons Don't Belong To Us,  I Don't Know What Does. But Tell Me About

Her."

"She Went Up To See A Party That Lives In Pump Court. We Was At Home,

So She Picks Up Her Skirts,  Runs Across Here,  And Throws Herself In.

I See Her Run Across,  And Follows Her; But I Had To Get Into The

Water To Get Her Out; I Was Wet To The Waist--There's About Four Feet

Of Water In That 'Ere Fountain."

"And She?"

"She Had Fainted. We Had To Send For A Cab To Get Her To The Station,

Sir."

At That Moment The Presence Of The Sergeant Hurried The Policemen

Away,  And Mike Was Left Alone. The Warm Night Air Was Full Of The

Fragrance Of The Leaves,  And He Was Alive To The Sensation Of The

Foliage Spreading Above Him,  And Deepening Amid The Branches Of The

Tall Plane-Trees That Sequestered And Shadowed The Fountain. They

Grew Along The Walls,  Forming A Quiet Dell,  In Whose Garden Silence

The Dripping Fountain Sang Its Song Of Falling Water. Light And Shade

Fell Picturesquely About The Steps Descending To The Gardens,  And The

Parapeted Buildings Fell In Black Shadows Upon The Sward,  And Stood

Sharp Upon The Moon Illuminated Blue. Mike Sat Beneath The

Plane-Trees,  And The Suasive Silence,  Sweetly Tuned By The Dripping

Water,  Murmured In His Soul Dismal Sorrowings. Over The Cup,  Whence

Issued The Jet That Played During The Day,  The Water Flowed. There

Were There The Large Leaves Of Some Aquatic Plant,  And Mike Wondered

If,  Had The Policeman Not Rescued The Girl,  She Would Now Be In

Perfect Peace,  Instead Of Dragged Before A Magistrate And Forced To

Promise To Bear Her Misery.

"A Pretty Little Tale," He Thought,  And He Saw Her Floating In

Shadowy Water In Pallor And Beauty,  And Reconciliation With Nature.

"Why See Another Day? I Must Die Very Soon,  Why Not At Once?

Thousands Have Grieved As I Am Grieving In This Self-Same Place,  Have

Asked The Same Sad Questions. Sitting Under These Ancient Walls Young

Men Have Dreamed As I Am Dreaming--No New Thoughts Are Mine. For Five

Thousand Years Man Has Asked Himself Why He Lives. Five Thousand

Years Have Changed The Face Of The World And The Mind Of Man; No

Thought Has Resisted The Universal Transformation Of Thought,  Save

That One Thought--Why Live? Men Change Their Gods,  But One Thought

Floats Immortal,  Unchastened By The Teaching Of Any Mortal Gods. Why

See Another Day? Why Drink Again The Bitter Cup Of Life When We May

Drink The Waters Of Oblivion?"

He Walked Through Pump Court Slowly,  Like A Prisoner Impeded By The

Heavy Chain,  And At Every Step The Death Idea Clanked In His Brain.

All The Windows Were Full Of Light,  And He Could Hear Women's Voices.

In Imagination He Saw The Young Men Sitting Round The Sparely

Furnished Rooms,  Law-Books And Broken Chairs--Smoking And Drinking,

Playing The Piano,  Singing,  Thinking They Were Enjoying Themselves. A

Few Years And All Would Be Over For Them As All Was Over Now For Him.

But Never Would They Drink Of Life As He Had Drunk,  He Was The Type

Of That Of Which They Were But Imperfect And Inconclusive Figments.

Was He Not The Don Juan And The Poet--A Sort Of Byron Doubled With

Byron's Hero? But He Was Without Genius; Had He Genius,  Genius Would

Force Him To Live.

He Considered How Far In His Pessimism He Was A Representative Of The

Century. He Thought How Much Better He Would Have Done In Another

Age,  And How Out Of Sympathy He Was With The Utilitarian Dullness Of

The Present Time; How Much More Brilliant He Would Have Been Had He

Lived At Any Other Period Of The Temple's History. Then He Stopped To

Study The Style Of The Old Staircase,  The Rough Woodwork Twisting Up

The Wall So Narrowly,  The Great Banisters Full Of Shadow Lighted By

The Flickering Lanterns. The Yellowing Colonnade--Its Beams And

Overhanging Fronts Were Also Full Of Suggestion,  And The Suggestion

Of Old Time Was Enforced By The Sign-Board Of A Wig-Maker.

"The Last Of An Ancient Industry," Thought Mike. "The Wig Is

Representative Of The Seventeenth As The Silk Hat Is Of The

Nineteenth Century. I Wonder Why I Am So Strongly Fascinated With The

Seventeenth Century?--I,  A Peasant; Atavism,  I Suppose; My Family

Were Not Always Peasants."

Turning From The Old Latin Inscription He Viewed The Church,  So

Evocative In Its Fortress Form Of An Earlier And More Romantic

Century. The Clocks Were Striking One,  Two Hours Would Bring The Dawn

Close Again Upon The Verge Of The World. Mike Trembled And Thought

How He Might Escape. The Beauty Of The Cone Of The Church Was

Outlined Upon The Sky,  And He Dreamed,  As He Walked Round The

Shadow-Filled Porch,  Full Of Figures In Prayer And Figures Holding

Scrolls,  Of The White-Robed Knights,  Their Red Crosses,  Their Long

Swords,  And Their Banner Called Beauseant. He Dreamed Himself Grand

Master Of The Order; Saw Himself In Chain Armour Charging The

Saracen. The Story Of The Terrible Idol With The Golden Eyes,  The

Secret Rites,  The Knight Led From The Penitential Cell And Buried At

Daybreak,  The Execution Of The Grand Master At The Stake,  Turned In

His Head Fitfully; Cloud-Shapes That Passed,  Floating,  Changing

Incessantly,  Suddenly Disappearing,  Leaving Him Again Mike Fletcher,

A Strained,  Agonized Soul Of Our Time,  Haunted And Hunted By An Idea,

Overpowered By An Idea As A Wolf By A Hound.

His Life Had Been From The First A Series Of Attempts To Escape From

The Idea. His Loves,  His Poetry,  His Restlessness Were All Derivative

From This One Idea. Among Those Whose Brain Plays A Part In Their

Existence There Is A Life Idea,