Chapter 1 Pg 1

 

Oaths,  Vociferations,  And The Slamming Of Cab-Doors. The Darkness Was

Decorated By The Pink Of A Silk Skirt,  The Crimson Of An Opera-Cloak

Vivid In The Light Of A Carriage-Lamp,  With Women's Faces,  Necks,

And Hair. The Women Sprang Gaily From Hansoms And Pushed Through The

Swing-Doors. It Was Lubini's Famous Restaurant. Within The Din Was

Deafening.

 

  "What Cheer,  'Ria!

   'Ria's On The Job,"

 

Roared Thirty Throats,  All Faultlessly Clothed In The Purest Linen.

They Stood Round A Small Bar,  And Two Women And A Boy Endeavoured

To Execute Their Constant Orders For Brandies-And-Sodas. They Were

Shoulder To Shoulder,  And Had To Hold Their Liquor Almost In Each

Other's Faces. A Man Whose Hat Had Been Broken Addressed Reproaches

To A Friend,  Who Cursed Him For Interrupting His Howling.

 

Issued From This Saloon A Long Narrow Gallery Set With A Single Line

Of Tables,  Now All Occupied By Reproaches To A Friend,  Who Cursed Him

For Interrupting His Howling.

 

Issued From This Saloon A Long Narrow Gallery Set With A Single Line

Of Tables,  Now All Occupied By Supping Courtesans And Their Men. An

Odour Of Savouries,  Burnt Cheese And Vinegar Met The Nostrils,  Also

The Sharp Smell Of A Patchouli-Scented Handkerchief Drawn Quickly

From A Bodice; And A Young Man Protested Energetically Against A Wild

Duck Which Had Been Kept A Few Days Over Its Time. Lubini,  Or Lubi,

As He Was Called By His Pals,  Signed To The Waiter,  And Deciding The

Case In Favour Of The Young Man,  He Pulled A Handful Of Silver Out Of

His Pocket And Offered To Toss Three Lords,  With Whom He Was

Conversing,  For Drinks All Round.

 

"Feeling Awfully Bad,  Dear Boy; Haven't Been What I Could Call Sober

Since Monday. Would You Mind Holding My Liquor For Me? I Must Go And

Speak To That Chappie."

 

Since John Norton Had Come To Live In London,  His Idea Had Been To

Put His Theory Of Life,  Which He Had Defined In His Aphorism,  "Let

The World Be My Monastery," Into Active Practice. He Did Not

Therefore Refuse To Accompany Mike Fletcher To Restaurants And

Music-Halls,  And Was Satisfied So Long As He Was Allowed To

Disassociate And Isolate Himself From The Various Women Who Clustered

About Mike. But This Evening He Viewed The Courtesans With More

Than The Usual Liberalism Of Mind,  Had Even Laughed Loudly When One

Fainted And Was Upheld By Anxious Friends,  The Most Zealous And The

Most Intimate Of Whom Bathed Her White Tragic Face And Listened In

Alarm To Her Incoherent Murmurings Of "Mike Darling,  Oh,  Mike!" John

Had Uttered No Word Of Protest Until Dear Old Laura,  Who Had Never,

As Mike Said,  Behaved Badly To Anybody,  And Had Been Loved By

Everybody,  Sat Down At Their Table,  And The Discussion Turned On Who

Was Likely To Be Bessie's First Sweetheart,  Bessie Being Her Youngest

Sister Whom She Was "Bringing Out." Then He Rose From The Table And

Wished Mike Good-Night; But Mike's Liking For John Was Sincere,  And

Chapter 1 Pg 2

Preferring His Company To Laura's,  He Paid The Bill And Followed His

Friend Out Of The Restaurant; And As They Walked Home Together He

Listened To His Grave And Dignified Admonitions,  And Though John

Could Not Touch Mike's Conscience,  He Always Moved His Sympathies. It

Is The Shallow And The Insincere That Inspire Ridicule And Contempt,

And Even In The Dissipations Of The Temple,  Where He Had Come To

Live,  He Had Not Failed To Enforce Respect For His Convictions And

Ideals.

 

In The Temple John Had Made Many Acquaintances And Friends,  And About

Him Were Found The Contributors To The _Pilgrim_,  A Weekly Newspaper

Devoted To Young Men,  Their Doings,  Their Amusements,  Their

Literature,  And Their Art. The Editor And Proprietor Of This Organ

Of Amusement Was Escott. His Editorial Work Was Principally Done In

His Chambers In Temple Gardens,  Where He Lived With His Friend,  Mike

Fletcher. Of Necessity The Newspaper Drew,  Like Gravitation,  Art

And Literature,  But The Revelling Lords Who Assembled There Were

A Disintegrating Influence,  And Made John Norton A Sort Of Second

Centre; And Harding And Thompson And Others Of Various Temperaments

And Talents Found Their Way To Pump Court. Like Cuckoos,  Some Men Are

Only Really At Home In The Homes Of Others; Others Are Always Ill At

Ease When Taken Out Of The Surroundings Which They Have Composed To

Their Ideas And Requirements; And John Norton Was Never Really John

Norton Except When,  Wrapped In His Long Dressing-Gown And Sitting In

His High Canonical Chair,  He Listened To Harding's Paradoxes Or

Thompson's Sententious Utterances. These Artistic Discussions--When

In The Passion Of The Moment,  All The Cares Of Life Were Lost And

The Soul Battled In Pure Idea--Were Full Of Attraction And Charm

For John,  And He Often Thought He Had Never Been So Happy. And Then

Harding's Eyes Would Brighten,  And His Intelligence,  Eager As A Wolf

Prowling For Food,  Ran To And Fro,  Seeking And Sniffing In All John's

Interests And Enthusiasms. He Was At Once Fascinated By The Scheme

For The Pessimistic Poem And Charmed With The Projected Voyage In

Thibet And The Book On The Great Lamas.

 

One Evening A Discussion Arose As To Whether Goethe Had Stolen From

Schopenhauer,  Or Schopenhauer From Goethe,  The Comparison Of Man's

Life With The Sun "Which Seems To Set To Our Earthly Eyes,  But Which

In Reality Never Sets,  But Shines On Unceasingly." The Conversation

Came To A Pause,  And Then Harding Said--

 

"Mike Spoke To Me Of A Pessimistic Poem He Has In Mind; Did He Ever

Speak To You About It,  Escott?"

 

"I Think He Said Something Once,  But He Did Not Tell Me What It Was

About. He Can Speak Of Nothing Now But A Nun Whom He Has Persuaded

To Leave Her Convent. I Had Thought Of Having Some Articles Written

About Convents,  And We Went To Roehampton. While I Was Talking To My

Cousin,  Who Is At School There,  He Got Into Conversation With One Of

The Sisters. I Don't Know How He Managed It,  But He Has Persuaded Her

To Leave The Convent,  And She Is Coming To See Him To-Morrow."

 

"You Don't Mean To Say," Cried John,  "That He Has Persuaded One Of

The Nuns To Leave The Convent And To Come And See Him In Temple

Gardens? Such Things Should Not Be Permitted. The Reverend Mother Or

Some One Is In Fault. That Man Has Been The Ruin Of Hundreds,  If Not

In Fact,  In Thought. He Brings An Atmosphere Of Sensuality Wherever

He Goes,  And All Must Breathe It; Even The Most Virtuous Are

Contaminated. I Have Felt The Pollution Myself. If The Woman Is

Seventy She Will Look Pleased And Coquette If He Notices Her. The

Fascination Is Inexplicable!"

 

"We All Experience It,  And That Is Why We Like Mike," Said Harding.

"I Heard A Lady,  And A Woman Whose Thoughts Are Not,  I Assure You,

Given To Straying In That Direction,  Say That The First Time She Saw

Him She Hated Him,  But Soon Felt An Influence Like The Fascination

The Serpent Exercises Over The Bird Stealing Over Her. We Find But

Ourselves In All That We See,  Hear,  And Feel. The World Is But Our

Idea. All That Women Have Of Goodness,  Sweetness,  Gentleness,  They

Keep For Others. A Woman Would Not Speak To You Of What Is Bad In

Her,  But She Would To Mike; Her Sensuality Is The Side Of Her Nature

Chapter 1 Pg 3

Which She Shows Him,  Be She Messalina Or St. Theresa; The Proportion,

Not The Principle Is Altered. And This Is Why Mike Cannot Believe In

Virtue,  And Declares His Incredulity To Be Founded On Experience."

 

"No Doubt,  No Doubt!"

 

Fresh Brandies-And-Sodas Were Poured Out,  Fresh Cigars Were Lighted,

And John Descended The Staircase And Walked With His Friends Into

Pump Court,  Where They Met Mike Fletcher.

 

"What Have You Been Talking About To-Night?" He Asked.

 

"We Wanted Norton To Read Us The Pessimistic Poem He Is Writing,  But

He Says It Is In A Too Unfinished State. I Told Him You Were At Work

On One On The Same Subject. It Is Curious That You Who Differ So

Absolutely On Essentials Should Agree To Sink Your Differences At The

Very Point At Which You Are Most Opposed To Principle And Practice."

 

After A Pause,  Mike Said--

 

"I Suppose It Was Schopenhauer's Dislike Of Women That First

Attracted You. He Used To Call Women The Short-Legged Race,  That Were

Only Admitted Into Society A Hundred And Fifty Years Ago."

 

"Did He Say That? Oh,  How Good,  And How True! I Never Could Think

A Female Figure As Beautiful As A Male. A Male Figure Rises To The

Head,  And Is A Symbol Of The Intelligence; A Woman's Figure Sinks To

The Inferior Parts Of The Body,  And Is Expressive Of Generation."

 

As He Spoke His Eyes Followed The Line And Balance Of Mike's Neck And

Shoulders,  Which Showed At This Moment Upon A Dark Shadow Falling

Obliquely Along An Old Wall. Soft,  Violet Eyes In Which Tenderness

Dwelt,  And The Strangely Tall And Lithe Figure Was Emphasized By The

Conventional Pose--That Pose Of Arm And Thigh Which The Greeks Never

Wearied Of. Seeing Him,  The Mind Turned From The Reserve Of The

Christian World Towards The Frank Enjoyment Of The Pagan; And John's

Solid,  Rhythmless Form Was As Symbolic Of Dogma As Mike's Of The

Grace Of Athens.

 

As He Ascended The Stairs,  Having Bidden His Friends Good-Night,  John

Thought Of The Unfortunate Nun Whom That Man Had Persuaded To Leave

Her Convent,  And He Wondered If He Were Justified In Living In Such

Close Communion Of Thought With Those Whose Lives Were Set In All

Opposition To The Principles On Which He Had Staked His Life's Value.

He Was Thinking And Writing The Same Thoughts As Fletcher. They Were

Swimming In The Same Waters; They Were Living The Same Life.

 

Disturbed In Mind He Walked Across The Room,  His Spectacles

Glimmering On His High Nose,  His Dressing-Gown Floating. The

Manuscript Of The Poems Caught His Eyes,  And He Turned Over The

Sheets,  His Hand Trembling Violently. And If They Were Antagonistic

To The Spirit Of His Teaching,  If Not To The Doctrine That The Church

In Her Eternal Wisdom Deemed Healthful And Wise,  And Conducive To The

Best Attainable Morality And Heaven? What A Fearful Responsibility

He Was Taking Upon Himself! He Had Learned In Bitter Experience That

He Must Seek Salvation Rather In Elimination Than In Acceptance Of

Responsibilities. But His Poems Were All He Deemed Best In The World.

For A Moment John Stood Face To Face With,  And He Looked Into The

Eyes Of,  The Church. The Dome Of St. Peter's,  A Solitary Pope,

Cardinals,  Bishops,  And Priests. Oh! Wonderful Symbolization Of Man's

Lust Of Eternal Life!

 

Must He Renounce All His Beliefs? The Wish So Dear To Him That The

Unspeakable Spectacle Of Life Might Cease For Ever; Must He Give

Thanks For Existence Because It Gave Him A Small Chance Of Gaining

Heaven? Then It Were Well To Bring Others Into The World.... True It

Is That The Church Does Not Advance Into Such Sloughs Of Optimism,

But How Different Is Her Teaching From That Of The Early Fathers,  And

How Different Is Such Dull Optimism From The Severe Spirit Of Early

Christianity.

 

Chapter 1 Pg 4

Whither Lay His Duty? Must He Burn The Poems? Far Better That They

Should Burn And He Should Save His Soul From Burning. A Sudden Vision

Of Hell,  A Realistic Mediæval Hell Full Of Black Devils And Ovens

Came Upon Him,  And He Saw Himself Thrust Into Flame. It Seemed To Him

Certain That His Soul Was Lost--So Certain,  That The Source Of Prayer

Died Within Him And He Fell Prostrate. He Cursed,  With Curses That

Seared His Soul As He Uttered Them,  Harding,  That Cynical Atheist,

Who Had Striven To Undermine His Faith,  And He Shrank From Thought Of

Fletcher,  That Dirty Voluptuary.

 

He Went Out For Long Walks,  Hoping By Exercise To Throw Off The Gloom

And Horror Which Were Thickening In His Brain. He Sought Vainly To

Arrive At Some Certain Opinions Concerning His Poems,  And He Weighed

Every Line,  Not Now For Cadence And Colour,  But With A View Of

Determining Their Ethical Tendencies; And This Poor Torn Soul Stood

Trembling On The Verge Of Fearful Abyss Of Unreason And Doubt.

 

And When He Walked In The Streets,  London Appeared A Dismal,  Phantom

City. The Tall Houses Vanishing In Darkness,  The Unending Noise,  The

Sudden And Vague Figures Passing; Some With Unclean Gaze,  Others In

Mysterious Haste,  The Courtesans Springing From Hansoms And Entering

Their Restaurant,  Lurking Prostitutes,  Jocular Lads,  And Alleys

Suggestive Of Crime. All And Everything That Is City Fell Violently

Upon His Mind,  Jarring It,  And Flashing Over His Brow All The Horror

Of Delirium. His Pace Quickened,  And He Longed For Wings To Rise Out

Of The Abominable Labyrinth.

 

At That Moment A Gable Of A Church Rose Against The Sky. The Gates

Were Open,  And One Passing Through Seemed To John Like An Angel,  And

Obeying The Instinct Which Compels The Hunted Animal To Seek Refuge

In The Earth,  He Entered,  And Threw Himself On His Knees. Relief

Came,  And The Dread About His Heart Was Loosened In The Romantic

Twilight. One Poor Woman Knelt Amid The Chairs; Presently She Rose

And Went To The Confessional. He Waited His Turn,  His Eyes Fixed On

The Candles That Burned In The Dusky Distance.

 

"Father,  Forgive Me,  For I Have Sinned!"

 

The Priest,  An Old Man Of Gray And Shrivelled Mien,  Settled His

Cassock And Mumbled Some Latin.

 

"I Have Come To Ask Your Advice,  Father,  Rather Than To Confess The

Sins I Have Committed In The Last Week. Since I Have Come To Live In

London I Have Been Drawn Into The Society Of The Dissolute And The

Impure."

 

"And You Have Found That Your Faith And Your Morals Are Being

Weakened By Association With These Men?"

 

"I Have To Thank God That I Am Uninfluenced By Them. Their Society

Presents No Attractions For Me,  But I Am Engaged In Literary

Pursuits,  And Most Of The Young Men With Whom I Am Brought In Contact

Lead Unclean And Unholy Lives. I Have Striven,  And Have In Some

Measure Succeeded,  In Enforcing Respect For My Ideals; Never Have

I Countenanced Indecent Conversation,  Although Perhaps I Have Not

Always Set As Stern A Face Against It As I Might Have."

 

"But You Have Never Joined In It?"

 

"Never. But,  Father,  I Am On The Eve Of The Publication Of A Volume

Of Poems,  And I Am Grievously Afflicted With Scruples Lest Their

Tendency Does Not Stand In Agreement With The Teaching Of Our Holy

Church."

 

"Do You Fear Their Morality,  My Son?"

 

"No,  No!" Said John In An Agitated Voice,  Which Caused The Old Man To

Raise His Eyes And Glance Inquiringly At His Penitent; "The Poem I Am

Most Fearful Of Is A Philosophic Poem Based On Schopenhauer."

 

"I Did Not Catch The Name."

Chapter 1 Pg 5

 

"Schopenhauer; If You Are Acquainted With His Works,  Father,  You Will

Appreciate My Anxieties,  And Will See Just Where My Difficulty Lies."

 

"I Cannot Say I Can Call To Mind At This Moment Any Exact Idea Of His

Philosophy; Does It Include A Denial Of The Existence Of God?"

 

"His Teaching,  I Admit,  Is Atheistic In Its Tendency,  But I Do Not

Follow Him To His Conclusions. A Part Of His Theory--That Of The

Resignation Of Desire Of Life--Seems To Me Not Only Reconcilable With

The Traditions Of The Church,  But May Really Be Said To Have Been

Original And Vital In Early Christianity,  However Much It May Have

Been Forgotten In These Later Centuries. Jesus Christ Our Lord Is The

Perfect Symbol Of The Denial Of The Will To Live."

 

"Jesus Christ Our Lord Died To Save Us From The Consequences Of The

Sin Of Our First Parents. He Died Of His Own Free-Will,  But We May

Not Live An Hour More Than Is Given To Us To Live,  Though We Desire

It With Our Whole Heart. We May Be Called Away At Any Moment."

 

John Bent His Head Before The Sublime Stupidity Of The Priest.

 

"I Was Anxious,  Father,  To Give You In A Few Words Some Account Of

The Philosophy Which Has Been Engaging My Attention,  So That You

Might Better Understand My Difficulties. Although Schopenhauer May Be

Wrong In His Theory Regarding The Will,  The Conclusion He Draws From

It,  Namely,  That We May Only Find Lasting Peace In Resignation,  Seems

To Me Well Within The Dogma Of Our Holy Church."

 

"It Surprises Me That He Should Hold Such Opinions,  For If He Does

Not Acknowledge A Future State,  The Present Must Be Everything,  And

The Gratification Of The Senses The Only...."

 

"I Assure You,  Father,  No One Can Be More Opposed To Materialism Than

Schopenhauer. He Holds The World We Live In To Be A Mere

Delusion--The Veil Of Maya."

 

"I Am Afraid,  My Son,  I Cannot Speak With Any Degree Of Certainty

About Either Of Those Authors,  But I Think It My Duty To Warn You

Against Inclining Too Willing An Ear To The Specious Sophistries Of

German Philosophers. It Would Be Well If You Were To Turn To Our

Christian Philosophers; Our Great Cardinal--Cardinal Newman--Has Over

And Over Again Refuted The Enemies Of The Church. I Have Forgotten

The Name."

 

"Schopenhauer."

 

"Now I Will Give You Absolution."

 

The Burlesque Into Which His Confession Had Drifted Awakened New

Terrors In John And Sensations Of Sacrilege. He Listened Devoutly To

The Prattle Of The Priest,  And To Crush The Rebellious Spirit In Him

He Promised To Submit His Poems; And He Did Not Allow Himself To

Think The Old Man Incapable Of Understanding Them. But He Knew He

Would Not Submit Those Poems,  And Turning From The Degradation He

Faced A Command Which Had Suddenly Come Upon Him. A Great Battle

Raged; And Growing At Every Moment Less Conscious Of All Save His

Soul's Salvation,  He Walked Through The Streets,  His Stick Held

Forward Like A Church Candle.

 

He Walked Through The City,  Seeing It Not,  And Hearing All Cruel

Voices Dying To One--This: "I Can Only Attain Salvation By The

Elimination Of All Responsibilities. There Is Therefore But One

Course To Adopt." Decision Came Upon Him Like The Surgeon's Knife. It

Was In The Cold Darkness Of His Rooms In Pump Court. He Raised His

Face,  Deadly Pale,  From His Hands; But Gradually It Went Aflame With

The Joy And Rapture Of Sacrifice,  And Taking His Manuscript,  He

Lighted It In The Gas. He Held It For A Few Moments Till It Was Well

On Fire,  And Then Threw It All Blazing Under The Grate.

 

 

Chapter 2 Pg 6

An Odour Of Spirits Evaporated In The Warm Winds Of May Which Came

Through The Open Window. The Rich Velvet Sofa Of Early English Design

Was Littered With Proofs And Copies Of The _Pilgrim_,  And The Stamped

Velvet Was Two Shades Richer In Tone Than The Pale Dead-Red Of The

Floorcloth. Small Pictures In Light Frames Harmonized With A Green

Paper Of Long Interlacing Leaves. On The Right,  The Grand Piano And

The Slender Brass Lamps; And The Impression Of Refinement And Taste

Was Continued,  For Between The Blue Chintz Curtains The River Lay

Soft As A Picture Of Old Venice. The Beauty Of The Water,  Full Of

The Shadows Of Hay And Sails,  Many Forms Of Chimneys,  Wharfs,  And

Warehouses,  Made Panoramic And Picturesque By The Motion Of The Great

Hay-Boats,  Were Surely Wanted For The Windows Of This Beautiful

Apartment.

 

Mike And Frank Stood Facing The View,  And Talked Of Lily Young,  Whom

Mike Was Momentarily Expecting.

 

"You Know As Much About It As I Do. It Was Only Just At The End That

You Spoke To Your Cousin And I Got In A Few Words."

 

"What Did You Say?"

 

"What Could I Say? Something To The Effect That The Convent Must Be A

Very Happy Home."

 

"How Did You Know She Cared For You?"

 

"I Always Know That. The Second Time We Went There She Told Me She

Was Going To Leave The Convent. I Asked Her What Had Decided Her To

Take That Step,  And She Looked At Me--That Thirsting Look Which Women

Cannot Repress. I Said I Hoped I Should See Her When She Came To

London; She Said She Hoped So Too. Then I Knew It Was All Right. I

Pressed Her Hand,  And When We Went Again I Said She Would Find A

Letter Waiting For Her At The Post-Office. Somehow She Got The Letter

Sooner Than I Expected,  And Wrote To Say She'd Come Here If She

Could. Here Is The Letter. But Will She Come?"

 

"Even If She Does,  I Don't See What Good It Will Do You; It Isn't As

If You Were Really In Love With Her."

 

"I Believe I Am In Love; It Sounds Rather Awful,  Doesn't It? But She

Is Wondrous Sweet. I Want To Be True To Her. I Want To Live For Her.

I'm Not Half So Bad As You Think I Am. I Have Often Tried To Be

Constant,  And Now I Mean To Be. This Ceaseless Desire Of Change Is

Very Stupid,  And It Leads To Nothing. I'm Sick Of Change,  And Would

Think Of None But Her. You Have No Idea How I Have Altered Since I

Have Seen Her. I Used To Desire All Women. I Wrote A Ballade The

Other Day On The Women Of Two Centuries Hence. Is It Not Shocking

To Think That We Shall Lie Mouldering In Our Graves While Women Are

Dancing And Kissing? They Will Not Even Know That I Lived And Was

Loved. It Will Not Occur To Them To Say As They Undress Of An

Evening,  'Were He Alive To-Day We Might Love Him.'"

 

 

 

 

   The Ballade Of Don Juan Dead

 

  My Days For Singing And Loving Are Over,

    And Stark I Lie In My Narrow Bed,

  I Care Not At All If Roses Cover,

    Or If Above Me The Snow Is Spread;

Chapter 2 Pg 7

I Am Weary Of Dreaming Of My Sweet Dead,

  All Gone Like Me Unto Common Clay.

  Life's Bowers Are Full Of Love's Fair Fray,

    Of Piercing Kisses And Subtle Snares;

  So Gallants Are Conquered,  Ah,  Well Away!--

    My Love Was Stronger And Fiercer Than Theirs.

 

  O Happy Moths That Now Flit And Hover

    From The Blossom Of White To The Blossom Of Red,

  Take Heed,  For I Was A Lordly Lover

    Till The Little Day Of My Life Had Sped;

    As Straight As A Pine-Tree,  A Golden Head,

  And Eyes As Blue As An Austral Bay.

  Ladies,  When Loosing Your Evening Array,

    Reflect,  Had You Lived In My Years,  My Prayers

  Might Have Won You From Weakly Lovers Away--

    My Love Was Stronger And Fiercer Than Theirs.

 

  Through The Song Of The Thrush And The Pipe Of The Plover

    Sweet Voices Come Down Through The Binding Lead;

  O Queens That Every Age Must Discover

    For Men,  That Man's Delight May Be Fed;

    Oh,  Sister Queens To The Queens I Wed.

  For The Space Of A Year,  A Month,  A Day,

  No Thirst But Mine Could Your Thirst Allay;

    And Oh,  For An Hour Of Life,  My Dears,

  To Kiss You,  To Laugh At Your Lovers' Dismay--

    My Love Was Stronger And Fiercer Than Theirs.

 

 

 

 

    Envoi

  Prince Was I Ever Of Festival Gay,

  And Time Never Silvered My Locks With Gray;

    The Love Of Your Lovers Is As Hope That Despairs,

  So Think Of Me Sometimes,  Dear Ladies,  I Pray--

    My Love Was Stronger And Fiercer Than Theirs.

 

 

 

 

"It Is Like All Your Poetry--Merely Meretricious Glitter; There Is No

Heart In It. That A Man Should Like To Have A Nice Mistress,  A Girl

He Is Really Fond Of,  Is Simple Enough,  But Lamentation Over The

Limbo Of Unborn Loveliness Is,  To My Mind,  Sheer Nonsense."

 

Mike Laughed.

 

"Of Course It Is Silly,  But I Cannot Alter It; It Is The Sex And Not

Any Individual Woman That Attracts Me. I Enter A Ball-Room And I See

One,  One Whom I Have Never Seen Before,  And I Say,  'It Is She Whom I

Have Sought,  I Can Love Her.' I Am Always Disappointed,  But Hope Is

Born Again In Every Fresh Face. Women Are So Common When They Have

Loved You."

 

Startled By His Words,  Mike Strove To Measure The Thought.

 

"I Can See Nothing Interesting In The Fact That It Is Natural To You

To Behave Badly To Every Woman Who Gives You A Chance Of Deceiving

Her. That's What It Amounts To. At The End Of A Week You'll Tire Of

This New Girl As You Did Of The Others. I Think It A Great Shame. It

Isn't Gentlemanly."

 

Mike Winced At The Word "Gentlemanly." For A Moment He Thought Of

Resentment,  But His Natural Amiability Predominated,  And He Said--

 

"I Hope Not. I Really Do Think I Can Love This One; She Isn't Like

The Others. Besides,  I Shall Be Much Happier. There Is,  I Know,  A

Great Sweetness In Constancy. I Long For This Sweetness." Seeing By

Frank's Face That He Was Still Angry,  He Pursued His Thoughts In The

Chapter 2 Pg 8

Line Which He Fancied Would Be Most Agreeable; He Did So Without

Violence To His Feelings. It Was As Natural To Him To Think One Way

As Another. Mike's Sycophancy Was So Innate That It Did Not Appear,

And Was Therefore Almost Invariably Successful. "I Have Been The

Lover Of Scores Of Women,  But I Never Loved One. I Have Always Hoped

To Love; It Is Love That I Seek. I Find Love-Tokens And I Do Not Know

Who Were The Givers. I Have Possessed Nothing But The Flesh,  And I

Have Always Looked Beyond The Flesh. I Never Sought A Woman For Her

Beauty. I Dreamed Of A Companion,  One Who Would Share Each Thought;

I Have Dreamed Of A Woman To Whom I Could Bring My Poetry,  Who Could

Comprehend All Sorrows,  And With Whom I Might Deplore The Sadness Of

Life Until We Forget It Was Sad,  And I Have Been Given Some More Or

Less Imperfect Flesh."

 

"I," Said Frank,  "Don't Care A Rap For Your Blue-Stockings. I Like A

Girl To Look Pretty And Sweet In A Muslin Dress,  Her Hair With The

Sun On It Slipping Over Her Shoulders,  A Large Hat Throwing A Shadow

Over The Garden Of Her Face. I Like Her To Come And Sit On My Knee In

The Twilight Before Dinner,  To Come Behind Me When I Am Working And

Put Her Hand On My Forehead,  Saying,  'Poor Old Man,  You Are Tired!'"

 

"And You Could Love One Girl All Your Life--Lizzie Baker,  For

Instance; And You Could Give Up All Women For One,  And Never Wander

Again Free To Gather?"

 

"It Is Always The Same Thing."

 

"No,  That Is Just What It Is Not. The Last One Was Thin,  This One

Is Fat; The Last One Was Tall,  This One Is Tiny. The Last One Was

Stupid,  This One Is Witty. Some Men Seek The Source Of The Nile,  I

The Lace Of A Bodice. A New Love Is A Voyage Of Discovery. What Is

Her Furniture Like? What Will She Say? What Are Her Opinions Of Love?

But When You Have Been A Woman's Lover A Month You Know Her Morally

And Physically. Society Is Based On The Family. The Family Alone

Survives,  It Floats Like An Ark Over Every Raging Flood. But You

May Understand Without Being Able To Accept,  And I Cannot Accept,

Although I Understand And Love Family Life. What Promiscuity Of Body

And Mind! The Idea Of Never Being Alone Fills Me With Horror To Lose

That Secret Self,  Which,  Like A Shy Bird,  Flies Out Of Sight In The

Day,  But Is With You,  Oh,  How Intensely In The Morning!"

 

"Nothing Pleases You So Much As To Be Allowed To Talk Nonsense About

Yourself."

 

Mike Laughed.

 

"Let Me Have Those Opera-Glasses. That Woman Sitting On The Bench Is

Like Her."

 

The Trees Of The Embankment Waved Along The Laughing Water,  And In

Scores The Sparrows Flitted Across The Sleek Green Sward. The Porter

In His Bright Uniform,  Cocked Hat,  And Brass Buttons,  Explained The

Way Out To A Woman. Her Child Wore A Red Sash And Stooped To Play

With A Cat That Came Along The Railings,  Its Tail High In The Air.

 

"They Know Nothing Of Lily Young," Mike Said To Himself; And Knowing

The Porter Could Not Interfere,  He Wondered What He Would Think If He

Knew All. "If She Comes Nothing Can Save Her,  She Must And Shall Be

Mine."

 

Waterloo Bridge Stood High Above The River,  Level And Lovely. Over

Charing Cross The Brightness Was Full Of Spires And Pinnacles,  But

Southwark Shore Was Lost In Flat Dimness. Then The Sun Glowed And

Westminster Ascended Tall And Romantic,  St. Thomas's And St. John's

Floating In Pale Enchantment,  And Beneath The Haze That Heaved And

Drifted,  Revealing Coal-Barges Moored By The Southwark Shore,  Lay A

Sheet Of Gold. The Candour Of The Morning Laughed Upon The River;

And There Came A Little Steamer Into The Dazzling Water,  Her Smoke

Heeling Over,  Coiling And Uncoiling Like A Snake,  And Casting

Tremendous Shadow--In Her Train A Line Of Boats Laden To The Edge

With Deal Planks. Then The Haze Heaved And London Disappeared,  Became

Chapter 2 Pg 9

Again A Gray City,  Faint And Far Away--Faint As Spires Seem In A

Dream. Again And Again The Haze Wreathed And Went Out,  Discovering

Wharfs And Gold Inscriptions,  Uncovering Barges Aground Upon The

Purple Slime Of The Southwark Shore,  Their Yellow Yards Pointing Like

Birds With Outstretched Necks.

 

The Smoke Of The Little Steamer Curled And Rolled Over,  Now Like A

Great Snake,  Now Like A Great Bird Hovering With A Snake In Its

Talons; And The Little Steamer Made Pluckily For Blackfriars. Carts

And Hansoms,  Vans And Brewers' Vans,  All Silhouetting. Trains Slip

Past,  Obliterating With White Whiffs The Delicate Distances,  The

Perplexing Distances That In London Are Delicate And Perplexing As

A Spider's Web. Great Hay-Boats Yellow In The Sun,  Brown In The

Shadow--Great Hay-Boats Came By,  Their Sails Scarce Filled With The

Light Breeze; Standing High,  They Sailed Slowly And Picturesquely,

With Men Thrown In All Attitudes; Somnolent In Sunshine And Pungent

Odour--One Only At Work,  Wielding The Great Rudder.

 

"Ah! If She Would Not Disappoint Me; If She Would Only Come; I Would

Give My Life Not To Be Disappointed.... Three O'clock! She Said She

Would Be Here By Three,  If She Came At All. I Think I Could Love

Her--I Am Sure Of It; It Would Be Impossible To Weary Of Her--So

Frail--A White Blonde. She Said She Would Come,  I Know She Wanted

To.... This Waiting Is Agony! Oh,  If I Were Only Good-Looking!

Whatever Power I Have Over Women I Have Acquired; It Was The Desire

To Please Women That Gave Me Whatever Power I Possess; I Was As Soft

As Wax,  And In The Fingers Of Desire Was Modified And Moulded. You

Did Not Know Me When I Was A Boy--I Was Hideous. It Seemed To Me

Impossible That Women Could Love Men. Women Seemed To Me So Beautiful

And Desirable,  Men So Hideous And Revolting. Could They Touch Us

Without A Revulsion Of Feeling? Could They Really Desire Us? That

Is Why I Could Not Bear To Give Women Money,  Nor A Present Of Any

Kind--No,  Not Even A Flower. If I Did All My Pleasure Was Gone;

I Could Not Help Thinking It Was For What They Got Out Of Me That

They Liked Me. I Longed To Penetrate The Mystery Of Women's Life.

It Seemed To Me Cruel That The Differences Between The Sexes Should

Never Be Allowed To Dwindle,  But Should Be Strictly Maintained

Through All The Observances Of Life. There Were Beautiful Beings

Walking By Us Of Whom We Knew Nothing--Irreparably Separated From

Us. I Wanted To Be With This Sex As A Shadow Is With Its Object."

 

"You Didn't Find Many Opportunities Of Gratifying Your Tastes In

Cashel?"

 

"No,  Indeed! Of Course The Women About The Town Were Not To Be

Thought Of." Unpleasant Memories Seemed To Check His Flow Of Words.

 

Without Noticing His Embarrassment,  Frank Said--

 

"After France It Must Have Been A Horrible Change To Come To Ireland.

How Old Were You?"

 

"About Fourteen. I Could Not Endure The Place. Every Day Was So

Appallingly Like The Last. There Was Nothing For Me To Do But To

Dream; I Dreamed Of Everything. I Longed To Get Alone And Let My

Fancy Wander--Weaving Tales Of Which I Was The Hero,  Building Castles

Of Which I Was The Lord."

 

"I Remember Always Hearing Of Your Riding And Shooting. No One Knew

Of Your Literary Tastes. I Don't Mind Telling You That Mount Rorke

Often Suspected You Of Being A Bit Of A Poacher."

 

Mike Laughed.

 

"I Believe I Have Knocked Down A Pheasant Or Two. I Was An Odd

Mixture--Half A Man Of Action,  Half A Man Of Dreams. My Position In

Cashel Was Unbearable. My Mother Was A Lady; My Father--You Know How

He Had Let Himself Down. You Cannot Imagine The Yearnings Of A Poor

Boy; You Were Brought Up In All Elegance And Refinement. That

Beautiful Park! On Afternoons I Used To Walk There,  And I Remember

The Very Moments I Passed Under The Foliage Of The Great Beeches And

Chapter 2 Pg 10

Lay Down To Dream. I Used To Wander To The Outskirts Of The Wood As

Near As I Dared To The Pleasure-Grounds,  And Looking On The Towers

Strove To Imagine The Life There. The Bitterest Curses Lie In The

Hearts Of Young Men Who,  Understanding Refinement And Elegance,  See

It For Ever Out Of Their Reach. I Used To Watch The Parade Of Dresses

Passing On The Summer Lawns Between The Firs And Flowering Trees.

What Graceful And Noble Words Were Spoken!--And That Man Walking Into

The Poetry Of The Laburnum Gold,  Did He Put His Arm About Her? And I

Wondered What Silken Ankles Moved Beneath Her Skirts. My Brain Was On

Fire,  And I Was Crazed; I Thought I Should Never Hold A Lady In My

Arms. A Lady! All The Delicacy Of Silk And Lace,  High-Heeled Shoes,

And The Scent And Colour Of Hair That A _Coiffeur_ Has Braided."

 

"I Think You Are Mad!"

 

Mike Laughed And Continued--

 

"I Was So When I Was Sixteen. There Was A Girl Staying There. Her

Hair Was Copper,  And Her Flesh Was Pink And White. Her Waist,  You

Could Span It. I Saw Her Walking One Day On ..."

 

"You Must Mean Lady Alice Hargood,  A Very Tall Girl?"

 

"Yes; Five Feet Seven,  Quite. I Saw Her Walking On The Terrace With

Your Uncle. Once She Passed Our House,  And I Smarted With Shame Of It

As Of Some Restless Wound,  And For Days I Remembered I Was Little

Better Than A Peasant. Originally We Came,  As You Know,  Of Good

English Stock,  But Nothing Is Vital But The Present. I Cried And

Cursed My Existence,  My Father And The Mother That Bore Me,  And That

Night I Climbed Out By My Window And Roved Through The Dark About The

Castle So Tall In The Moonlight. The Sky That Night Was Like A Soft

Blue Veil,  And The Trees Were Painted Quite Black Upon It. I Looked

For Her Window,  And I Imagined Her Sleeping With Her Copper Hair

Tossed In The Moonlight,  Like An Illustration In A Volume Of Shelley.

 

"You Remember The Old Wooden Statue Of A Nymph That Stood In The

Sycamores At The End Of The Terraces; She Was The First Naked Woman I

Saw. I Used To Wander About Her,  Sometimes At Night,  And I Have Often

Climbed About And Hung Round Those Shoulders,  And Ever Since I Have

Always Met That Breast Of Wood. You Have Been Loved More Truly; You

Have Been Possessed Of Woman More Thoroughly Than I. Though I Clasp A

Woman In My Arms,  It Is As If The Atlantic Separated Us. Did I Never

Tell You Of My First Love Affair? That Was The Romance Of The Wood

Nymph. One Evening I Climbed On The Pedestal Of My Divinity,  My Cheek

Was Pale ..."

 

"For God's Sake,  Leave Out The Poetics,  And Come To The Facts."

 

"If You Don't Let Me Tell My Story In My Own Way I Won't Tell It At

All. Out Of My Agony Prayer Rose To Alice,  For Now It Pleased Me To

Fancy There Was Some Likeness Between This Statue And Lady Alice. The

Dome Of Leafage Was Sprinkled With The Colour Of The Sunset,  And As I

Pressed My Lips To The Wooden Statue,  I Heard Dead Leaves Rustling

Under A Footstep. Holding The Nymph With One Arm,  I Turned And Saw A

Lady Approaching. She Asked Me Why I Kissed The Statue. I Looked Away

Embarrassed,  But She Told Me Not To Go,  And She Said,  'You Are A

Pretty Boy.' I Said I Had Never Seen A Woman So Beautiful. Again

I Grew Ashamed,  But The Lady Laughed. We Stood Talking In The

Stillness. She Said I Had Pretty Hands,  And Asked Me If I Regretted

The Nymph Was Not A Real Woman. She Took My Hands. I Praised Hers,

And Then I Grew Frightened,  For I Knew She Came From The Castle; The

Castle Was To Me What The Ark Of The Covenant Was To An Israelite.

She Put Her Arm About Me,  And My Fears Departed In The Thrilling Of

An Exquisite Minute. She Kissed Me And Said,  'Let Us Sit Down.'"

 

"I Wonder Who She Was! What Was Her Name? You Can Tell Me."

 

"No,  I Never Mention Names; Besides,  I Am Not Certain She Gave Her

Right Name."

 

"Are You Sure She Was Staying At The Castle? For If So,  There Would

Chapter 2 Pg 11

Be No Use For Her To Conceal Her Name. You Could Easily Have Found

It Out."

 

"Oh,  Yes,  She Was Staying At The Castle; She Talked About You All.

Don't You Believe Me?"

 

"What,  All About The Nymph? I Am Certain You Thought You Ought To

Have Loved Her,  And If What Harding Says Is Right,  That There Is More

Truth In What We Think Than In What We Do,  I'm Sure You Might Say

That You Had Been On A Wedding-Tour With One Of The Gargoyles."

 

Mike Laughed; And Frank Did Not Suspect That He Had Annoyed Him.

Mike's Mother Was A Frenchwoman,  Whom John Fletcher Had Met In Dublin

And Had Pressed Into A Sudden Marriage. At The End Of Three Years Of

Married Life She Had Been Forced To Leave Him,  And Strange Were The

Legends Of The Profanities Of That Bed. She Fled One Day,  Taking Her

Son With Her. Fletcher Did Not Even Inquire Where She Had Gone; And

When At Her Death Mike Returned To Ireland,  He Found His Father In A

Small Lodging-House Playing The Flute. Scarcely Deigning To Turn His

Head,  He Said--"Oh! Is That You,  Mike?--Sit Down."

 

At His Father's Death,  Mike Had Sold The Lease Of The Farm For Three

Hundred Pounds,  And With That Sum And A Volume Of Verse He Went To

London. When He Had Published His Poems He Wrote Two Comedies. His

Efforts To Get Them Produced Led Him Into Various Society. He Was

Naturally Clever At Cards,  And One Night He Won Three Hundred Pounds.

Journalism He Had Of Course Dabbled In--He Was Drawn Towards It By

His Eager Impatient Nature; He Was Drawn From It By His Gluttonous

And Artistic Nature. Only Ten Pounds For An Article,  Whereas A

Successful "Bridge" Brought Him Ten Times That Amount,  And He

Revolted Against The Column Of Platitudes That The Hours Whelmed In

Oblivion. There Had Been Times,  However,  When He Had Been Obliged To

Look To Journalism For Daily Bread. The _Spectator_,  Always Open To

Young Talent,  Had Published Many Of His Poems; The _Saturday_ Had

Welcomed His Paradoxes And Strained Eloquence; But Whether He Worked

Or Whether He Idled He Never Wanted Money. He Was One Of Those Men

Who Can Always Find Five Pounds In The Streets Of London.

 

We Meet Mike In His Prime--In His Twenty-Ninth Year--A Man Of Various

Capabilities,  Which An Inveterate Restlessness Of Temperament Had

Left Undeveloped--A Man Of Genius,  Diswrought With Passion,

Occasionally Stricken With Ambition.

 

"Let Me Have Those Glasses. There She Is! I Am Sure It Is She--There,

Leaning Against The Embankment. Yes,  Yes,  It Is She. Look At Her. I

Should Know Her Figure Among A Thousand--Those Frail Shoulders,  That

Little Waist; You Could Break Her Like A Reed. How Sweet She Is On

That Background Of Flowing Water,  Boats,  Wharfs,  And Chimneys; It All

Rises About Her Like A Dream,  And All Is As Faint Upon The Radiant

Air As A Dream Upon Happy Sleep. So She Is Coming To See Me. She Will

Keep Her Promise. I Shall Love Her. I Feel At Last That Love Is Near

Me. Supposing I Were To Marry Her?"

 

"Why Shouldn't You Marry Her If You Love Her? That Is To Say,  If This

Is More Than One Of Your Ordinary Caprices,  Spiced By The Fact That

Its Object Is A Nun."

 

The Men Looked At Each Other For A Moment Doubtful. Then Mike

Laughed.

 

"I Hope I Don't Love Her Too Much,  That Is All. But Perhaps She Will

Not Come. Why Is She Standing There?"

 

"I Should Laugh If She Turned On Her Heel And Walked Away Right Under

Your Very Nose."

 

A Cloud Passed Over Mike's Face.

 

"That's Not Possible," He Said,  And He Raised The Glass. "If I

Thought There Was Any Chance Of That I Should Go Down To See Her."

 

Chapter 2 Pg 12

"You Couldn't Force Her To Come Up. She Seems To Be Admiring The

View."

 

Then Lily Left The Embankment And Turned Towards The Temple.

 

"She Is Coming!" Mike Cried,  And Laying Down The Opera-Glass He Took

Up The Scent And Squirted It About The Room. "You Won't Make Much

Noise,  Like A Good Fellow,  Will You? I Shall Tell Her I Am Here

Alone."

 

"I Shall Make No Noise--I Shall Finish My Article. I Am Expecting

Lizzie About Four; I Will Slip Out And Meet Her In The Street.

Good-Bye."

 

Mike Went To The Head Of The Staircase,  And Looking Down The

Prodigious Height,  He Waited. It Occurred To Him That If He Fell,  The

Emparadised Hour Would Be Lost For Ever. If She Were To Pass Through

The Temple Without Stopping At No. 2! The Sound Of Little Feet And

The Colour Of A Heliotrope Skirt Dispersed His Fears,  And He Watched

Her Growing Larger As She Mounted Each Flight Of Stairs; When She

Stopped To Take Breath,  He Thought Of Running Down And Carrying Her

Up In His Arms,  But He Did Not Move,  And She Did Not See Him Until

The Last Flight.

 

"Here You Are At Last!"

 

"I Am Afraid I Have Kept You Waiting. I Was Not Certain Whether I

Should Come."

 

"And You Stopped To Look At The View Instead?"

 

"Yes,  But How Did You Know That?"

 

"Ah! That's Telling; Come In."

 

The Girl Went In Shyly.

 

"So This Is Where You Live? How Nicely You Have Arranged The Room.

I Never Saw A Room Like This Before. How Different From The Convent!

What Would The Nuns Think If They Saw Me Here? What Strange

Pictures!--Those Ballet-Girls; They Remind Me Of The Pantomime.

Did You Buy Those Pictures?"

 

"No; They Are Wonderful,  Aren't They? A Friend Of Mine Bought Them

In France."

 

"Mr. Escott?"

 

"Yes; I Forgot You Knew Him--How Stupid Of Me! Had It Not Been For

Him I Shouldn't Have Known You--I Was Thinking Of Something Else."

 

"Where Is He Now? I Hope He Will Not Return While I Am Here. You Did

Not Tell Him I Was Coming?"

 

"Of Course Not; He Is Away In France."

 

"And Those Portraits--It Is Always The Same Face."

 

"They Are Portraits Of A Girl He Is In Love With."

 

"Do You Believe He Is In Love?"

 

"Yes,  Rather; Head Over Heels. What Do You Think Of The Painting?"

 

Lily Did Not Answer. She Stood Puzzled,  Striving To Separate The

Confused Notions The Room Conveyed To Her. She Wore On Her Shoulders

A Small Black Lace Shawl And Held A Black Silk Parasol. She Was Very

Slender,  And Her Features Were Small And Regular,  And So White Was

Her Face That The Blue Eyes Seemed The Only Colour. There Was,

However,  About The Cheek-Bones Just Such Tint As Mellow As A White

Rose.

Chapter 2 Pg 13

 

"How Beautiful You Are To-Day. I Knew You Would Be Beautiful When You

Discarded That Shocking Habit; But You Are Far More Beautiful Than I

Thought. Let Me Kiss You."

 

"No,  You Will Make Me Regret That I Came Here. I Wanted To See Where

You Lived,  So That When I Was Away I Could Imagine You Writing Your

Poems. Have You Nothing More To Show Me? I Want To See Everything."

 

"Yes,  Come,  I Will Show You Our Dining-Room. Mr. Escott Often Gives

Dinner-Parties. You Must Get Your Mother To Bring You."

 

"I Should Like To. But What A Good Idea To Have Book-Cases In The

Passages,  They Furnish The Walls So Well. And What Are Those Rooms?"

 

"Those Belong To Escott. Here Is Where I Sleep."

 

"What A Strange Room!" Discountenanced By The Great Christ. She

Turned Her Head.

 

"That Crucifix Is A Present From Frank. He Bought It In Paris. It Is

Superb Expression Of The Faith Of The Middle Ages."

 

"Old Ages,  I Should Think; It Is All Worm-Eaten. And That Virgin? I

Did Not Know You Were So Religious."

 

"I Do Not Believe In Christianity,  But I Think Christ Is

Picturesque."

 

"Christ Is Very Beautiful. When I Prayed To Him An Hour Passed Like

A Little Minute. It Always Seemed To Me More Natural To Pray To Him

Than To The Virgin Mary. But Is That Your Bed?"

 

Upon A Trellis Supported By Lion's Claws A Feather Bed Was Laid. The

Sheets And Pillows Were Covered With Embroidered Cloth,  The Gift Of

Some Unhappy Lady,  And About The Twisted Columns Heavy Draperies Hung

In Apparent Disorder. Lily Sat Down On The Pouff Ottoman. Mike Took

Two Venetian Glasses,  Poured Out Some Champagne,  And Sat At Her Feet.

She Sipped The Wine And Nibbled A Biscuit.

 

"Tell Me About The Convent," He Said. "That Is Now A Thing Over And

Done."

 

"Fortunately I Was Not Professed; Had I Taken Vows I Could Not Have

Broken Them."

 

"Why Not? A Nun Cannot Be Kept Imprisoned Nowadays."

 

"I Should Not Have Broken My Vows."

 

"It Was I Who Saved You From Them--If You Had Not Fallen In Love With

Me ..."

 

"I Never Said I Had Fallen In Love With You; I Liked You,  That Was

All."

 

"But It Was For Me You Left The Convent?"

 

"No; I Had Made Up My Mind To Leave The Convent Long Before I Saw

You. So You Thought It Was Love At First Sight."

 

"On My Part,  At Least,  It Was Love At First Sight. How Happy I Am!--I

Can Scarcely Believe I Have Got You. To Have You Here By Me Seems So

Unreal,  So Impossible. I Always Loved You. I Want To Tell You About

Myself. You Were My Ideal When I Was A Boy; I Had Already Imagined

You; My Poems Were All Addressed To You. My Own Sweet Ideal That None

Knew Of But Myself. You Shall Come And See Me All The Summer Through,

In This Room--Our Room. When Will You Come Again?"

 

"I Shall Never Come Again--It Is Time To Go."

 

Chapter 2 Pg 14

"To Go! Why,  You Haven't Kissed Me Yet!"

 

"I Do Not Intend To Kiss You."

 

"How Cruel Of You! You Say You Will Never Come And See Me Again; You

Break And Destroy My Dream."

 

"How Did You Dream Of Me?"

 

"I Dreamed The World Was Buried In Snow,  Barred With Frost--That I

Never Went Out,  But Sat Here Waiting For You To Come. I Dreamed That

You Came To See Me On Regular Days. I Saw Myself Writing Poems To

You,  Looking Up To See The Clock From Time To Time. Tea And Wine Were

Ready,  And The Room Was Scented With Your Favourite Perfume. Ting!

How The Bell Thrilled Me,  And With What Precipitation I Rushed To The

Door! There I Found You. What Pleasure To Lead You To The Great Fire,

To Help You To Take Off Your Pelisse!"

 

The Girl Looked At Him,  Her Eyes Full Of Innocent Wonderment.

 

"How Can You Think Of Such Things? It Sounds Like A Fairy Tale. And

If It Were Summer-Time?"

 

"Oh! If It Were Summer We Should Have Roses In The Room,  And Only A

Falling Rose-Leaf Should Remind Us Of The Imperceptible Passing Of

The Hours. We Should Want No Books,  The Picturesqueness Of The River

Would Be Enough. And Holding Your Little Palm In Mine,  So Silken And

Delicately Moist,  I Would Draw Close To You."

 

Knowing His Skin Was Delicate To The Touch,  He Took Her Arm In His

Hand,  But She Drew Her Arm Away,  And There Was Incipient Denial In

The Withdrawal. His Face Clouded. But He Had Not Yet Made Up His Mind

How He Should Act,  And To Gain Time To Think,  He Said--

 

"Tell Me Why You Thought Of Entering A Convent?"

 

"I Was Not Happy At Home,  And The Convent,  With Its Prayers And

Duties,  Seemed Preferable. But It Was Not Quite The Same As I Had

Imagined,  And I Couldn't Learn To Forget That There Was A World Of

Beauty,  Colour,  And Love."

 

"You Could Not But Think Of The World Of Men That Awaited You."

 

"I Only Thought Of Him."

 

"And Who Was He?"

 

"Ah! He Was A Very Great Saint,  A Greater Saint Than You'll Ever Be.

I Fell In Love With Him When I Was Quite A Little Girl."

 

"What Was His Name?"

 

"I Am Not Going To Tell You. It Was For Him I Went Into The Convent;

I Was Determined To Be His Bride In Heaven. I Used To Read His Life,

And Think Of Him All Day Long. I Had A Friend Who Was Also In Love,

But The Reverend Mother Heard Of Our Conversations,  And We Were

Forbidden To Speak Any More Of Our Saints."

 

"Tell Me His Name? Was He Anything Like Me?"

 

"Well,  Perhaps There Is A Something In The Eyes."

 

The Conversation Dropped,  And He Laid His Hand Gently Upon Her Foot.

Drawing It Back She Spilt The Wine.

 

"I Must Go."

 

"No,  Dearest,  You Must Not."

 

She Looked Round,  Taking The Room In One Swift Circular Glance,  Her

Eyes Resting One Moment On The Crucifix.

Chapter 2 Pg 15

 

"This Is Cruel Of You," He Said. "I Dreamed Of You Madly,  And Why Do

You Destroy My Dream? What Shall I Do?--Where Shall I Go?--How Shall

I Live If I Don't Get You?"

 

"Men Do Not Mind Whom They Love; Even In The Convent We Knew That."

 

"You Seem To Have Known A Good Deal In That Convent; I Am Not

Astonished That You Left It."

 

"What Do You Mean?" She Settled Her Shawl On Her Shoulders.

 

"Merely This; You Are In A Young Man's Room Alone,  And I Love You."

 

"Love! You Profane The Word; Loose Me,  I Am Going."

 

"No,  You Are Not Going,  You Must Remain." There Was An Occasional

Nature In Him,  That Of The Vicious Dog,  And Now It Snarled. "If You

Did Not Love Me,  You Should Not Have Come Here," He Said Interposing,

Getting Between Her And The Door.

 

Then She Entreated Him To Let Her Go. He Laughed At Her; Then

Suddenly Her Face Flamed With A Passion He Was Unprepared For,  And

Her Eyes Danced With Strange Lights. Few Words Were Spoken,  Only A

Few Ejaculatory Phrases Such As "How Dare You?" "Let Me Go!" She

Said,  As She Strove To Wrench Her Arms From His Grasp. She Caught Up

One Of The Glasses; But Before She Could Throw It Mike Seized Her

Hand; He Could Not Take It From Her,  And Unconscious Of Danger (For

If The Glass Broke Both Would Be Cut To The Bone),  She Clenched It

With A Force That Seemed Impossible In One So Frail. Her Rage Was

Like Wildfire. Mike Grew Afraid,  And Preferring That The Glass Should

Be Thrown Than It Should Break In His Hand,  He Loosed His Fingers. It

Smashed Against The Opposite Wall. He Hoped That Frank Had Not Heard;

That He Had Left The Chambers. He Seized The Second Glass. When She

Raised Her Arm,  Mike Saw And Heard The Shattered Window Falling Into

The Court Below. He Anticipated The Porter's Steps On The Staircase

And His Knock At The Door,  And It Was With An Intense Relief And

Triumph That He Saw The Bottle Strike The Curtain And Fall Harmless.

He Would Win Yet. Lily Screamed Piercingly.

 

"No One Will Hear," He Said,  Laughing Hoarsely.

 

She Escaped Him And She Screamed Three Times. And Now Quite Like A

Mad Woman,  She Snatched A Light Chair And Rushed To The Window. Her

Frail Frame Shook,  Her Thin Face Was Swollen,  And She Seemed To Have

Lost Control Over Her Eyes. If She Should Die! If She Should Go Mad!

Now Really Terrified,  Mike Prayed For Forgiveness. She Did Not

Answer; She Stood Clenching Her Hands,  Choking.

 

"Sit Down," He Said,  "Drink Something. You Need Not Be Afraid Of Me

Now--Do As You Like,  I Am Your Servant. I Will Ask Only One Thing Of

You--Forgiveness. If You Only Knew!"

 

"Don't Speak To Me!" She Gasped,  "Don't!"

 

"Forgive Me,  I Beseech You; I Love You Better Than All The World."

 

"Don't Touch Me! How Dare You? Oh! How Dare You?"

 

Mike Watched Her Quivering. He Saw She Was Sublime In Her Rage,  And

Torn With Desire And Regret He Continued His Pleadings. It Was Some

Time Before She Spoke.

 

"And It Was For This," She Said,  "I Left My Convent,  And It Was Of

Him I Used To Dream! Oh! How Bitter Is My Awakening!"

 

She Grasped One Of The Thin Columns Of The Bed And Her Attitude

Bespoke The Revulsion Of Feeling That Was Passing In Her Soul;

Beneath The Heavy Curtains She Stood Pale All Over,  Thrown By The

Shock Of Too Coarse A Reality. His Perception Of Her Innocence Was A

Goad To His Appetite,  And His Despair Augmented At Losing Her. Now,

Chapter 2 Pg 16

As Died The Fulgurant Rage That Had Supported Her,  And Her Normal

Strength Being Exhausted,  A Sudden Weakness Intervened,  And She

Couldn't But Allow Mike To Lead Her To A Seat.

 

"I Am Sorry; Words Cannot Tell You How Sorry I Am. Why Do You Tremble

So? You Are Not Going To Faint,  Say--Drink Something." Hastily He

Poured Out Some Wine And Held It To Her Lips. "I Never Was Sorry

Before; Now I Know What Sorrow Is--I Am Sorry,  Lily. I Am Not Ashamed

Of My Tears; Look At Them,  And Strive To Understand. I Never Loved

Till I Saw You. Ah! That Lily Face,  When I Saw It Beneath The White

Veil,  Love Leaped Into My Soul. Then I Hated Religion,  And I Longed

To Scale The Sky To Dispossess Heaven Of That Which I Held The One

Sacred And Desirable Thing--You! My Soul! I Would Have Given It To

Burn For Ten Thousand Years For One Kiss,  One Touch Of These

Snow-Coloured Hands. When I Saw,  Or Thought I Saw,  That You Loved Me,

I Was God. I Said On Reading Your Sweet Letter,  'My Life Shall Not

Pass Without Kissing At Least Once The Lips Of My Chimera.'"

 

Words And Images Rose In His Mind Without Sensation Or Effort,  And

Experiencing The Giddiness And Exultation Of The Orator,  He Strove To

Win Her With Eloquence. And All His Magnetism Was In His Hands And

Eyes--Deep Blue Eyes Full Of Fire And Light Were Fixed Upon

Her--Hands,  Soft Yet Powerful Hands Held Hers,  Sometimes Were

Clenched On Hers,  And A Voice Which Seemed His Soul Rose And Fell,

Striving To Sting Her With Passionate Sound; But She Remained

Absorbed In,  And Could Not Be Drawn Out Of,  Angry Thought.

 

"Now You Are With Me," He Said,  "Nearly Mine; Here I See You Like A

Picture That Is Mine. Around Us Is Mighty London. I Saved You From

God,  Am I To Lose You To Man? This Was The Prospect That Faced Me,

That Faces Me,  That Drove Me Mad. All I Did Was To Attempt To Make

You Mine. I Hold You By So Little--I Could Not Bear The Thought That

You Might Pass From Me. A Ship Sails Away,  Growing Indistinct,  And

Then Disappears In The Shadows; In London A Cab Rattles,  Appears And

Disappears Behind Other Cabs,  Turns A Corner,  And Is Lost For Ever. I

Failed,  But Had I Succeeded You Would Have Come Back To Me; I Failed,

Is Not That Punishment Enough? You Will Go From Me; I Shall Not Get

You--That Is Sorrow Enough For Me; Do Not Refuse Me Forgiveness. Ah!

If You Knew What It Is To Have Sought Love Passionately,  The High

Hopes Entertained,  And Then The Depth Of Every Deception,  And Now

The Supreme Grief Of Finding Love And Losing. Seeing Love Leave Me

Without Leaving One Flying Feather For Token,  I Strove To Pluck

One--That Is My Crime. Go,  Since You Must Go,  But Do Not Go

Unforgiving,  Lest Perhaps You Might Regret."

 

Lily Did Not Cry. Her Indignation Was Vented In Broken Phrases,  The

Meaning Of Which She Did Not Seem To Realize,  And So Jarred And

Shaken Were Her Nerves That Without Being Aware Of It Her Talk

Branched Into Observations On Her Mother,  Her Home Life,  The Convent,

And The Disappointments Of Childhood. So Incoherently Did She Speak

That For A Moment Mike Feared Her Brain Was Affected,  And His Efforts

To Lead Her To Speak Of The Present Were Fruitless. But Suddenly,

Waxing Calm,  Her Inner Nature Shining Through The Eyes Like Light

Through Porcelain,  She Said--

 

"I Was Wrong To Come Here,  But I Imagined Men Different. We Know So

Little Of The World In The Convent.... Ah,  I Should Have Stayed

There. It May Be But A Poor Delusion,  But It Is Better Than Such

Wickedness."

 

"But I Love You."

 

"Love Me! ... You Say You Have Sought Love; We Find Love In

Contemplation And Desire Of Higher Things. I Am Wanting In

Experience,  But I Know That Love Lives In Thought,  And Not In Violent

Passion; I Know That A Look From The Loved One On Entering A Room,

A Touch Of A Hand At Most Will Suffice,  And I Should Have Been

Satisfied To Have Seen Your Windows,  And I Should Have Gone Away,  My

Heart Stored With Impressions Of You,  And I Should Have Been Happy

For Weeks In The Secret Possession Of Such Memories. So I Have Always

Understood Love; So We Understood Love In The Convent."

Chapter 2 Pg 17

 

They Were Standing Face To Face In The Faint Twilight And Scent Of

The Bedroom. Through The Gauze Blind The River Floated Past,

Decorative And Grand; The Great Hay-Boats Rose Above The Wharfs And

Steamers; One Lay In The Sun's Silver Casting A Black Shadow; A Barge

Rowed By One Man Drifted Round And Round In The Tide.

 

"When I Knelt In The Choir I Lifted My Heart To The Saint I Loved.

How Far Was He From Me? Millions Of Miles!--And Yet He Was Very Near.

I Dreamed Of Meeting Him In Heaven,  Of Seeing Him Come Robed In White

With A Palm In His Hand,  And Then In A Little Darkness And Dimness I

Felt Him Take Me To His Breast. I Loved To Read Of The Miracles He

Performed,  And One Night I Dreamed I Saw Him In My Cell--Or Was It

You?"

 

All Anger Was Gone From Her Face,  And It Reflected The Play Of Her

Fancy. "I Used To Pray To You To Come Down And Speak To Me."

 

"And Now," Said Mike,  Smiling,  "Now That I Have Come To You,  Now That

I Call You,  Now That I Hold My Arms To You--You The Bride-Elect--Now

That The Hour Has Come,  Shall I Not Possess You?"

 

"Do You Think You Can Gain Love By Clasping Me To Your Bosom? My

Love,  Though Separated From Me By A Million Miles,  Is Nearer To Me

Than Yours Has Ever Been."

 

"Did You Not Speak Of Me As The Lover Of Your Prayer,  And You Said

That In Ecstasy The Nuns--And Indeed It Must Be So--Exchange A

Gibbeted Saint For Some Ideal Man? Give Yourself; Make This Afternoon

Memorable."

 

"No; Good-Bye! Remember Your Promises. Come; I Am Going."

 

"I Must Not Lose You," He Cried,  Drunk With Her Beauty And Doubly

Drunk With Her Sensuous Idealism. "May I Not Even Kiss You?"

 

"Well,  If You Like--Once,  Just Here," She Said,  Pointing Where White

Melted To Faint Rose.

 

Mastered,  He Followed Her Down The Long Stairs; But When They Passed

Into The Open Air He Felt He Had Lost Her Irrevocably. The River Was

Now Tinted With Setting Light,  The Balustrade Of Waterloo Bridge

Showed Like Lace-Work,  The Glass Roofing Of Charing Cross Station Was

Golden,  And Each Spire Distinct Upon The Moveless Blue. The Splashing

Of A Steamer Sounded Strange Upon His Ears. The "Citizen" Passed! She

Was Crowded With Human Beings,  All Apparently Alike. Then The Eye

Separated Them. An Old Lady Making Her Way Down The Deck,  A Young Man

In Gray Clothes,  A Red Soldier Leaning Over The Rail,  The Captain

Walking On The Bridge.

 

Mike Called A Hansom; A Few Seconds More And She Would Pass From Him

Into London. He Saw The Horse's Hooves,  Saw The Cab Appear And

Disappear Behind Other Cabs; It Turned A Corner,  And She Was Gone.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3 Pg 18

Seven Hours Had Elapsed Since He Had Parted From Lily Young,  And

These Seven Hours He Had Spent In Restaurants And Music-Halls,

Seeking In Dissipation Surcease Of Sorrow And Disappointment. He Had

Dined At Lubi's,  And Had Gone On With Lord Muchross And Lord Snowdown

To The Royal,  And They Had Returned In Many Hansoms And With Many

Courtesans To Drink At Lubi's. But His Heart Was Not In Gaiety,  And

Feeling He Could Neither Break A Hat Joyously Nor Allow His Own To Be

Broken Good-Humouredly,  Nor Even Sympathize With Dicky,  The Driver,

Who Had Not Been Sober Since Monday,  He Turned And Left The Place.

 

"This Is Why Fellows Marry," He Said,  When He Returned Home,  And Sat

Smoking In The Shadows--He Had Lighted Only One Lamp--Depressed By

The Loneliness Of The Apartment. And More Than An Hour Passed Before

He Heard Frank's Steps. Frank Was In Evening Dress; He Opened His

Cigarette-Case,  Lighted A Cigarette,  And Sat Down Willing To Be

Amused. Mike Told Him The Entire Story With Gestures And Descriptive

Touches; On The Right Was The Bed With Its Curtains Hanging Superbly,

On The Left The Great Hay-Boats Filling The Window; And By Insisting

On The Cruelest Aspects,  He Succeeded In Rendering It Almost

Unbearable. But Frank Had Dined Well,  And As Lizzie Had Promised

To Come To Breakfast He Was In Excellent Humour,  And On The Whole

Relished The Tale. He Was Duly Impressed And Interested By The

Subtlety Of The Fancy Which Made Lily Tell How She Used To Identify

Her Ideal Lover While Praying To Him,  Him With The Human Ideal Which

Had Led Her From The Cloister,  And Which She Had Come To Seek In The

World. He Was Especially Struck With,  And He Admired The Conclusion

Of,  The Story,  For Mike Had Invented A Dramatic And Effective Ending.

 

Chapter 3 Pg 19

"Well-Nigh Mad,  Drunk With Her Beauty And The Sensuous Charm Of Her

Imagination,  I Threw My Arms About Her. I Felt Her Limbs Against

Mine,  And I Said,  'I Am Mad For You; Give Yourself To Me,  And Make

This Afternoon Memorable.' There Was A Faint Smile Of Reply In Her

Eyes. They Laughed Gently,  And She Said,  'Well,  Perhaps I Do Love You

A Little.'"

 

Frank Was Deeply Impressed By Mike's Tact And Judgement,  And They

Talked Of Women,  Discussing Each Shade Of Feminine Morality Through

The Smoke Of Innumerable Cigarettes; And After Each Epigram They

Looked In Each Other's Eyes Astonished At Their Genius And

Originality. Then Mike Spoke Of The Paper And The Articles That Would

Have To Be Written On The Morrow. He Promised To Get To Work Early,

And They Said Good-Night.

 

When Frank Left Southwick Two Years Ago And Pursued Lizzie Baker To

London,  He Had Found Her In Straitened Circumstances And Unable To

Obtain Employment. The First Night He Took Her Out To Dinner And

Bought Her A Hat,  On The Second He Bought Her A Gown,  And Soon After

She Became His Mistress. Henceforth His Days Were Devoted To Her;

They Were Seen Together In All Popular Restaurants,  And In The

Theatres. One Day She Went To See Some Relations,  And Frank Had To

Dine Alone. He Turned Into Lubini's,  But To His Anneeping That The Concourse On High

And The Dwellers Of The Realms Above Wailed At His Lamenting. Whereupon

There Was Asked,  Why The Wailing And Weeping? He Made Reply: As Bidden I

Waited Expectant Upon The Hill Of Faithfulness,  Yet Inhaled Not From Them

That Dwell On Earth The Fragrance Of Fidelity. Then Summoned To Return I

Beheld,  And Lo! Certain Doves Of Holiness Were Sore Tried Within The Claws

Of The Dogs Of Earth. Thereupon The Maid Of Heaven Hastened Forth Unveiled

And Resplendent From Her Mystic Mansion,  And Asked Of Their Names,  And All

Were Told But One. And When Urged,  The First Letter Thereof Was Uttered,

Whereupon The Dwellers Of The Celestial Chambers Rushed Forth Out Of Their

Habitation Of Glory. And Whilst The Second Letter Was Pronounced They Fell

Down,  One And All,  Upon The Dust. At That Moment A Voice Was Heard From

The Inmost Shrine: "Thus Far And No Farther." Verily,  We Bear Witness Unto

That Which They Have Done,  And Now Are Doing.

 

 

Chapter 3 Pg 20

O Afnan,  O Thou That Hast Branched From Mine Ancient Stock! My Glory And

My Loving-Kindness Rest Upon Thee. How Vast Is The Tabernacle Of The Cause

Of God! It Hath Overshadowed All The Peoples And Kindreds Of The Earth,

And Will,  Erelong,  Gather Together The Whole Of Mankind Beneath Its

Shelter. Thy Day Of Service Is Now Come. Countless Tablets Bear The

Testimony Of The Bounties Vouchsafed Unto Thee. Arise For The Triumph Of

My Cause,  And,  Through The Power Of Thine Utterance,  Subdue The Hearts Of

Men. Thou Must Show Forth That Which Will Ensure The Peace And The

Well-Being Of The Miserable And The Down-Trodden. Gird Up The Loins Of

Thine Endeavor,  That Perchance Thou Mayest Release The Captive From His

Chains,  And Enable Him To Attain Unto True Liberty.

 

Justice Is,  In This Day,  Bewailing Its Plight,  And Equity Groaneth Beneath

The Yoke Of Oppression. The Thick Clouds Of Tyranny Have Darkened The Face

Of The Earth,  And Enveloped Its Peoples. Through The Movement Of Our Pen

Of Glory We Have,  At The Bidding Of The Omnipotent Ordainer,  Breathed A

New Life Into Every Human Frame,  And Instilled Into Every Word A Fresh

Potency. All Created Things Proclaim The Evidences Of This World-Wide

Regeneration. This Is The Most Great,  The Most Joyful Tidings Imparted By

The Pen Of This Wronged One To Mankind. Wherefore Fear Ye,  O My

Well-Beloved Ones? Who Is It That Can Dismay You? A Touch Of Moisture

Sufficeth To Dissolve The Hardened Clay Out Of Which This Perverse

Generation Is Molded. The Mere Act Of Your Gathering Together Is Enough To

Scatter The Forces Of These Vain And Worthless People....

 

Every Man Of Insight Will,  In This Day,  Readily Admit That The Counsels

Which The Pen Of This Wronged One Hath Revealed Constitute The Supreme

Animating Power For The Advancement Of The World And The Exaltation Of Its

Peoples. Arise,  O People,  And,  By The Power Of God's Might,  Resolve To

Gain The Victory Over Your Own Selves,  That Haply The Whole Earth May Be

Freed And Sanctified From Its Servitude To The Gods Of Its Idle

Fancies--Gods That Have Inflicted Such Loss Upon,  And Are Responsible For

The Misery Of,  Their Wretched Worshipers. These Idols Form The Obstacle

That Impedeth Man In His Efforts To Advance In The Path Of Perfection. We

Cherish The Hope That The Hand Of Divine Power May Lend Its Assistance To

Mankind,  And Deliver It From Its State Of Grievous Abasement.

 

In One Of The Tablets These Words Have Been Revealed: O People Of God! Do

Not Busy Yourselves In Your Own Concerns; Let Your Thoughts Be Fixed Upon

That Which Will Rehabilitate The Fortunes Of Mankind And Sanctify The

Hearts And Souls Of Men. This Can Best Be Achieved Through Pure And Holy

Deeds,  Through A Virtuous Life And A Goodly Behavior. Valiant Acts Will

Ensure The Triumph Of This Cause,  And A Saintly Character Will Reinforce

Its Power. Cleave Unto Righteousness,  O People Of Baha! This,  Verily,  Is

The Commandment Which This Wronged One Hath Given Unto You,  And The First

Choice Of His Unrestrainered Men And Women.

 

Talking Of This Street And Its Reputation In Eugene Sue's Novels,

Reminds Me Of The Man. When I First Saw It He Had Just Been Elected To

The Chamber Of Deputies By An Overwhelming Majority. It Was Not Because

Sue Was The Favorite Candidate Of The Republicans,  But He Stood In Such

A Position That His Defeat Would Have Been Considered A Government

Victory,  And Consequently He Was Elected. I Was Glad To Find The Man

Unpopular Among Democrats Of Paris,  For His Life,  Like His Books,  Has

Many Pages In It That Were Better Not Read. At That Time He Was Living

Very Quietly In A Village Just Out Of Paris,  And Though Surrounded With

Voluptuous Luxuries,  He Was In His Life Strictly Virtuous. He Was The

Same Afterward,  And Being Very Wealthy,  Gave A Great Deal To The Poor.

His Novels Are Everywhere Read In France.

 

I Was Not A Little Surprised During My First Days In Paris To See The

Popularity Of Cooper As A Novelist. His Stories Are For Sale At Every

Book-Stall,  And Are In All The Libraries. They Are Sold With

Illustrations At A Cheap Rate,  And I Think I May Say With Safety That He

Is As Widely Read In France As Any Foreign Novelist. This Is A Little

Singular When It Is Remembered How Difficult It Is To Convey The Broken

Indian Language To A French Reader. This Is One Of The Best Features Of

Cooper's Novels--The Striking Manner In Which He Portrays The Language

Of The North American Indian And His Idiomatic Expressions. Yet Such Is

The Charm Of His Stories That They Have Found Their Way Over Europe. The

Translations Into The French Language Must Be Good.

Chapter 3 Pg 21

Another Author Read Widely In Paris,  As She Is All Over Europe,  Is Mrs.

Stowe. _Uncle Tom_ Is A Familiar Name In The Brilliant Capital Of

France,  And Even Yet His Ideal Portraits Hang In Many Shop Windows,  And

The Face Of Mrs. Stowe Peeps Forth Beside It. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ Was

Wonderfully Popular Among All Classes,  And To Very Many--What A

Fact!--It Brought Their First Idea Of Jesus Christ As He Is Delineated

In The New Testament. But Mrs. Stowe's _Sunny Memories_ Was Very

Severely Criticised And Generally Laughed At--Especially Her Criticisms

Upon Art.

 

Walking One Evening In The Champs Elysees,  I Found A Little Family Of

Singers From The Alps,  Underneath One Of The Large Trees. You Should

Have Heard Them Sing Their Native Songs,  So Plaintive And Yet So Mild.

Father And Mother,  Two Little Sisters And A Brother,  Were Begging Their

Bread In That Way. They Were Dressed Very Neatly,  Although Evidently

Extremely Poor. The Father Had A Violin Which He Played Very Sweetly,

The Mother Sang,  The Two Little Girls Danced,  And The Boy Put In A Soft

And Melancholy Tenor. I Hardly Ever Listened To Sadder Music. It Seemed

As If Their Hearts Were In It,  Saddened At The Thought Of Exile From

Their Native Mountains. After Singing For A Long Time,  They Stopped And

Looked Up Appealingly To The Crowd--But Not A Sou Fell To The Ground.

Once More They Essayed To Sing,  With A Heavier Sorrow Upon Their Faces,

For They Were Hungry And Had No Bread. They Stopped Again--Not A

Solitary Sou Was Given To Them. A Large Tear Rolled Down The Cheek Of

The Father--You Should Have Seen The Answering Impulse Of The Crowd--How

The Sous Rattled Upon The Ground. They Saw Instantly That It Was No

Common Beggar Before Them,  But One Who Deserved Their Alms. At Once,  As

If A Heaven Full Of Clouds Had Divided And The Sunshine Flashed Full

Upon Their Faces,  The Band Of Singers Grew Radiant And Happy. Such Is

Life--A Compound Of Sorrow And Gayety.

 

The Parisian Omnibus System Is The Best In The World,  And I Found It

Very Useful And Agreeable Always While Wandering Over The City. The

Vehicles Are Large And Clean,  And Each Passenger Has A Chair Fastened

Firmly To The Sides Of The Carriage. Six Sous Will Carry A Person

Anywhere In Paris,  And If Two Lines Are Necessary To Reach The Desired

Place,  A Ticket Is Given By The Conductor Of The First Omnibus,  Which

Entitles The Holder To Another Ride In The New Line. The Omnibus System

Is Workedtutes Wealth And Civilization. In Paris,

As In Ancient Greece,  Courtesans Are Rich,  Brilliant,  And Depraved;

Here In London The Women Are Poor,  Stupid,  And Almost Virtuous. Kitty

Is Revolution. I Know For A Fact That She Has Had As Much As £1000

From A Foreign Potentate,  And She Spends In One Day Upon Her

Tiger-Cat What Would Keep A Poor Family In Affluence For A Week. Nor

Can She Say Half A Dozen Words Without Being Witty. What Do You Think

Of This? We Were Discussing The Old Question,  If It Were Well For A

Woman To Have A Sweetheart. Kitty Said,  'London Has Given Me

Everything But That. I Can Always Find A Man Who Will Give Me Five

And Twenty Guineas,  But A Sweetheart I Can't Find.'"

 

Every Pen Stopped,  And Expectation Was On Every Face. After A Pause

Mike Continued--

 

"Kitty Said,  'In The First Place He Must Please Me,  And I Am Very

Difficult To Please; Then I Must Please Him,  And Sufficiently For Him

To Give Up His Whole Time To Me. And He Must Not Be Poor,  For

Although He Would Not Give Me Money,  It Would Cost Him Several

Hundreds A Year To Invite Me To Dinner And Send Me Flowers. And Where

Am I To Find This Combination Of Qualities?' Can't You Hear Her

Saying It,  Her Sweet Face Like A Tea-Rose,  Those Innocent Blue Eyes

All Laughing With Happiness? The Great Stockbroker,  Who Has Been With

Her For The Last Ten Years,  Settled Fifty Thousand Pounds When He

First Took Her Up. She Was Speaking To Me About Him The Other Day,

And When I Said,  'Why Didn't You Leave Him When The Money Was

Settled?' She Said,  'Oh No,  I Wouldn't Do A Dirty Trick Like That;

I Contented Myself Simply By Being Unfaithful To Him.'"

 

"This Is No Doubt Very Clever,  But If You Put All You Have Told Us

Into Your Article,  You'll Certainly Have The Paper Turned Off The

Book-Stalls."

Chapter 3 Pg 22

 

The Conversation Paused. Every One Finished His Brandy-And-Soda,  And

The Correction Of Proofs Was Continued In Silence,  Interrupted Only

By An Occasional Oath Or A Word Of Remonstrance From Frank,  Who

Begged Drake,  A Huge-Shouldered Man,  Whose Hand Was Never Out Of The

Cigarette-Box,  Not To Drop The Lighted Ends On The Carpet. Mike Was

Reading Harding's Article.

 

"I Think We Shall Have A Good Number This Week," Said Mike. "But We

Want A Piece Of Verse. I Wonder If You Could Get Something From John

Norton. What Do You Think Of Norton,  Harding?"

 

"He Is One Of The Most Interesting Men I Know. His Pessimism,  His

Catholicism,  His Yearning For Ritual,  His Very Genuine Hatred Of

Women,  It All Fascinates Me."

 

"What Do You Think Of That Poem He Told Us Of The Other Night?"

 

"Intensely Interesting; But He Will Never Be Able To Complete It. A

Man May Be Full Of Talent And Yet Be Nothing Of An Artist; A Man May

Be Far Less Clever Than Norton,  And With A Subtler Artistic Sense. If

A Seal Had Really Something To Say,  I Believe It Would Find A Way Of

Saying It; But Has John Norton Really Got Any Idea So Overwhelmingly

New And Personal That It Would Force A Way Of Utterance Where None

Existed? The Christian Creed With Its Tale Of Mary Must Be Of All

Creeds Most Antipathetic To His Natural Instincts,  He Nevertheless

Accepts It.... If You Agitate A Pool From Different Sides You Must

Stir Up Mud,  And This Is What Occurs In Norton's Brain; It Is

Agitated Equally From Different Sides,  And The Result Is Mud."

 

Mike Looked At Harding Inquiringly,  For A Moment Wondered If The

Novelist Understood Him As He Seemed To Understand Norton.

 

A Knock Was Heard,  And Norton Entered. His Popularity Was Visible In

The Pleasant Smiles And Words Which Greeted Him.

 

"You Are Just The Man We Want," Cried Frank. "We Want To Publish One

Of Your Poems In The Paper This Week."

 

"I Have Burnt My Poems," He Answered,  With Something More Of

Sacerdotal Tone And Gesture Than Usual.

 

All The Scribblers Looked Up. "You Don't Mean To Say Seriously That

You Have Burnt Your Poems?"

 

"Yes; But I Do Not Care To Discuss My Reasons. You Do Not Feel As I

Do."

 

"You Mean To Say That You Have Burnt _The Last Struggle_--The Poem

You Told Us About The Other Night?"

 

"Yes,  I Felt I Could Not Reconcile Its Teaching,  Or I Should Say The

Tendency Of Its Teaching,  To My Religion. I Do Not Regret--Besides,  I

Had To Do It; I Felt I Was Going Off My Head. I Should Have Gone Mad.

I Have Been Through Agonies. I Could Not Think. Thought And Pain And

Trouble Were As One In My Brain. I Heard Voices.... I Had To Do It.

And Now A Great Calm Has Come. I Feel Much Better."

 

"You Are A Curious Chap."

 

Then At The End Of A Long Silence John Said,  As If He Wished To

Change The Conversation--

 

"Even Though I Did Burn My Pessimistic Poem,  The World Will Not Go

Without One. You Are Writing A Poem On Schopenhauer's Philosophy.

It Is Hard To Associate Pessimism With You."

 

"Only Because You Take The Ordinary View Of The Tendency Of

Pessimistic Teaching," Said Mike. "If You Want A Young And Laughing

World,  Preach Schopenhauer At Every Street Corner; If You Want A

Sober Utilitarian World,  Preach Comte."

Chapter 3 Pg 23

 

"Doesn't Much Matter What The World Is As Long As It Is Not Sober,"

Chuckled Platt,  The Paragraph-Writing Youth At The Bottom Of The

Table.

 

"Hold Your Tongue!" Cried Drake,  And He Lighted Another Cigarette

Preparatory To Fixing His Whole Attention On The Paradox That Mike

Was About To Enounce.

 

"The Optimist Believes In The Regeneration Of The Race,  In Its

Ultimate Perfectibility,  The Synthesis Of Humanity,  The Providential

Idea,  And The Path Of The Future; He Therefore Puts On A Shovel Hat,

Cries Out Against Lust,  And Depreciates Prostitution."

 

"Oh,  The Brute!" Chuckled The Wizen Youth,  "Without Prostitutes And

Public-Houses! What A World To Live In!"

 

"The Optimist Counsels Manual Labour For All. The Pessimist Believes

That Forgetfulness And Nothingness Is The Whole Of Man. He Says,  'I

Defy The Wisest Of You To Tell Me Why I Am Here,  And Being Here,  What

Good Is Gained By My Assisting To Bring Others Here.' The Pessimist

Is Therefore The Gay Johnny,  And The Optimist Is The Melancholy

Johnny. The Former Drinks Champagne And Takes His 'Tart' Out To

Dinner,  The Latter Says That Life Is Not Intended To Be Happy

In--That There Is Plenty Of Time To Rest When You Are Dead."

 

John Laughed Loudly; But A Moment After,  Reassuming His Look Of

Admonition,  He Asked Mike To Tell Him About His Poem.

 

"The Subject Is Astonishingly Beautiful," Said Mike; "I Only Speak Of

The Subject; No One,  Not Even Victor Hugo Or Shelley,  Ever Conceived

A Finer Theme. But They Had Execution,  I Have Only The Idea. I

Suppose The World To Have Ended; But Ended,  How? Man Has At Last

Recognized That Life Is,  In Equal Parts,  Misery And Abomination,  And

Has Resolved That It Shall Cease. The Tide Of Passion Has Again

Risen,  And Lashed By Repression To Tenfold Fury,  The Shores Of Life

Have Again Been Strewn With New Victims; But Knowledge--Calm,

Will-Less Knowledge--Has Gradually Invaded All Hearts; And The

Restless,  Shifting Sea (Which Is Passion) Shrinks To Its Furthest

Limits.

 

"There Have Been Messiahs,  There Have Been Persecutions,  But The Word

Has Been Preached Unintermittently. Crowds Have Gathered To Listen

To The Wild-Eyed Prophets. You See Them On The Desert Promontories,

Preaching That Human Life Must Cease; They Call It A Disgraceful

Episode In The Life Of One Of The Meanest Of The Planets--You See

Them Hunted And Tortured As Were Their Ancestors,  The Christians Of

The Reign Of Diocletian. You See Them Entering Cottage Doors And

Making Converts In Humble Homes. The World,  Grown Tired Of Vain

Misery,  Accepts Oblivion.

 

"The Rage And The Seething Of The Sea Is The Image I Select To

Represent The Struggle For Life. The Dawn Is My Image For The

Diffusion And Triumph Of Sufficient Reason. In A Couple Of Hundred

Lines I Have Set My Scene,  And I Begin. It Is In The Plains Of

Normandy; Of Countless Millions Only Two Friends Remain. One Of Them

Is Dying. As The Stars Recede He Stretches His Hand To His Companion,

Breathes Once More,  Looking Him In The Face,  Joyous In The Attainment

Of Final Rest. A Hole Is Scraped,  And The Last Burial Is Achieved.

Then The Man,  A Young Beautiful Man With The Pallor Of Long Vigils

And Spiritual Combat Upon His Face,  Arises.

 

"The Scene Echoes Strangely The Asceticism That Produced It.

Rose-Garden And Vineyard Are Gone; There Are No Fields,  Nor

Hedgerows,  Nor Gables Seen Picturesquely On A Sky,  Human With Smoke

Mildly Ascending. A Broken Wall That A Great Elm Tears And Rends,

Startles The Silence; Apple-Orchards Spread No Flowery Snow,  And The

Familiar Thrushes Have Deserted The Moss-Grown Trees,  In Other Times

Their Trees; And The Virgin Forest Ceases Only To Make Bleak Place

For Marish Plains With Lonely Pools And Stagnating Streams,  Where

Perchance A Heron Rises On Blue And Heavy Wings.

Chapter 3 Pg 24

 

"All The Beautiful Colours The World Had Worn When She Was Man's

Mistress Are Gone,  And Now,  As If Mourning For Her Lover And Lord,

She Is Clad Only In Sombre Raiment. Since Her Lord Departed She Bears

But Scanty Fruit,  And Since Her Lover Left Her,  She That Was Glad Has

Grown Morose; Her Joy Seems To Have Died With His; And The Feeling Of

Gloom Is Heightened,  When At The Sound Of The Man's Footsteps A Pack

Of Wild Dogs Escape From A Ruin,  Where They Have Been Sleeping,  And

Wake The Forest With Lugubrious Yelps And Barks. About The Dismantled

Porches No Single Rose--The Survival Of Roses Planted By Some Fair

Woman's Hand--Remains To Tell That Man Was Once There--Worked There

For His Daily Bread,  Seeking A Goodness And Truth In Life Which Was

Not His Lot To Attain.

 

"There Are Few Open Spaces,  And The Man Has To Follow The Tracks Of

Animals. Sometimes He Comes Upon A Herd Of Horses Feeding In A Glade;

They Turn And Look Upon Him In A Round-Eyed Surprise,  And He Sees

Them Galloping On The Hill-Sides,  Their Manes And Tails Floating In

The Wind.

 

"Paris Is Covered With Brushwood,  And Trees And Wood From The Shore

Have Torn Away The Bridges,  Of Which Only A Few Fragments Remain. Dim

And Desolate Are Those Marshes Now In The Twilight Shedding.

 

"The River Swirls Through Multitudinous Ruins,  Lighted By A Crescent

Moon; Clouds Hurry And Gather And Bear Away The Day. The Man Stands

Like A Saint Of Old,  Who,  On The Last Verge Of The Desert,  Turns And

Smiles Upon The World He Conquered.

 

"The Great Night Collects And Advances In Shadow; And Wandering

Vapour,  Taking Fire In The Darkness,  Rolls,  Tumbling Over And Over

Like Fiery Serpents,  Through Loneliness And Reeds.

 

"But In The Eternal Sunshine Of The South Flowers Have Not Become

Extinct; Winds Have Carried Seeds Hither And Thither,  And The Earth

Has Waxed Lovely,  And The Calm Of The Spiritual Evenings Of The

Adriatic Descend Upon Eternal Perfume And The Songs Of Birds. Symbol

Of Pain Or Joy There Is None,  And The August Silence Is Undisturbed

By Tears. From Rotting Hangings In Venice Rats Run,  And That Idle

Wave Of Palace-Stairs Laps In Listless Leisure The Fallen Glories Of

Veronese. As It Is With Painters So It Is With Poets,  And Wolf Cubs

Tear The Pages Of The Last _Divine Comedy_ In The World. Rome Is His

Great Agony,  Her Shameful History Falls Before His Eyes Like A

Painted Curtain. All The Inner Nature Of Life Is Revealed To Him,  And

He Sees Into The Heart Of Things As Did Christ In The Garden Of

Gethsemane--Christ,  That Most Perfect Symbol Of The Denial Of The

Will To Live; And,  Like Christ,  He Cries That The World May Pass From

Him.

 

"But In Resignation,  Hatred And Horror Vanish,  And He Muses Again On

The More Than Human Redemption,  The Great Atonement That Man Has Made

For His Shameful Life's History; And Standing Amid The Orange And

Almond Trees,  Amid A Profusion Of Bloom That The World Seems To Have

Brought For Thank-Offering,  Amid An Apparent And Glorious Victory Of

Inanimate Nature,  He Falls Down In Worship Of His Race That Had

Freely Surrendered All,  Knowing It To Be Nothing,  And In Surrender

Had Gained All.

 

"In That Moment Of Intense Consciousness A Cry Breaks The Stillness,

And Searching Among The Marbles He Finds A Dying Woman. Gathering

Some Fruit,  He Gives Her To Eat,  And They Walk Together,  She

Considering Him As Saviour And Lord,  He Wrapped In The Contemplation

Of The End. They Are The End,  And All Paling Fascination,  Which Is

The World,  Is Passing From Them,  And They Are Passing From It. And

The Splendour Of Gold And Red Ascends And Spreads--Crown And Raiment

Of A World That Has Regained Its Primal Beauty.

 

"'We Are Alone,' The Woman Says. 'The World Is Ours; We Are As King

And Queen,  And Greater Than Any King Or Queen.'

 

"Her Dark Olive Skin Changes About The Neck Like A Fruit Near To

Chapter 3 Pg 25

Ripen,  And The Large Arms,  Curving Deeply,  Fall From The Shoulder In

Superb Indolences Of Movement,  And The Hair,  Varying From Burnt-Up

Black To Blue,  Curls Like A Fleece Adown The Shoulders. She Is Large

And Strong,  A Fitting Mother Of Man,  Supple In The Joints As The

Young Panther That Has Just Bounded Into The Thickets; And Her Rich

Almond Eyes,  Dark,  And Moon-Like In Their Depth Of Mystery,  Are Fixed

On Him. Then He Awakes To The Danger Of The Enchantment; But She

Pleads That They,  The Last Of Mankind,  May Remain Watching Over Each

Other Till The End; And Seeing His Eyes Flash,  Her Heart Rejoices.

And Out Of The Glare Of The Moon They Passed Beneath The Sycamores.

And Listening To The Fierce Tune Of The Nightingales In The Dusky

Daylight There,  Temptation Hisses Like A Serpent; And The Woman

Listens,  And Drawing Herself About The Man,  She Says--

 

"'The World Is Ours; Let Us Make It Ours For Ever; Let Us Give Birth

To A New Race More Great And Beautiful Than That Which Is Dead. Love

Me,  For I Am Love; All The Dead Beauties Of The Race Are Incarnate In

Me. I Am The Type And Epitome Of All. Was The Venus We Saw Yesterday

Among The Myrtles More Lovely Than I?'

 

"But He Casts Her From Him,  Asking In Despair (For He Loves Her) If

They Are To Renew The Misery And Abomination Which It Required All

The Courage And All The Wisdom Of All The Ages To Subdue? He Calls

Names From Love's Most Fearful Chronicle--Cleopatra,  Faustina,

Borgia. A Little While And Man's Shameful Life Will No Longer Disturb

The Silence Of The Heavens. But No Perception Of Life's Shame Touches

The Heart Of The Woman. 'I Am Love,' She Cries Again. 'Take Me,  And

Make Me The Mother Of Men. In Me Are Incarnate All The Love Songs Of

The World. I Am Beatrice; I Am Juliet. I Shall Be All Love To

You--Fair Rosamond And Queen Eleanor. I Am The Rose! I Am The

Nightingale!'

 

"She Follows Him In All Depths Of The Forests Wherever He May Go. In

The White Morning He Finds Her Kneeling By Him,  And In Blue And Rose

Evening He Sees Her Whiteness Crouching In The Brake. He Has Fled To

A Last Retreat In The Hills Where He Thought She Could Not Follow,

And After A Long Day Of Travel Lies Down. But She Comes Upon Him In

His First Sleep,  And With Amorous Arms Uplifted,  And Hair Shed To The

Knee,  Throws Herself Upon Him. It Is In The Soft And Sensual Scent Of

The Honeysuckle. The Bright Lips Strive,  And For An Instant His Soul

Turns Sick With Famine For The Face; But Only For An Instant,  And In

A Supreme Revulsion Of Feeling He Beseeches Her,  Crying That The

World May Not End As It Began,  In Blood. But She Heeds Him Not,  And

To Save The Generations He Dashes Her On The Rocks.

 

"Man Began In Bloodshed,  In Bloodshed He Has Ended.

 

"Standing Against The Last Tinge Of Purple,  He Gazes For A Last Time

Upon The Magnificence Of A Virgin World,  Seeing The Tawny Forms Of

Lions In The Shadows,  Watching Them Drinking At The Stream."

 

"Adam And Eve At The End Of The World," Said Drake. "A Very Pretty

Subject; But I Distinctly Object To An Eve With Black Hair. Eve And

Golden Hair Have Ever Been Considered Inseparable Things."

 

"That's True," Said Platt; "The Moment My Missis Went Wrong Her Hair

Turned Yellow."

 

Mike Joined In The Jocularity,  But At The First Pause He Asked Escott

What He Thought Of His Poem.

 

"I Have Only One Fault To Find. Does Not The _Dénouement_ Seem Too

Violent? Would It Not Be Better If The Man Were To Succeed In

Escaping From Her,  And Then Vexed With Scruples To Return And Find

Her Dead? What Splendid Lamentations Over The Body Of The Last

Woman!--And As The Man Wanders Beneath The Waxing And Waning Moon He

Hears Nature Lamenting The Last Woman. Mountains,  Rocks,  Forests,

Speak To Him Only Of Her."

 

"Yes,  That Would Do.... But No--What Am I Saying? Such A Conclusion

Would Be In Exact Contradiction To The Philosophy Of My Poem. For It

Chapter 3 Pg 26

Is Man's Natural And Inveterate Stupidity (Schopenhauer Calls It

Will) That Forces Man To Live And Continue His Species. Reason Is The

Opposing Force. As Time Goes On Reason Becomes More And More

Complete,  Until At Last It Turns Upon The Will And Denies It,  Like

The Scorpion,  Which,  If Surrounded By A Ring Of Fire,  Will Turn And

Sting Itself To Death. Were The Man To Escape,  And Returning Find The

Woman Dead,  It Would Not Be Reason But Accident Which Put An End To

This Ridiculous World."

 

Seeing That Attention Was Withdrawn From Him Drake Filled His Pockets

With Cigarettes,  Split A Soda With Platt,  And Seized Upon The

Entrance Of Half A Dozen Young Men As An Excuse For Ceasing To Write

Paragraphs. Although It Had Only Struck Six They Were All In Evening

Dress. They Were Under Thirty,  And In Them Elegance And Dissipation

Were Equally Evident. Lord Muchross,  A Clean-Shaven Johnnie,  Walked

At The Head Of The Gang,  Assuming By Virtue Of His Greater Volubility

A Sort Of Headship. Dicky,  The Driver,  A Stout Commoner,  Spoke Of

Drink; And A Languid Blonde,  Lord Snowdown,  Leaned Against The

Chimney-Piece Displaying A Thin Figure. The Others Took Seats And

Laughed Whenever Lord Muchross Spoke.

 

"Here We Are,  Old Chappie,  Just In Time To Drink To The Health Of The

Number. Ha,  Ha,  Ha! What Damned Libel Have You In This Week? Ha,  Ha!"

 

"Awful Bad Head,  A Heavy Day Yesterday," Said Dicky--"Drunk Blind."

 

"Had To Put Him In A Wheelbarrow,  Wheeled Him Into A Greengrocer's

Shop,  Put A Carrot In His Mouth,  And Rang The Bell," Shouted

Muchross.

 

"Ha,  Ha,  Ha!" Shouted The Others.

 

"Had A Rippin' Day All The Same,  Didn't We,  Old Dicky? Went Up The

River In Snowdown's Launch. Had Lunch By Tag's Island,  Went As Far As

Datchet. There We Met Dicky; He Tooted Us Round By Staines. There We

Got In A Fresh Team,  Galloped All The Way To Houndslow. Laura Brought

Her Sister. Kitty Was With Us. Made Us Die With A Story She Told Us

Of A Fellow She Was Spoony On. Had To Put Him Under The Bed....

Ghastly Joke,  Dear Boy!"

 

Amid Roars Of Laughter Dicky's Voice Was Heard--

 

"She Calls Him Love's Martyr; He Nearly Died Of Bronchitis,  And

Became A Priest. Kitty Swears She'll Go To Confession To Him One Of

These Days."

 

"By Jove,  If She Does I'll Publish It In The _Pilgrim_."

 

"Too Late This Week," Mike Said To Frank.

 

"We Got To Town By Half Past Six,  Went Round To The Cri. To Have A

Sherry-And-Bitters,  Dined At The Royal,  Went On To The Pav.,  And On

With All The Girls In Hansoms,  Four In Each,  To Snowdown's."

 

"See Me Dance The Polka,  Dear Boy," Cried The Languid Lord,  Awaking

Suddenly From His Indolence,  And As He Pranced Across The Room Most

Of His Drink Went Over Drake's Neck; And Amid Oaths And Laughter

Escott Besought Of The Revellers To Retire.

 

"We Are Still Four Columns Short,  We Must Get On." And For An Hour

And A Half The Scratching Of The Pens Was Only Interrupted By The

Striking Of A Match And An Occasional Damn. At Six They Adjourned To

The Office. They Walked Along The Strand Swinging Their Sticks,  Full

Of Consciousness Of A Day's Work Done. Drake And Platt,  Who Had

Avenged Some Private Wrongs In Their Paragraphs,  Were Disturbed By

The Fear Of Libel; Harding Gnawed The End Of His Moustache,  And

Reconsidered His Attack On A Contemporary Writer,  Pointing His Gibes

Afresh.

 

They Trooped Up-Stairs,  The Door Was Thrown Open. It Was A Small

Office,  And At The End Of The Partitioned Space A Clerk Sat In Front

Chapter 3 Pg 27

Of A Ledger On A High Stool,  His Face Against The Window. Lounging On

The Counter,  Turning Over The Leaves Of Back Numbers,  They Discussed

The Advertisements. They Stood Up When Lady Helen Entered. [Footnote:

See _A Modern Lover_.] She Had Come To Speak To Frank About A Poem,

And She Only Paused In Her Rapid Visit To Shake Hands With Harding,

And She Asked Mike If His Poems Would Be Published That Season.

 

The Contributors To The _Pilgrim_ Dined Together On Wednesday,  And

Spent Four Shillings A Head In An Old English Tavern,  Where Unlimited

Joint And Vegetables Could Be Obtained For Half-A-Crown. The

Old-Fashioned Boxes Into Which The Guests Edged Themselves Had Not

Been Removed,  And About The Mahogany Bar,  Placed In The Passage In

Front Of The Proprietress's Parlour,  Two Dingy Barmaids Served Actors

From The Adjoining Theatre With Whisky-And-Water. The Contributors To

The _Pilgrim_ Had Selected A Box,  And Were Clamouring For Food.

Smacking His Lips,  The Head-Waiter,  An Antiquity Who Cashed Cheques

And Told Stories About Mr. Dickens And Mr. Thackeray,  Stopped In

Front Of This Table.

 

"Roast Beef,  Very Nice--A Nice Cut,  Sir; Saddle Of Mutton Just Up."

 

All Decided For Saddle Of Mutton.

 

"Saddle Of Mutton,  Number Three."

 

Greasy And White The Carver Came,  And As If The Meat Were A Delight

The Carver Sliced It Out. Some One Remarked This.

 

"That Is Nothing," Said Thompson; "You Should Hear Hopkins Grunting

As He Cuts The Venison On Tuesdays And Fridays,  And How He Sucks His

Lips As He Ladles Out The Gravy. We Only Enjoy A Slice Or Two,

Whereas His Pleasure Ends Only With The Haunch."

 

The Evening Newspapers Were Caught Up,  Glanced At,  And Abused As

Worthless Rags,  And The Editors Covered With Lively Ridicule.

 

The Conversation Turned On Boulogne,  Where Mike Had Loved Many

Solicitors' Wives,  And Then On The Impurity Of The Society Girl And

The Prurient Purity Of Her Creation--The "English" Novel.

 

"I Believe That It Is So," Said Harding; "And In Her Immorality We

Find The Reason For All This Bewildering Outcry Against The Slightest

License In Literature. Strange That In A Manifestly Impure Age There

Should Be A National Tendency Towards Chaste Literature. I Am Not

Sure That A Moral Literature Does Not Of Necessity Imply Much Laxity

In Practical Morality. We Seek In Art What We Do Not Find In

Ourselves,  And It Would Be True To Nature To Represent An Unfortunate

Woman Delighting In Reading Of Such Purity As Her Own Life Daily

Insulted And Contradicted; And The Novel Is The Rag In Which This

Leper Age Coquets Before The Mirror Of Its Hypocrisy,  Rehearsing The

Deception It Would Practise On Future Time."

 

"You Must Consider The Influence Of Impure Literature Upon Young

People," Said John.

 

"No,  No; The Influence Of A Book Is Nothing; It Is Life That

Influences And Corrupts. I Sent My Story Of A Drunken Woman To

Randall,  And The Next Time I Heard From Him He Wrote To Say He Had

Married His Mistress,  And He Knew She Was A Drunkard."

 

"It Is Easy To Prove That Bad Books Don't Do Any Harm; If They Did,

By The Same Rule Good Books Would Do Good,  And The World Would Have

Been Converted Long Ago," Said Frank.

 

Harding Thought How He Might Best Appropriate The Epigram,  And When

The Influence Of The Liberty Lately Acquired By Girls Had Been

Discussed--The Right To Go Out Shopping In The Morning,  To Sit Out

Dances On Dark Stairs; In A Word,  The Decadence And Overthrow Of The

Chaperon--The Conversation Again Turned On Art.

 

"It Is Very Difficult," Said Harding,  "To Be Great As The Old Masters

Chapter 3 Pg 28

Were Great. A Man Is Great When Every One Is Great. In The Great Ages

If You Were Not Great You Did Not Exist At All,  But In These Days

Everything Conspires To Support The Weak."

 

Out Of Deference To John,  Who Had Worn For Some Time A Very Solid

Look Of Disapproval,  Mike Ceased To Discourse On Half-Hours Passed On

Staircases,  And In Summer-Houses When The Gardener Had Gone To

Dinner,  And He Spoke About Naturalistic Novels And An Exhibition Of

Pastels.

 

"As Time Goes On,  Poetry,  History,  Philosophy,  Will So Multiply That

The Day Will Come When The Learned Will Not Even Know The Names Of

Their Predecessors. There Is Nothing That Will Not Increase Out Of

All Reckoning Except The Naturalistic Novel. A Man May Write Twenty

Volumes Of Poetry,  History,  And Philosophy,  But A Man Will Never Be

Born Who Will Write More Than Two,  At The Most Three,  Naturalistic

Novels. The Naturalistic Novel Is The Essence Of A Phase Of Life

That The Writer Has Lived In And Assimilated. If You Take Into

Consideration The Difficulty Of Observing Twice,  Of The Time An

Experience Takes To Ripen In You,  You Will Easily Understand

_À Priori_ That The Man Will Never Be Born Who Will Write Three

Realistic Novels."

 

Coffee And Cigars Were Ordered,  And Harding Extolled The Charm And

Grace Of Pastels.

 

Thompson Said--"I Keep Pastels For My Hours Of Idleness--Cowardly

Hours,  When I Have No Heart To Struggle With Nature,  And May But

Smile And Kiss My Hand To Her At A Distance. For Dreaming I Know

Nothing Like Pastel; It Is The Painter's Opium Pipe.... Latour Was

The Greatest Pastellist Of The Eighteenth Century,  And He Never

Attempted More Than A Drawing Heightened With Colour. But How

Suggestive,  How Elegant,  How Well-Bred!"

 

Then In Reply To Some Flattery On The Personality Of His Art,

Thompson Said,  "It Is Strange,  For I Assure You No Art Was Ever Less

Spontaneous Than Mine. What I Do Is The Result Of Reflection And

Study Of The Great Masters; Of Inspiration,  Spontaneity,

Temperament--Temperament Is The Word--I Know Nothing. When I Hear

People Talk About Temperament,  It Always Seem To Me Like The Strong

Man In The Fair,  Who Straddles His Legs,  And Asks Some One To Step

Upon The Palm Of His Hand."

 

Drake Joined In The Discussion,  And The Chatter That Came From This

Enormous Man Was As Small As His Head,  Which Sat Like A Pin's-Head

Above His Shoulders. Platt Drifted From The Obscene Into The

Incomprehensible. The Room Was Fast Emptying,  And The Waiter

Loitered,  Waiting To Be Paid.

 

"We Must Be Getting Off," Said Mike; "It Is Nearly Eleven O'clock,

And We Have Still The Best Part Of The Paper To Read Through."

 

"Don't Be In Such A Damned Hurry," Said Frank,  Authoritatively.

 

Harding Bade Them Good-Night At The Door,  And The Editors Walked Down

Fleet Street. To Pass Up A Rickety Court To The Printer's,  Or To Go

Through The Stage-Door To The Stage,  Produced Similar Sensations

In Mike. The White-Washed Wall,  The Glare Of The Raw Gas,  The Low

Monotonous Voice Of The Reading-Boy,  Like One Studying A Part,  Or

Perhaps Like The Murmur Of The Distant Audience; The Boy Coming In

Asking For "Copy" Or Proof,  Like The Call-Boy,  With His "Curtain's

Going Up,  Gentlemen." Is There Not Analogy Between The Preparation

Of The Paper That Will Be Before The Public In The Morning,  And The

Preparation Of The Play That Will Be Before Its Eyes In The Evening?

 

From The Glass Closet Where They Waited For The "Pages," They Could

See The Compositors Bending Over The Forms. The Light Lay Upon A Red

Beard,  A Freckled Neck,  The Crimson Of The Volutes Of An Ear.

 

In The Glass Closet There Were Three Wooden Chairs,  A Table,  And An

Inkstand; On The Shelf By The Door A Few Books--The _London

Chapter 3 Pg 29

Directory_,  An _English Dictionary_,  A _French Dictionary_--The

Titles Of The Remaining Books Did Not Catch The Eye. As They Waited,

For No "Pages" Would Be Ready For Them For Some Time,  Mike Glanced At

Stray Numbers Of Two Trade Journals. It Seemed To Him Strange That

The Same Compositors Who Set Up These Papers Should Set Up The

_Pilgrim_.

 

Presently The "Pages" Began To Come In,  But Long Delays Intervened,

And It Transpired That Some Of The "Copy" Was Not Yet In Type. Frank

Grew Weary,  And He Complained Of Headache,  And Asked Mike To See The

Paper Through For Him. Mike Thought Frank Selfish,  But There Was No

Help For It. He Could Not Refuse,  But Must Wait In The Paraffin-Like

Smell Of The Ink,  Listening To The Droning Voice Of The Reading-Boy.

If He Could Only Get The Proof Of His Poem He Could Kill Time By

Correcting It; But It Could Not Be Obtained. Two Hours Passed,  And

He Still Sat Watching The Red Beard Of A Compositor,  And The Crimson

Volutes Of An Ear. At Last The Printer's Devil,  His Short Sleeves

Rolled Up,  Brought In A Couple Of Pages. Mike Read,  Following The

Lines With His Pen,  Correcting The Literals,  And He Cursed When The

"Devil" Told Him That Ten More Lines Of Copy Were Wanting To Complete

Page Nine. What Should He Write?

 

About Two O'clock,  Holding Her Ball-Skirts Out Of The Dirt,  A Lady

Entered.

 

"How Do You Do,  Emily?" Said Mike. "Just Fancy Seeing You Here,  And

At This Hour!" He Was Glad Of The Interruption; But His Pleasure Was

Dashed By The Fear That She Would Ask Him To Come Home With Her.

 

"Oh,  I Have Had Such A Pleasant Party; So-And-So Sang At Lady

Southey's. Oh,  I Have Enjoyed Myself! I Knew I Should Find You Here;

But I Am Interrupting. I Will Go." She Put Her Arm Round His Neck.

He Looked At Her Diamonds,  And Congratulated Himself That She Was

A Lady.

 

"I Am Afraid I Am Interrupting You," She Said Again.

 

"Oh No,  You Aren't,  I Shall Be Done In Half An Hour; I Have Only Got

A Few More Pages To Read Through. Escott Went Away,  Selfish Brute

That He Is,  And Has Left Me To Do All The Work."

 

She Sat By His Side Contentedly Reading What He Had Written. At

Half-Past Two All The Pages Were Passed For Press,  And They Descended

The Spiral Iron Staircase,  Through The Grease And Vinegar Smell Of

The Ink,  In View Of Heads And Arms Of A Hundred Compositors,  In

Hearing Of The Drowsy Murmur Of The Reading-Boy. Her Brougham Was At

The Door. As She Stepped In Mike Screwed Up His Courage And Said

Good-Bye.

 

"Won't You Come?" She Said,  With Disappointment In Her Eyes.

 

"No,  Not To-Night. I Have Been Slaving At That Paper For The Last

Four Hours. Thanks; Not To-Night. Good-Bye; I'll See You Next Week."

 

The Brougham Rolled Away,  And Mike Walked Home. The Hands Of The

Clocks Were Stretching Towards Three,  And Only A Few Drink-Disfigured

Creatures Of Thirty-Five Or Forty Lingered; So Horrible Were They

That He Did Not Answer Their Salutations.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4 Pg 30

Mike Was In His Bath When Frank Entered.

 

"What,  Not Dressed Yet?"

 

"All Very Well For You To Talk. You Left Me At Eleven To Get The

Paper Out As Best I Could. I Did Not Get Away From The Printer's

Before Half-Past Two."

 

"I'm Very Sorry,  But You've No Idea How Ill I Felt. I Really Couldn't

Have Stayed On. I Heard You Come In. You Weren't Alone."

 

The Room Was Pleasant With The Eau De Lubin,  And Mike's Beautiful

Figure Appealed To Frank's Artistic Sense; And He Noticed It In

Relation To The Twisted Oak Columns Of The Bed. The Body,  It Was

Smooth And White As Marble; And The Pectoral Muscles Were Especially

Beautiful When He Leaned Forward To Wipe A Lifted Leg. He Turned,  And

The Back Narrowed Like A Leaf,  And Expanded In Shapes As Subtle. He

Was Really A Superb Animal As He Stepped Out Of His Bath.

 

"I Wish To Heavens You'd Dress. Leave Off Messing Yourself About.

I Want Breakfast. Lizzie's Waiting. What Are You Putting On Those

Clothes For? Where Are You Going?"

 

"I Am Going To See Lily Young. She Wrote To Me This Morning Saying

She Had Her Mother's Permission To Ask Me To Come."

 

"She Won't Like You Any Better For All That Scent And Washing."

 

"Which Of These Neckties Do You Like?"

 

"I Don't Know.... I Wish You'd Be Quick. Come On!"

 

As He Fixed His Tie With A Pearl Pin He Whistled The "Wedding March."

Catching Frank's Eyes,  He Laughed And Sang At The Top Of His Voice As

He Went Down The Passage.

 

Lizzie Was Reading In One Of The Arm-Chairs That Stood By The High

Chimney-Piece Tall With Tiles And Blue Vases. The Stiffness And Glare

Of The Red Cloth In Which The Room Was Furnished,  Contrasted With The

Soft Colour Of The Tapestry Which Covered One Wall. The Round Table

Shone With Silver,  And An Agreeable Smell Of Coffee And Sausages

Pervaded The Room. Lizzie Looked Up Astonished; But Without Giving

Her Time To Ask Questions,  Mike Seized Her And Rushed Her Up And

Down.

 

"Let Me Go! Let Me Go!" She Exclaimed. "Are You Mad?"

 

Frank Caught Up His Fiddle. At Last Lizzie Wrenched Herself From

Mike.

 

"What Do You Mean? ... Such Nonsense!"

 

Laughing,  Mike Placed Her In A Chair,  And Uncovering A Dish,  Said--

 

"What Shall I Give You This Happy Day?"

 

"What Do You Mean? I Don't Like Being Pulled About."

 

"You Know What Tune That Is? That's The 'Wedding March.'"

 

"Who's Going To Be Married? Not You."

 

"I Don't Know So Much About That. At All Events I Am In Love. The

Sensation Is Delicious--Like An Ice Or A Glass Of Chartreuse. Real

Love--All The Others Were Coarse Passions--I Feel It Here,  The

Genuine Article. You Would Not Believe That I Could Fall In Love."

 

"Listen To Me," Said Lizzie. "You Wouldn't Talk Like That If You Were

In Love."

 

"I Always Talk; It Relieves Me. You Have No Idea How Nice She Is; So

Frail,  So White--A White Blonde,  A Seraphita. But You Haven't Read

Balzac; You Do Not Know Those White Women Of The North. '_Plus

Chapter 4 Pg 31

Blanche Que La Blanche Hermine_,' Etc. So Pure Is She That I Cannot

Think Of Kissing Her Without Sensations Of Sacrilege. My Lips Are Not

Pure Enough For Hers. I Would I Were Chaste. I Never Was Chaste."

 

Mike Laughed And Chattered Of Everything. Words Came From Him Like

Flour From A Mill.

 

The _Pilgrim_ Was Published On Wednesday. Wednesday Was The Day,

Therefore,  For Walking In The Park; For Lunching Out; For Driving In

Hansoms. Like A Fish On The Crest Of A Wave He Surveyed

London--Multitudinous London,  Circulating About Him; And He Smiled

With Pleasure When He Caught Sight Of Trees Spreading Their Summer

Green Upon The Curling Whiteness Of The Clouds. He Loved The Park.

The Park Had Always Been His Friend; It Had Given Him Society When No

Door Was Open To Him; It Had Been The Inspiration Of All His

Ambitions; It Was The Park That Had First Showed Him Ladies And

Gentlemen In All The Gaud And Charm Of Town Leisure. There He Had

Seen For The First Time The Panorama Of Slanting Sunshades,  Patent

Leather Shoes,  Horses Cantering In The Dusty Sunlight,  Or Proudly

Grouped,  The Riders Flicking The Flies Away With Gold-Headed Whips.

He Loved The Androgynous Attire Of The Horsewomen--Collars,  Silk

Hats,  And Cravats. The Park Appealed To Him Intensely And Strangely

As Nothing Else Did. He Loved The Park For The Great Pasture It

Afforded To His Vanity. It Was In The Park He Saw The Fashionable

Procuress Driving--She Who Would Not Allow Him To Pay Even For

Champagne In Her House; It Was In The Park He Met The Little Actress

Who Looked So Beseechingly In His Face; It Was In The Park He Met

Fashionable Ladies Who Asked Him To Dinner And Took Him To The

Theatre; It Was In The Park He Had Found Life And Fortune,  And,

Saturated With Happiness,  With Health,  Tingling With Consciousness Of

His Happiness,  Mike Passed Among The Various Crowd,  Which In Its

Listlessness Seemed To Balance And Air Itself Like A Many-Petalled

Flower. But Much As The Crowd Amused And Pleased Him,  He Was More

Amused And Pleased With The Present Vision Of His Own Personality,

Which In A Long Train Of Images And Stories Passed Within Him. He

Loved To Dream Of Himself; In Dreams He Entered His Soul Like A

Temple,  Seeing Himself In Various Environment,  And Acting In Manifold

Circumstances.

 

"Here Am I--A Poor Boy From The Bogs Of Ireland--Poor People" (The

Reflection Was An Unpleasant One,  And He Escaped From It); "At All

Events A Poor Boy Without Money Or Friends. I Have Made Myself What I

Am.... I Get The Best Of Everything--Women,  Eating,  Clothes; I Live

In Beautiful Rooms Surrounded With Pretty Things. True,  They Are Not

Mine,  But What Does That Matter?--I Haven't The Bother Of Looking

After Them.... If I Could Only Get Rid Of That Cursed Accent,  But I

Haven't Much; Escott Has Nearly As Much,  And He Was Brought Up At An

English School. How Pleasant It Is To Have Money! Heigho! How

Pleasant It Is To Have Money! Six Pounds A Week From The Paper,  And I

Could Make Easily Another Four If I Chose. Sometimes I Don't Get Any

Presents; Women Seem As If They Were Going To Chuck It Up,  And Then

They Send All Things--Money,  Jewelry,  And Comestibles. I Am Sure It

Was Ida Who Sent That Hundred Pounds. What Should I Do If It Ever

Came Out? But There's Nothing To Come Out. I Believe I Am Suspected,

But Nothing Can Be Proved Against Me.

 

"Why Do They Love Me? I Always Treat Them Badly. Often I Don't Even

Pretend To Love Them,  But It Makes No Difference. Pious Women,  Wicked

Women,  Stupid Women,  Clever Women,  High-Class Women,  Low-Class Women,

It Is All The Same--All Love Me. That Little Girl I Picked Up In The

Strand Liked Me Before She Had Been Talking To Me Five Minutes. And

What Sudden Fancies! I Come Into A Room,  And Every Feminine Eye Fills

With Sudden Emotion. I Wonder What It Is. My Nose Is Broken,  And My

Chin Sticks Out Like A Handle. And Men Like Me Just As Much As Women

Do. It Is Inexplicable. True,  I Never Say Disagreeable Things; And It

Is So Natural To Me To Wheedle. I Twist Myself About Them Like A

Twining Plant About A Window. Women Forgive Me Everything,  And Are

Glad To See Me After Years. But They Are Never Wildly Jealous.

Perhaps I Have Never Been Really Loved.... I Don't Know Though--Lady

Seeley Loved Me. There Was An Old Lady At Margate,  Sixty If She Was A

Day (Of Course There Was Nothing Improper),  And She Worshipped Me.

Chapter 4 Pg 32

How Nicely She Used To Smile When She Said,  'Come Round Here That I

May Look At You!'--And Her Husband Was Quite As Bad; He'd Run All

Over The Place After Me. So-And-So Was Quite Offended Because I

Didn't Rush To See Him; He'd Put Me Up For Six Months.... Servants

Hate Frank; For Me They'd Do Anything. I Never Was In A Lodging-House

In My Life That The Slavey Didn't Fall In Love With Me. People

Dislike Me; I Speak To Them For Five Minutes,  And Henceforth They Run

After Me. I Make Friends Everywhere.

 

"Those Americans Wanted Me To Come And Stay Six Months With Them In

New York. How She Did Press Me To Come! ... The Brookes,  They Want Me

To Come And Stay In The Country With Them; They'd Give Me Horses To

Ride,  Guns To Shoot,  And I'd Get The Girls Besides. They Looked

Rather Greedily At Me Just Now. How Jealous Poor Old Emily Is Of

Them! She Says I'd 'Go To The End Of The Earth For Them'--And Would

Not Raise A Little Finger For Her. Dear Old Emily,  She Wasn't A Bit

Cross The Other Night When I Wouldn't Go Home With Her. I Must Go And

See Her. She Says She Loved Me--Really Loved Me! ... She Used To Lie

And Dream Of Pulling Me Out Of Burning Houses. I Wonder Why I Am

Liked! How Intangible,  And Yet How Real! What A Wonderful Character I

Would Make In A Novel!"

 

At That Moment He Saw Mrs. Byril In The Crowd; But Notwithstanding

His Kind Thoughts Of Her,  He Prayed She Might Pass Without Seeing

Him. Perceiving Lady Helen Walking With Her Husband And Harding,  He

Followed Her Slim Figure With His Eyes,  Remembering What Seymour's

Good Looks Had Brought Him,  For He Envied All Love,  Desiring To Be

Himself All That Women Desire. Then His Thoughts Wandered. The

Decoration Of The Park Absorbed Him--The Nobility Of A Group Of

Horses,  The Attractiveness Of Some Dresses; And Amid All This

Elegance And Parade He Dreamed Of Tragedy--Of Some Queen Blowing Her

Brains Out For Him--And He Saw The Fashionable Dress And The Blood

Oozing From The Temple,  Trickling Slowly Through The Sand. Then Lords

Muchross And Snowdown Passed,  And They Passed Without Acknowledging

Him!

 

"Cads,  Cads,  Damn Them!" His Face Changed Expression. "I May Rise To

Any Height,  Queens May Fall Down And Worship Me,  But I May Never Undo

My Birth. Not To Have Been Born A Gentleman! That Is To Say,  Of A

Long Line--A Family With A History. Not To Be Able To Whisper,  'I May

Lose Everything,  All Troubles May Be Mine,  But The Fact Remains That

I Was Born A Gentleman!' Those Two Men Who Cut Me Are Lords. What A

Delight In One's Life To Have A Name All To One's Self!" And Then

Mike Lost Himself In A Maze Of Little Dreams. A Gleam Of Mail;

Escutcheons And Castles; A Hawk Flew From Fingers Fair; A Lady

Clasped Her Hands When The Lances Shivered In The Tourney; And Mike

Was The Hero That Persisted In The Course Of This Shifting Little

Dream.

 

The Brookes--Sally And Maggie--Stopped To Speak To Him,  And He Went

To Lunch With Them. His Interest In All They Did And Said Was

Unbounded,  And That He Might Not Be Able To Reproach Himself With

Waste Of Time,  He Contrived By Hint And Allusion To Lay The

Foundation For A Future Intrigue With One Of The Girls.

 

Lily Young,  However,  Had Never Been Forgotten; She Had Been As

Constantly Present In His Mind As This Sense Of The Sunshine And His

Own Happy Condition. She Had Been Parcel Of And One With These But

Now; As He Drove To See Her,  He Separated Her From The Morning

Phenomena Of His Life,  And Began To Think Definitely Of Her.

 

Smiling,  He Called Himself A Brute,  And Regretted His Failure. But In

Her Presence His Cynicism Was Evanescent. She Sat On A Little Sofa,

Covered With An Indian Shawl; Behind Her Was A Great Bronze,  The

Celebrated Gift Of A Celebrated Rajah To Her Mother. Mrs. Young Had

Been On A Tour In The East With Her Husband,  And Ever Since Her House

Had Been Frequented By Decrepit Old Gentlemen Interested In Arabi,

And Other Matters Which They Spoke Of As Eastern Questions.

 

Lily Looked At Mike Under Her Eyes As She Passed Across The Room To

Get Him Some Tea,  And They Talked A Little While. Then Some Three Or

Chapter 4 Pg 33

Four Great And Very Elderly Historians Entered,  And She Had To Leave

Him; And Feeling He Could Not Prolong His Visit He Went,  Conscious Of

Sensations Of Purity And Some Desire Of Goodness,  If Not For Itself,

For The Grace That Goodness Brings. He Paid Many Visits In This

House,  But Conversations With Learned Buddhists Seemed The Only

Result; A _Tête-À-Tête_ With Lily Seemed Impossible. To His Surprise

He Never Met Her In Society,  And His Heart Beat Fast When One Evening

He Heard She Was Expected; And For The First Time Forgetful Of The

Multitude,  And Nervous As A School-Boy In Search Of His First Love,

He Sought Her In The Crowd. He Feared To Remain With Her,  And It

Seemed To Him He Had Accomplished Much In Asking Her To Come Down To

Supper. When Talking To Others His Thoughts Were With Her,  And His

Eyes Followed Her. An Inquisitive Woman Noted His Agitation,  And

Suspecting The Cause,  Said,  "I See,  I See,  And I Think Something May

Come Of It." Even When Lily Left He Did Not Recover His Ordinary

Humour,  And About Two In The Morning,  In Sullen Weariness And

Disappointment,  He Offered To Drive Lady Helen Home.

 

Should He Make Love To Her? He Had Often Wished To. Here Was An

Opportunity.

 

"You Did Not See That I Was Looking At You Tonight; You Did Not Guess

What I Was Thinking Of?"

 

"Yes,  I Did; You Were Looking At And Thinking Of My Arms."

 

Should He Pass His Arm Round Her? Lady Helen Knew Lily,  And Might

Tell; He Did Not Dare It,  And Instead,  Spoke Of Her Contributions To

The Paper. Then The Conversation Branched Into A Description Of The

Wednesday Night Festivities In Temple Gardens--The Shouting And

Cheering Of The Lords,  The Comic Vocalists,  The Inimitable Arthur,

The Extraordinary Bessie. He Told,  With Fits Of Laughter,  Of

Muchross's Stump Speeches,  And How He Had Once Got On The

Supper-Table And Sat Down In The Very Centre,  Regardless Of Plates

And Dishes. Mike And Lady Helen Nearly Died Of Laughter When He

Related How On One Occasion Muchross And Snowdown,  Both Crying Drunk,

Had Called In A Couple Of Sweeps. "You See," He Said,  "The Look Of

Amazement On Their Faces,  And The Black 'Uns Were Forced Into Two

Chairs,  And Were Waited Upon By The Lords,  Who Tucked Their Napkins

Under Their Arms."

 

"Oh Don't,  Oh Don't!" Said Lady Helen,  Leaning Back Exhausted.

 

But Mike Went On,  Though He Was Hardly Able To Speak,  And Told How

Muchross And Snowdown Had Danced The Can-Can,  Kicking At The

Chandelier From Time To Time,  The Sweeps Keeping Time With Their

Implements On The Sideboard; The Revel Finishing Up With A Wrestling

Match,  Muchross Taking The Big Sweep,  And Snowdown The Little One.

 

"You Should Have Seen Them Rolling Over Under The Dining-Room Table;

I Shall Never Forget Snowdown's Shirt."

 

"I Should Like To See One Of These Entertainments. Do You Ever Have A

Ladies' Night? If You Do,  And The Ladies Are Not Supposed To Wrestle

With The Laundresses In The Early Light,  I Should Like To Come."

 

"Oh,  Yes,  Do Come; Frank Will Be Delighted. I'll See That Things Are

Kept Within Bounds." The Conversation Fell,  And He Regretted He Must

Forego This Very Excellent Opportunity To Make Love To Her.

 

Next Day,  Changed In His Humour,  But Still Thinking Of Lily,  He Went

To See Mrs. Byril,  And He Stopped A Few Days With Her. He Was Always

Strict In His Own Room,  And If Emily Sought Him In The Morning He

Reprimanded Her.

 

She Was One Of Those Women Who,  Having Much Heart,  Must Affect More;

A Weak Intelligent Woman,  Honest And Loyal--One Who Could Not Live

Without A Lover. And With Her Arms About His Neck,  She Listened To

His Amours,  And Learnt His Poetry By Heart. Mike Was Her Folly,  And

She Would Never Have Thought Of Another If,  As She Said,  He Had Only

Behaved Decently To Her. "I Am Sorry,  Darling,  I Told You Anything

Chapter 4 Pg 34

About It,  But When I Got Your Beastly Letter I Wrote To Him. Tell Me

You'll Come And Stay With Me Next Month,  And I'll Put Him Off.... I

Hate This New Girl; I Am Jealous Because She May Influence You,  But

For The Others--The Brookes And Their Friends--The Half-Hours Spent

In Summer-Houses When The Gardener Is At Dinner,  I Care Not One Jot."

So She Spoke As She Lay Upon His Knees In The Black Satin Arm-Chair

In The Drawing-Room.

 

But Her Presence At Breakfast--That Invasion Of The Morning

Hours--Was Irritating; He Hated The Request To Be In To Lunch,  And

The Duty Of Spending The Evening In Her Drawing-Room,  Instead Of In

Club Or Bar-Room. He Desired Freedom To Spend Each Minute As The

Caprice Of The Moment Prompted. Were He A Rich Man He Would Not Have

Lived With Frank; To Live With A Man Was Unpleasant; To Live With A

Woman Was Intolerable. In The Morning He Must Be Alone To Dream Of A

Book Or Poem; In The Afternoons,  About Four,  He Was Glad To

Æstheticize With Harding Or Thompson,  Or Abandon Himself To The Charm

Of John's Aspirations.

 

John And He Were Often Seen Walking Together,  And They Delighted In

The Temple. The Temple Is Escapement From The Omniscient Domesticity

Which Is So Natural To England; And Both Were Impressionable To Its

Morning Animation--The Young Men Hurrying Through The Courts And

Cloisters,  The Picturesqueness Of A Wig And Gown Passing Up A Flight

Of Steps. It Seemed That The Old Hall,  The Buttresses And Towers,  The

Queer Tunnels Leading From Court To Court,  Turned The Edge Of The

Commonplace Of Life. Nor Did The Temple Ever Lose For Them Its Quaint

And Primitive Air,  And As They Strolled About The Cloisters Talking

Of Art Or Literature,  They Experienced A Delight That Cannot Be Quite

Put Into Words; And Were Strangely Glad As They Opened The Iron

Gates,  And Looked On All The Many Brick Entanglements With The Tall

Trees Rising,  Spreading The Delicate Youth Of Leaves Upon The Weary

Red Of The Tiles And The Dim Tones Of The Dear Walls.

 

  "A Gentel Manciple There Was Of The Temple

   Of Whom Achatours Mighten Take Ensample

   For To Ben Wise In Bying Of Vitaille."

 

The Gentle Shade Of Linden Trees,  The Drip Of The Fountain,  The

Monumented Corner Where Goldsmith Rests,  Awake Even In The Most

Casual And Prosaic A Fleeting Touch Of Romance. And The Wide Steps

With Balustrades Sweeping Down In Many Turnings To The Gardens,  Cause

Vagrant And Hurrying Steps To Pause,  And Wander About The Library And

Through The Gardens,  Which Lead With Such Charm Of Way To The Open

Spaces Of The King's Bench Walk.

 

There,  There Is Another Dining-Hall And Another Library. The Clock Is

Ringing Out The Hour,  And The Place Is Filled With Young Men In

Office Clothes,  Hurrying On Various Business With Papers In Their

Hands; And Such Young Male Life Is One Of The Charms Of The Temple;

And The Absence Of Women Is Refreshment To The Eye Wearied Of Their

Numbers In The Streets. The Temple Is An Island In The London Sea.

Immediately You Pass The Great Doorway,  Studded With Great Nails,  You

Pass Out Of The Garishness Of The Merely Modern Day,  Unhallowed By

Any Associations,  Into A Calmer And Benigner Day,  Over Which Floats

Some Shadow Of The Great Past. The Old Staircases Lighted By Strange

Lanterns,  The River Of Lingering Current,  Bearing In Its Winding So

Much Of London Into One Enchanted View. The Church Built By The

Templars More Than Seven Hundred Years Ago,  Now Stands In The Centre

Of The Inn All Surrounded,  On One Side Yellowing Smoke-Dried

Cloisters,  On Another Side Various Closes,  Feebly Striving In Their

Architecture Not To Seem Too Shamefully Out Of Keeping With Its

Beauty. There It Stands In All The Beauty Of Its Pointed Arches And

Triple Lancet Windows,  As When It Was Consecrated By The Patriarch Of

Jerusalem In The Year 1185.

 

But In 1307 A Great Ecclesiastical Tribunal Was Held In London,  And

It Was Proved That An Unfortunate Knight,  Who Had Refused To Spit

Upon The Cross,  Was Haled From The Dining-Hall And Drowned In A Well,

And Testimony Of The Secret Rites That Were Held There,  And In Which

A Certain Black Idol Was Worshipped,  Was Forthcoming. The Grand

Chapter 4 Pg 35

Master Was Burnt At The Stake,  The Knights Were Thrown Into Prison,

And Their Property Was Confiscated. Then The Forfeited Estate Of The

Temple,  Presenting Ready Access By Water,  At Once Struck The

Advocates Of The Court Of Common Pleas At Westminster,  And The

Students Who Were Candidates For The Privilege Of Pleading Therein,

As A Most Desirable Retreat,  And Interest Was Made With The Earl Of

Lancaster,  The King's First Cousin,  Who Had Claimed The Forfeited

Property Of The Monks By Escheat,  As The Immediate Lord Of The Fee,

For A Lodging In The Temple,  And They First Gained A Footing There As

His Lessees.

 

Above All,  The Church With Its Round Tower-Like Roof Was Very Dear To

Mike And John,  And They Often Spoke Of The Splendid Spectacle Of The

Religious Warriors Marching In Procession,  Their White Tunics With

Red Crosses,  Their Black And White Banner Called Beauseant. It Is

Seen On The Circular Panels Of The Vaulting Of The Side Aisles,  And

On Either Side The Letters Beauseant. There Stands The Church Of The

Proud Templars,  A Round Tower-Like Church,  Fitting Symbol Of Those

Soldier Monks,  At The West End Of A Square Church,  The Square Church

Engrafted Upon The Circular So As To Form One Beautiful Fabric. The

Young Men Lingered Around The Time-Worn Porch,  Lovely With Foliated

Columns,  Strange With Figures In Prayer,  And Figures Holding Scrolls.

And Often Without Formulating Their Intentions In Words They Entered

The Church. Beneath The Groined Ribs Of The Circular Tower Lie The

Mail-Clad Effigies Of The Knights,  And Through Beautiful Gracefulness

Of Grouped Pillars The Painted Panes Shed Bright Glow Upon The

Tesselated Pavement. The Young Men Passed Beneath The Pointed Arches

And Waited,  Their Eyes Raised To The Celestial Blueness Of The

Thirteenth-Century Window,  And Then In Silence Stole Back Whither The

Knights Sleep So Grimly,  With Hands Clasped On Their Breasts And

Their Long Swords.

 

And Seeing Himself In Those Times,  Clad In Armour,  A Knight Templar

Walking In Procession In That Very Church,  John Recited A Verse Of

Tennyson's _Sir Galahad_--

 

  "Sometimes On Lonely Mountain Meres

     I Find A Magic Bark;

   I Leap On Board; No Helmsman Steers:

     I Float Till All Is Dark.

   A Gentle Sound,  An Awful Light!

     Three Angels Bear The Holy Grail;

   With Folded Feet,  In Stoles Of White,

     On Sleeping Wings They Sail.

   Ah,  Blessed Vision! Blood Of God!

     My Spirit Beats Her Mortal Bars,

   As Down Dark Tides The Glory Slides,

     And Star-Like Mingles With The Stars."

 

 

 

 

"Oh! Very Beautiful. 'On Sleeping Wings They Sail.' Say It Again."

 

John Repeated The Stanza,  His Eyes Fixed Upon The Knight.

 

Mike Said--

 

"How Different To-Day The Girls Of The Neighbourhood,  Their

Prayer-Books And Umbrellas! Yet I Don't Think The Anachronism

Displeases Me."

 

"You Say That To Provoke Me; You Cannot Think That All The Dirty

Little Milliners' Girls Of The Neighbourhood Are More Dignified Than

These Templars Marching In Procession And Taking Their Places With

Iron Clangour In The Choir."

 

"So Far As That Is Concerned," Said Mike,  Who Loved To "Draw" John,

"The Little Girls Of The Neighbourhood In All Probability Wash

Themselves A Great Deal Oftener Than The Templars Ever Did. And Have

You Forgotten The Accusations That Were Brought Against Them Before

Chapter 4 Pg 36

The Ecclesiastical Tribunal Assembled In London? What About The Black

Idol With Shining Eyes And Gilded Head?"

 

"Their Vices Were At Least Less Revolting Than The Disgustful

Meanness Of To-Day; Besides,  Nothing Is Really Known About The

Reasons For The Suppression Of The Templars. Men Who Forswear Women

Are Open To All Contumely. Oh! The World Is Wondrous,  Just Wondrous

Well Satisfied With Its Domestic Ideals."

 

The Conversation Came To A Pause,  And Then Mike Spoke Of Lily Young,

And Extolled Her Subtle Beauty And Intelligence.

 

"I Never Liked Any One As I Do Her. I Am Ashamed Of Myself When I

Think Of Her Purity."

 

"The Purity Of ... Had She Been Pure She Would Have Remained In Her

Convent."

 

"If You Had Heard Her Speak Of Her Temptations...."

 

"I Do Not Want To Hear Her Temptations. But It Was You Who Tempted

Her To Leave Her Convent. I Cannot But Think That You Should Marry

Her. There Is Nothing For You But Marriage. You Must Change Your

Life. Think Of The Constant Sin You Are Living In."

 

"But I Don't Believe In Sin."

 

With A Gesture That Declared A Non-Admission Of Such A State Of Soul,

John Hesitated,  And Then He Said--

 

"The Beastliness Of It!"

 

"We Have To Live," Said Mike,  "Since Nature Has So Willed It,  But I

Fully Realize The Knightliness Of Your Revolt Against The Principle

Of Life."

 

John Continued His Admonitions,  And Mike An Amused And Appreciative

Listener.

 

"At All Events,  I Wish You Would Promise Not To Indulge In Improper

Conversation When I Am Present. It Is Dependent Upon Me To Beg Of You

To Oblige Me In This. It Will Add Greatly To Your Dignity To Refrain;

But That Is Your Concern; I Am Thinking Now Only Of Myself. Will You

Promise Me This?"

 

"Yes,  And More; I Will Promise Not To Indulge In Such Conversation,

Even When You Are Not Present. It Is,  As You Say,  Lowering.... I

Agree With You. I Will Strive To Mend My Ways."

 

And Mike Was Sincere; He Was Determined To Become Worthy Of Lily. And

Now The Best Hours Of His Life--Hours Strangely Tense And Strangely

Personal--Were Passed In That Kensington Drawing-Room. She Was To Him

Like The Light Of A Shrine; He Might Kneel And Adore From Afar,  But

He Might Not Approach. The Goddess Had Come To Him Like The Moon To

Endymion. He Knew Nothing,  Not Even If He Were Welcome. Each Visit

Was The Same As The Preceding. A Sweet But Exasperating

Changelessness Reigned In That Drawing-Room--That Pretty Drawing-Room

Where Mother And Daughter Sat In Sweet Naturalness,  Removed From The

Grossness And Meanness Of Life As He Knew It. Neither Illicit

Whispering Nor Affectation Of Reserve,  Only The Charm Of Strict

Behaviour; Unreal And Strange Was The Refinement,  Material And

Mental,  In Which They Lived. And For A Time The Charm Sufficed;

Desire Was At Rest. But She Had Been To See Him,  However At Variance

Such A Visit,  Such Event Seemed With Her Present Demeanour. And

She Must Come Again! In Increasing Restlessness He Conned All The

Narrow Chances Of Meeting Her,  Of Speaking To Her Alone. But No

Accident Varied The Even Tenor Of Their Lives,  The Calm Lake-Like

Impassibility Of Their Relations,  And In Last Resort He Urged Frank

To Give A Dance Or An At Home. And How Ardently He Pleaded,  One

Afternoon,  Sitting Face To Face With Mother And Daughter. Inwardly

Agitated,  But With Outward Calm,  He Impressed Upon Them Many Reasons

For Their Being Of The Party. The Charm Of The Temple,  The River,  And

Glitter Of Light,  The Novel Experience Of Bachelors' Quarters....

They Promised To Come.

Chapter 5 Pg 37

Mike Leaned Forward To Tie His White Cravat. He Was Slight,  And White

And Black,  And He Thought Of Lily,  Of The Exquisite Pleasure Of

Seeing Her And Leading Her Away. And He Was Pleased And Surprised To

Find That His Thoughts Of Her Were Pure.

 

The Principal Contributors To The _Pilgrim_ Had Been Invited,  And A

Selection Had Been Made From The Fast And Fashionable Gang--Those Who

Could Be Trusted Neither To Become Drunk Or Disorderly. It Had Been

Decided,  But Not Without Misgivings,  To Ask Muchross And Snowdown.

 

The Doors Were Open,  Servants Could Be Seen Passing With Glasses And

Bottles. Frank,  Who Had Finished Dressing,  Called From The

Drawing-Room And Begged Mike To Hasten; For The Housemaid Was Waiting

To Arrange His Room,  For It Had Been Decided That This Room Should

Serve As A Lounge Where Dancers Might Sit Between The Waltzes.

 

"She Can Come In Now," He Shouted. He Folded The Curtains Of His

Strange Bed; He Lighted A Silver Lamp,  Re-Arranged His Palms,  And

Smiled,  Thinking Of The Astonished Questions When He Invited Young

Ladies To Be Seated Among The Numerous Cushions. And Mike Determined

He Would Say That He Considered His Bed-Room Far Too Sacred To Admit

Of Any Of The Base Wants Of Life Being Performed There.

 

It Was Well-Dressed Bohemia,  With Many Markings And Varied With

Contrasting Shades. The Air Was As Sugar About The Doorway With The

Scent Of Gardenias; Young Lords Shrank From The Weather-Stained Cloth

Of Doubtful Journalists,  And A Lady In Long Puce Cashmere Provoked A

Smile. Frank Received His Guests With Laughter And Epigram.

 

The Emancipation Of The Women Is Marked By The Decline Of The

Chaperon,  And It Was Not Clear Under Whose Protection The Young Girls

Had Come. Beneath Double Rows Of Ruche-Rose Feet Passed,  And The Soft

Glow Of Lamps Shaded With Large Leaves Of Pale Glass Bathed The

Women's Flesh In Endless Half Tints; The Reflected Light Of Copper

Shades Flushed The Blonde Hair On Lady Helen's Neck To Auroral

Fervencies.

 

In One Group A Fat Man With White Hair And Faded Blue Eyes Talked To

Mrs. Bentham And Lewis Seymour. A Visit To The Haymarket Theatre

Being Arranged,  He Said--

 

"May I Hope To Be Permitted To Form One Of The Party?"

 

Harding Overheard The Remark. He Said,  "It Is Difficult To Believe,

But I Assure You That That Mr. Senbrook Was One Of The Greatest Don

Juans That Ever Lived."

 

"We Have In This Room Don Juan In Youth,  Middle Age,  And Old

Age--Mike Fletcher,  Lewis Seymour,  And Mr. Senbrook."

 

"Did Seymour,  That Fellow With The Wide Hips,  Ever Have Success With

Women? How Fat He Has Grown!"

 

"Rather; [Footnote: See _A Modern Lover_.] Don't You Know His Story?

He Came Up To London With A Few Pounds. When We Knew Him First He Was

Starving In Lambeth. You Remember,  Thompson,  The Day He Stood Us A

Lunch? He Had Just Taken A Decorative Panel To A Picture-Dealer's,

Chapter 5 Pg 38

For Which He Had Received A Few Pounds,  And He Told Us How He Had Met

A Lady (There's The Lady,  The Woman With The White Hair,  Mrs.

Bentham) In The Picture-Dealer's Shop. She Fell In Love With Him And

Took Him Down To Her Country House To Decorate It. She Sent Him To

Paris To Study,  And It Was Said Employed A Dealer For Years To Buy

His Pictures."

 

"And He Dropped Her For Lady Helen?"

 

"Not Exactly. Lady Helen Dragged Him Away From Her. He Never Seized

Or Dropped Anything."

 

"Then What Explanation Do You Give Of His Success?" Said A Young

Barrister.

 

"His Manner Was Always Gentle And Insinuating. Ladies Found Him

Pretty To Look Upon,  And Very Soothing. Mike Is Just The Same; But Of

Course Seymour Never Had Any Of Mike's Brilliancy Or Enthusiasm."

 

"Do You Know Anything Of The Old Gentleman--Senbrook's His Name?"

 

"I Have Heard That Those Watery Eyes Of His Were Once Of Entrancing

Violet Hue,  And I Believe He Was Wildly Enthusiastic In His Love. His

Life Has Been Closely Connected With Mine."

 

"I Didn't Know You Knew Him."

 

"I Do Not Know Him. Yet He Poisoned My Happiest Years; He Is The

Upas-Tree In Whose Shade I Slept. When I Was In Paris I Loved A Lady;

And I Used To Make Sacrifices For This Lady,  Who Was,  Needless To

Say,  Not Worthy Of Them; But She Had Loved Senbrook In Her Earliest

Youth,  And It Appears When A Woman Has Once Loved Senbrook,  She Can

Love None Other. You Wouldn't Think It,  To Look At Him Now,  But I

Assure You It Is So. France Is Filled With The Women He Once Loved.

The Provincial Towns Are Dotted With Them. I Know Eight--Eight Exist

To My Personal Knowledge. Sometimes A Couple Live Together,  United By

The Indissoluble Fetter Of A Senbrook Betrayal. They Know Their Lives

Are Broken,  And They Are Content That Their Lives Should Be Broken.

They Have Loved Senbrook,  Therefore There Is Nothing To Do But Retire

To France. You May Think I Am Joking,  But I'm Not. It Is Comic,  But

That Is No Reason Why It Shouldn't Be True. And These Ladies Neither

Forget Nor Upbraid; And They Will Attack You Like Tigers If You Dare

Say A Word Against Him. This Creation Of Faith Is The Certain Sign Of

Don Juan! No Matter How Cruelly The Real Don Juan Behaves,  The Women

He Has Deceived Are Ready To Welcome Him. After Years They Meet Him

In All Forgetfulness Of Wrong. Examine History,  And You Will Find

That The Love Inspired By The Real Don Juan Ends Only With Death. Nor

Am I Sure That The Women Attach Much Importance To His Infidelities;

They Accept Them,  His Infidelities Being A Consequential Necessity Of

His Being,  The Eons And The Attributes Of His Godhead. Don Juan

Inspires No Jealousy; Don Juan Stabbed By An Infuriated Mistress Is A

Psychological Impossibility."

 

"I Have Heard That Seymour Used To Drive Lady Helen Crazy With

Jealousy."

 

"Don Juan Disappears At The Church-Door. He Was Her Husband. The Most

Unfaithful Wife Is Wildly Jealous Of Her Husband."

 

A Sudden Silence Fell,  And A Young Girl Was Borne Out Fainting.

 

"Nothing More Common Than For Young Girls To Faint When He Is

Present. Go," Said Harding,  "And You Will Hear Her Calling His Name."

Then,  Picking Up The Thread Of The Paradox,  He Continued--"But You

Can't Have Don Juan In This Century,  Our Civilization Has Wiped Him

Out; Not The Vice Of Which He Is Representative--That Is Eternal--But

The Spectacle Of Adventure Of Which He Is The Hero. No More

Fascinating Idea. Had The Age Admitted Of Don Juan,  I Should Have

Written Out His Soul Long Ago. I Love The Idea. With Duelling And

Hose Picturesqueness Has Gone Out Of Life. The Mantle And The Rapier

Are Essential; And Angry Words...."

Chapter 5 Pg 39

 

"Are Angry Words Picturesque?"

 

"Angry Words Mean Angry Attitudes; And They Are Picturesque."

 

The Young Men Smiled At The Fascinating Eloquence,  And Feeling An

Appreciative Audience About Him,  Harding Continued--

 

"See Mike Fletcher,  Know Him,  Understand Him,  And Imagine What He

Would Have Been In The Eighteenth Century,  The Glory Of Adventure He

Would Have Gathered. His Life To-Day Is A Mean Parody Upon An Easily

Realizable Might-Have-Been. So Vital Is The Idea In Him That His Life

To-Day Is The Reflection Of A Life That Burned In Another Age Too

Ardently To Die With Death. In Another Age Mike Would Have Outdone

Casanova. Casanova!--What A Magnificent Casanova He Would Have Been!

Casanova Is To Me The Most Fascinating Of Characters. He Was

Everything--A Frequenter Of Taverns And Palaces,  A Necromancer. His

Audacity And Unscrupulousness,  His Comedies,  His Immortal Memoirs!

What Was That Delightful Witty Remark He Made To Some Stupid Husband

Who Lay On The Ground,  Complaining That Casanova Hadn't Fought

Fairly? You Remember? It Was In An Avenue Of Chestnut Trees,

Approaching A Town. Ha! I Have Forgotten. Mike Has All That This Man

Had--Love Of Adventure,  Daring,  Courage,  Strength,  Beauty,  Skill. For

Mike Would Have Made A Unique Swordsman. Have You Ever Seen Him Ride?

Have You Ever Seen Him Shoot? I Have Seen Him Knock A Dozen Pigeons

Over In Succession. Have You Ever Seen Him Play Billiards? He Often

Makes A Break Of A Hundred. Have You Ever Seen Him Play Tennis? He Is

The Best Man We Have In The Temple. And A Poet! Have You Ever Heard

Him Tell Of The Poem He Is Writing? The Most Splendid Subject. He

Says That Neither Goethe Nor Hugo Ever Thought Of A Better."

 

"You May Include Self-Esteem In Your List Of His Qualities."

 

"A Platitude! Self-Esteem Is Synonymous To Genius. Still,  Iof Resignation,  The Waters Of

Everlasting Life,  And Were Accounted Of Them That Have Truly Recognized

And Believed In Him. Others Rebelled Against Him,  And Rejected The Signs

Of God,  The Most Powerful,  The Almighty,  The All-Wise.

 

Ages Rolled Away,  Until They Attained Their Consummation In This,  The Lord

Of Days,  The Day Whereon The Day Star Of The Bayan Manifested Itself Above

The Horizon Of Mercy,  The Day In Which The Beauty Of The All-Glorious

Shone Forth In The Exalted Person Of 'Ali-Muhammad,  The Bab. No Sooner Did

He Reveal Himself,  Than All The People Rose Up Against Him. By Some He Was

Denounced As One That Hath Uttered Slanders Against God,  The Almighty,  The

Ancient Of Days. Others Regarded Him As A Man Smitten With Madness,  An

Allegation Which I,  Myself,  Have Heard From The Lips Of One Of The

Divines. Still Others Disputed His Claim To Be The Mouthpiece Of God,  And

Stigmatized Him As One Who Had Stolen And Used As His The Words Of The

Almighty,  Who Had Perverted Their Meaning,  And Mingled Them With His Own.

The Eye Of Grandeur Weepeth Sore For The Things Which Their Mouths Have

Uttered,  While They Continue To Rejoice Upon Their Seats.

 

"God," Said He,  "Is My Witness,  O People! I Am Come To You With A

Revelation From The Lord,  Your God,  The Lord Of Your Fathers Of Old. Look

Not,  O People,  At The Things Ye Possess. Look Rather At The Things God

Hath Sent Down Unto You. This,  Surely,  Will Be Better For You Than The

Whole Of Creation,  Could Ye But Perceive It. Repeat The Gaze,  O People,

And Consider The Testimony Of God And His Proof Which Are In Your

Possession,  And Compare Them Unto The Revelation Sent Down Unto You In

This Day,  That The Truth,  The Infallible Truth,  May Be Indubitably

Manifested Unto You. Follow Not,  O People,  The Steps Of The Evil One;

Follow Ye The Faith Of The All-Merciful,  And Be Ye Of Them That Truly

Believe. What Would It Profit Man,  If He Were To Fail To Recognize The

Revelation Of God? Nothing Whatever. To This Mine Own Self,  The

Omnipotent,  The Omniscient,  The All-Wise,  Will Testify."

 

The More He Exhorted Them,  The Fiercer Grew Their Enmity,  Till,  At The

Last,  They Put Him To Death With Shameful Cruelty. The Curse Of God Be

Upon The Oppressors!

 

A Few Believed In Him; Few Of Our Servants Are The Thankful. These He

Chapter 5 Pg 40

Admonished,  In All His Tablets--Nay,  In Every Passage Of His Wondrous

Writings--Not To Give Themselves Up In The Day Of The Promised Revelation

To Anything Whatever,  Be It In The Heaven Or In The Earth. "O People!"

Said He,  "I Have Revealed Myself For His Manifestation,  And Have Caused My

Book,  The Bayan,  To Descend Upon You For No Other Purpose Except To

Establish The Truth Of His Cause. Fear Ye God,  And Contend Not With Him As

The People Of The Qur'an Have Contended With Me. At Whatever Time Ye Hear

Of Him,  Hasten Ye Towards Him,  And Cleave Ye To Whatsoever He May Reveal

Unto You. Naught Else Besides Him Can Ever Profit You,  No,  Not Though Ye

Produce From First To Last The Testimonies Of All Those Who Were Before

You."

 

And When After The Lapse Of A Few Years The Heaven Of Divine Decree Was

Cleft Asunder,  And The Beauty Of The Bab Appeared In The Clouds Of The

Names Of God,  Arrayed In A New Raiment,  These Same People Maliciously Rose

Up Against Him,  Whose Light Embraceth All Created Things. They Broke His

Covenant,  Rejected His Truth,  Contended With Him,  Caviled At His Signs,

Treated His Testimony As Falsehood,  And Joined The Company Of The

Infidels. Eventually,  They Determined To Take Away His Life. Such Is The

State Of Them Who Are In A Far-Gone Error!

 

And When They Realized Their Powerlessness To Achieve Their Purpose,  They

Arose To Plot Against Him. Witness How Every Moment They Devise A Fresh

Device To Harm Him,  That They May Injure And Dishonor The Cause Of God.

Say: Woe Be To You! By God! Your Schemings Cover You With Shame. Your

Lord,  The God Of Mercy,  Can Well Dispense With All Creatures. Nothing

Whatever Can Either Increase Or Diminish The Things He Doth Possess. If Ye

Believe,Nything I Knew She Did Not Wish Me To

Do."

 

The Conversation Was Interrupted By The Entrance Of Muchross With

Several Lords,  And He Was With Difficulty Dissuaded From An Attempt

To Swarm Up The Columns Of The Wonderful Bed. The Room Was Full Of

Young Girls And Barristers Gathered From The Various Courts. Some Had

Stopped Before The Great Christ. A Girl Had Touched The Suspended

Silver Lamp And Spoken Of "Dim Religious Light"; But By No Word Or

Look Did Lily Admit That She Had Been There Before,  And Mike Felt It

Would Be Useless To Remind Her That She Had. She Was The Same As She

Was Every Wednesday In Her Mother's Drawing-Room. And The Party Had

Been Given Solely With A View Of Withdrawing Her From Its Influence.

What Was He To Say To This Girl? Was He To Allow All That Had Passed

Between Them To Slip? Never Had He Felt So Ill At Ease. At Last,

Fixing His Eyes Upon Her,  He Said--

 

"Let Us Cease This Trifling. Perhaps You Do Not Know How Painful It

Is To Me. Tell Me,  Will You Come And See Me? Do Not Let Us Waste

Time. I Never See You Alone Now."

 

"I Could Not Think Of Coming To See You; It Would Not Be Right."

 

"But You Did Come Once."

 

"That Was Because I Wanted To See Where You Lived. Now That I Know,

There Would Be No Reason For Coming Again."

 

"You Have Not Forgiven Me. If You Knew How I Regret My Conduct! Try

And Understand That It Was For Love Of You. I Was So Fearful Of

Losing You. I Have Lost You; I Know It!"

 

He Cursed Himself For The Irresolution He Had Shown. Had He Made Her

His Mistress She Would Now Be Hanging About His Neck.

 

"I Forgive You. But I Wish You Would Not Speak Of Love In Connection

With Your Conduct; When You Do,  All My Liking For You Dies."

 

"How Cruel! Then I Shall Never Kiss You Again. Was My Kiss So

Disagreeable? Do You Hate To Kiss Me?"

 

"I Don't Know That I Do,  But It Is Not Right. If I Were Married To

You It Would Be Different."

Chapter 5 Pg 41

The Conversation Fell. Then Realizing That He Was Compromising His

Chances,  He Said--

 

"How Can I Marry You? I Haven't A Cent In The World."

 

"I Am Not Sure I Would Marry You If You Had Every Cent In The World."

 

Mike Looked At Her In Despair. She Was Adorably Frail And Adorably

Pale.

 

"This Is Very Cruel Of You." Words Seemed Very Weak,  And He Feared

That In The Restlessness And Pain Of His Love He Had Looked At Her

Foolishly. So He Almost Welcomed Lady Helen's Intrusion Upon Their

_Tête-À-Tête_.

 

"And This Is The Way You Come For Your Dance,  Mr. Fletcher,  Is It?"

 

"Have They Begun Dancing? I Did Not Know It. I Beg Your Pardon."

 

"And I Too Am Engaged For This Dance. I Promised It To Mr. Escott,"

Said Lily.

 

"Let Me Take You Back."

 

He Gave Her His Arm,  Assuring Himself That If She Didn't Care For Him

There Were Hundreds Who Did. Lady Helen Was One Of The Handsomest

Women In London,  And He Fancied She Was Thinking Of Him. And When He

Returned He Stood At The Door Watching Her As She Leaned Over The

Mantelpiece Reading A Letter. She Did Not Put It Away At Once,  But

Continued Reading And Playing With The Letter As One Might With

Something Conclusive And Important. She Took No Precaution Against

His Seeing It,  And He Noticed That It Was In A Man's Handwriting,  And

Began _Ma Chère Amie_. The Room Was Now Empty,  And The Clatter Of

Knives And Forks Drowned The Strains Of A Waltz.

 

"You Seemed To Be Very Much Occupied With That Young Person. She Is

Very Pretty. I Advise You To Take Care."

 

"I Don't Want To Marry. I Shall Never Marry. Did You Think I Was In

Love With Miss Young?"

 

"Well,  It Looked Rather Like It."

 

"No; I Swear You Are Mistaken. I Say,  If You Don't Care About Dancing

We'll Sit Down And Talk. So You Thought I Was In Love With Miss

Young? How Could I Be In Love With Her While You Are In The Room? You

Know,  You Must Have Seen,  That I Have Only Eyes For You. The Last

Time I Was In Paris I Went To See You In The Louvre."

 

"You Say I Am Like Jean Gougon's Statue."

 

"I Think So,  So Far As A Pair Of Stays Allows Me To Judge."

 

Lady Helen Laughed,  But There Was No Pleasure In Her Laugh; It Was A

Hard,  Bitter Laugh.

 

"If Only You Knew How Indifferent I Am! What Does It Matter Whether I

Am Like The Statue Or Not? I Am Indifferent To Everything."

 

"But I Admire You Because You Are Like The Statue."

 

"What Does It Matter To Me Whether You Admire Me Or Not? I Don't

Care."

 

He Had Not Asked Her For The Dance; She Had Sought Him Of Her

Free-Will. What Did It Mean?

 

"Why Should I Care? What Is It To Me Whether You Like Me Or Whether

You Hate Me? I Know Very Well That Three Months After My Death Every

One Will Have Ceased To Think Of Me; Three Months Hence It Will Be

The Same As If I Had Never Lived At All."

Chapter 5 Pg 42

"You Are Well Off; You Have Talent And Beauty. What More Do You

Want?"

 

"The World Cannot Give Me Happiness. You Find Happiness In Your Own

Heart,  Not In Worldly Possessions.... I Am A Pessimist. I Recognize

That Life Is A Miserable Thing--Not Only A Miserable Thing,  But A

Useless Thing. We Can Do No Good; There Is No Good To Be Done; And

Life Has No Advantage Except That We Can Put It Off When We Will.

Schopenhauer Is Wrong When He Asserts That Suicide Is No Solution Of

The Evil; So Far As The Individual Is Concerned Suicide Is A Perfect

Solution,  And Were The Race To Cease To-Morrow,  Nature Would

Instantly Choose Another Type And Force It Into Consciousness. Until

This Earth Resolves Itself To Ice Or Cinder,  Matter Will Never Cease

To Know Itself."

 

"My Dear," Said Lewis Seymour,  Who Entered The Room At That Moment,

"I Am Feeling Very Tired; I Think I Shall Go Home,  But Do Not Mind

Me. I Will Take A Hansom--You Can Have Your Brougham. You Will Not

Mind Coming Home Alone?"

 

"No,  I Shall Not Mind. But Do You Take The Brougham. It Will Be

Better So. It Will Save The Horse From Cold; I'll Come Back In A

Hansom."

 

Mike Noticed A Look Of Relief Or Of Pleasure On Her Face,  He Could

Not Distinguish Which. He Pressed The Conversation On Wives,

Husbands,  And Lovers,  Striving To Lead Her Into Some Confession. At

Last She Said--

 

"I Have Had A Lover For The Last Four Years."

 

"Really!" Said Mike. He Hoped His Face Did Not Betray His Great

Surprise. This Was The First Time He Had Ever Heard A Lady Admit She

Had Had A Lover.

 

"We Do Not Often Meet; He Doesn't Live In England. I Have Not Seen

Him For More Than Six Months."

 

"Do You Think He Is Faithful To You All That Time?"

 

"What Does It Matter Whether He Is Or Not? When We Meet We Love Each

Other Just The Same."

 

"I Have Never Known A Woman Like You. You Are The Only One That Has

Ever Interested Me. If You Had Been My Mistress Or My Wife You Would

Have Been Happier; You Would Have Worked,  And In Work,  Not In

Pleasure,  We May Cheat Life. You Would Have Written Your Books,  I

Should Have Written Mine."

 

"I Don't Want You To Think I Am Whining About My Lot. I Know What The

Value Of Life Is; I'm Not Deceived,  That Is All."

 

"You Are Unhappy Because Your Present Life Affords No Outlet For Your

Talent. Ah! Had You Had To Fight The Battle! How Happy It Would Have

Made Me To Fight Life With You! I Wonder You Never Thought Of Leaving

Your Husband,  And Throwing Yourself Into The Battle Of Work."

 

"Supposing I Wasn't Able To Make My Living. To Give Up My Home Would

Be Running Too Great A Risk."

 

"How Common All Are When You Begin To Know Them," Thought Mike.

 

They Spoke Of The Books They Had Read. She Told Him Of _Le Journal

D'amiel_,  Explaining The Charm That That Lamentable Record Of A

Narrow,  Weak Mind,  Whose Power Lay In An Intense Consciousness Of Its

Own Failure,  Had For Her. She Spoke Savagely,  Tearing Out Her Soul,

And Flinging It As It Were In Mike's Face,  Frightening Him Not A

Little.

 

"I Wish I Had Known Amiel; I Think I Could Have Loved Him."

Chapter 5 Pg 43

 

"Did He Never Write Anything But This Diary?"

 

"Oh,  Yes; But Nothing Of Any Worth. The Diary Was Not Written For

Publication. A Friend Of His Found It Among His Papers,  And From A

Huge Mass Extricated Two Volumes." Then Speaking In Praise Of The

Pessimism Of The Russian Novels,  She Said--"There Is No Pleasure In

Life--At Least None For Me; The Only Thing That Sustains Me Is

Curiosity."

 

"I Don't Speak Of Love,  But Have You No Affection For Your

Friends?--You Like Me,  For Instance."

 

"I Am Interested In You--You Rouse My Curiosity; But When I Know You,

I Shall Pass You By Just Like Another."

 

"You Are Frank,  To Say The Least Of It. But Like All Other Women,  I

Suppose You Like Pleasure,  And I Adore You; I Really Do. I Have Never

Seen Any One Like You. You Are Superb To-Night; Let Me Kiss You." He

Took Her In His Arms.

 

"No,  No; Loose Me. You Do Not Love Me,  I Do Not Love You; This Is

Merely Vice."

 

He Pleaded She Was Mistaken. They Spoke Of Indifferent Things,  And

Soon After Went In To Supper.

 

"What A Beautiful Piece Of Tapestry!" Said Lady Helen.

 

"Yes,  Isn't It. But How Strange!" He Said,  Stopping In The Doorway.

"See How Exquisitely Real Is The Unreal--That Is To Say,  How Full Of

Idea,  How Suggestive! Those Blue Trees And Green Skies,  Those Nymphs

Like Unswathed Mummies,  Colourless But For The Red Worsted Of Their

Lips,--That One Leaning On Her Bow,  Pointing To The Stag That The

Hunters Are Pursuing Through A Mysterious Yellow Forest,--Are To My

Mind Infinitely More Real Than The Women Bending Over Their Plates.

At This Moment The Real Is Mean And Trivial,  The Ideal Is Full Of

Evocation."

 

"The Real And The Ideal; Why Distinguish As People Usually

Distinguish Between The Words? The Real Is But The Shadow Of The

Ideal,  The Ideal But The Shadow Of The Real."

 

The Table Was In Disorder Of Cut Pineapple,  Scattered Dishes,  And

Drooping Flowers. Muchross,  Snowdown,  Dicky The Driver,  And Others

Were Grouped About The End Of The Table,  And A Waiter Who Styled Them

"Most Amusing Gentlemen," Supplied Fresh Bottles Of Champagne.

Muchross Had Made Several Speeches,  And Now Jumping On A Chair,  He

Discoursed On The Tapestry,  Drawing Outrageous Parallels,  And Talking

Unexpected Nonsense. The Castle He Identified As The Cottage Where He

And Jenny Had Spent The Summer; The Bleary-Eyed Old Peacock Was The

Chicken He Had Dosed With Cayenne Pepper,  Hoping To Cure Its

Rheumatism; The Pool With The White Threads For Sunlight Was The

Water-Butt Into Which Tom Had Fallen From The Tiles--"Those Are The

Hairs Out Of His Own Old Tail." The Nymphs Were Laura,  Maggie,  Emily,

&C. Mike Asked Lady Helen To Come Into The Dancing-Room,  But She Did

Not Appear To Hear,  And Her Laughter Encouraged Muchross To Further

Excesses. The Riot Had Reached Its Height And Dancers Were Beginning

To Come From The Drawing-Room To Ask What It Was All About.

 

"All About!" Shouted Muchross; "I Don't Care Any More About Nymphs--I

Only Care About Getting Drunk And Singing. 'What Cheer,  'Ria!'"

 

"Don't You Care For Dancing?" Said Lady Helen,  With Tears Running

Down Her Cheeks.

 

"Ra-Ther; See Me Dance The Polka,  Dear Girl." And They Went Banging

Through The Dancers. Snowdown And Dicky Shouted Approval.

 

  "What Cheer,  'Ria!

     'Ria's On The Job.

Chapter 5 Pg 44

   What Cheer,  'Ria!

     Speculate A Bob.

   'Ria Is A Toff,  And She Is Immensikoff--

   And We All Shouted,

   What Cheer,  'Ria!"

 

Amid The Uproar Lady Helen Danced With Lily Young. Insidious

Fragilities Of Eighteen Were Laid Upon The Plenitudes Of Thirty! Pure

Pink And Cream-Pink Floated On The Wind Of The Waltz,  Fading Out Of

Colour In Shadowy Corners,  Now Gliding Into The Glare Of Burnished

Copper,  To The Quick Appeal Of The 'Estudiantina.' A Life That Had

Ceased To Dream Smiled Upon One Which Had Begun To Dream. Sad Eyes Of

Summer,  That May Flame With No Desire Again,  Looked Into The Eyes Of

Spring,  Where Fancies Collect Like White Flowers In The Wave Of A

Clear Fountain.

 

Mike And Frank Turned Shoulder Against Shoulder Across The Room,  Four

Legs Following In Intricate Unison To The Opulent Rhythm Of The 'Blue

Danube'; And When Beneath Ruche-Rose Feet Died Away In Little

Exhausted Steps,  The Men Sprang From Each Other,  And The Rhythm Of

Sex Was Restored--Mike With Lily,  And Frank With Helen,  Yielding

Hearts,  Hands,  And Feet In The Garden Enchantment Oighest Paradise. The Maids Of

Heaven,  Inmates Of The Loftiest Mansions,  Will Circle Around It,  And The

Prophets Of God And His Chosen Ones Will Seek Its Companionship. With Them

That Soul Will Freely Converse,  And Will Recount Unto Them That Which It

Hath Been Made To Endure In The Path Of God,  The Lord Of All Worlds. If

Any Man Be Told That Which Hath Been Ordained For Such A Soul In The

Worlds Of God,  The Lord Of The Throne On High And Of Earth Below,  His

Whole Being Will Instantly Blaze Out In His Great Longing To Attain That

Most Exalted,  That Sanctified And Resplendent Station.... The Nature Of

The Soul After Death Can Never Be Described,  Nor Is It Meet And

Permissible To Reveal Its Whole Character To The Eyes Of Men. The Prophets

And Messengers Of God Have Been Sent Down For The Sole Purpose Of Guiding

Mankind To The Straight Path Of Truth. The Purpose Underlying Their

Revelation Hath Been To Educate All Men,  That They May,  At The Hour Of

Death,  Ascend,  In The Utmost Purity And Sanctity And With Absolute

Detachment,  To The Throne Of The Most High. The Light Which These Souls

Radiate Is Responsible For The Progress Of The World And The Advancement

Of Its Peoples. They Are Like Unto Leaven Which Leaveneth The World Of

Being,  And Constitute The Animating Force Through Which The Arts And

Wonders Of The World Are Made Manifest. Through Them The Clouds Rain Their

Bounty Upon Men,  And The Earth Bringeth Forth Its Fruits. All Things Must

Needs Have A Cause,  A Motive Power,  An Animating Principle. These Souls

And Symbols Of Detachment Have Provided,  And Will Continue To Provide,  The

Supreme Moving Impulse In The World Of Being. The World Beyond Is As

Different From This World As This World Is Different From That Of The

Child While Still In The Womb Of Its Mother. When The Soul Attaineth The

Presence Of God,  It Will Assume The Form That Best Befitteth Its

Immortality And Is Worthy Of Its Celestial Habitation. Such An Existence

Is A Contingent And Not An Absolute Existence,  Inasmuch As The Former Is

Preceded By A Cause,  Whilst The Latter Is Independent Thereof. Absolute

Existence Is Strictly Confined To God,  Exalted Be His Glory. Well Is It

With Them That Apprehend This Truth. Wert Thou To Ponder In Thine Heart

The Behavior Of The Prophets Of God Thou Wouldst Assuredly And Readily

Testify That There Must Needs Be Other Worlds Besides This World. The

Majority Of The Truly Wise And Learned Have,  Throughout The Ages,  As It

Hath Been Recorded By The Pen Of Glory In The Tablet Of Wisdom,  Borne

Witness To The Truth Of That Which The Holy Writ Of God Hath Revealed.

Even The Materialists Have Testified In Their Writings To The Wisdom Of

These Divinely-Appointed Messengers,  And Have Regarded The References Made

By The Prophets To Paradise,  To Hell Fire,  To Future Reward And

Punishment,  To Have Been Actuated By A Desire To Educate And Uplift The

Souls Of Men. Consider,  Therefore,  How The Generality Of Mankind,  Whatever

Their Beliefs Or Theories,  Have Recognized The Excellence,  And Admitted

The Superiority,  Of These Prophets Of God. These Gems Of Detachment Are

Acclaimed By Some As The Embodiments Of Wisdom,  While Others Believe Them

To Be The Mouthpiece Of God Himself. How Could Such Souls Have Consented

To Surrender Themselves Unto Their Enemies If They Believed All The Worlds

Of God To Have Been Reduced To This Earthly Life? Would They Have

Willingly Suffered Such Afflictions And Torments As No Man Hath Ever

Experienced Or Witnessed?

Chapter 5 Pg 45

Thou Hast Asked Me Concerning The Nature Of The Soul. Know,  Verily,  That

The Soul Is A Sign Of God,  A Heavenly Gem Whose Reality The Most Learned

Of Men Hath Failed To Grasp,  And Whose Mystery No Mind,  However Acute,  Can

Ever Hope To Unravel. It Is The First Among All Created Things To Declare

The Excellence Of Its Creator,  The First To Recognize His Glory,  To Cleave

To His Truth,  And To Bow Down In Adoration Before Him. If It Be Faithful

To God,  It Will Refl Was Very Tall,  With Beautiful Golden Hair. For

A Description Of Her Dress The Housemaid Was Called.

 

"I Hope," Said Mike,  "She Won't Say She Was Dressed In Cream-Pink,

Trimmed With Olive Ribbons." She Did. Then Harding Told The Porter He

Was Afraid The Lady Was Lady Helen Seymour,  A Friend Of Theirs,  Whom

They Had Seen That Night In A Party Given In Temple Gardens By This

Gentleman,  Mr. Frank Escott. They Were Conducted Up The Desert

Staircase Of The Hotel,  For The Lift Did Not Begin Working Till Seven

O'clock. The Door Stood Ajar,  And Servants Were In Charge. On The

Left Was A Large Bed,  With Dark-Green Curtains,  And In The Middle Of

The Room A Round Table. There Were Two Windows. The Toilette-Table

Stood Between Bed And Window,  And In The Bland Twilight Of Closed

Venetian Blinds A Handsome Fire Flared Loudly,  Throwing Changing

Shadows Upon The Ceiling,  And A Deep,  Glowing Light Upon The Red

Panels Of The Wardrobe. So The Room Fixed Itself For Ever On Their

Minds. They Noted The Crude Colour Of The Brussels Carpet,  And Even

The Oilcloth Around The Toilette-Table Was Remembered. They Saw That

The Round Table Was Covered With A Red Tablecloth,  And That Writing

Materials Were There,  A Pair Of Stays,  A Pair Of Tan Gloves,  And Some

Withering Flowers. They Saw The Ball-Dress That Lady Helen Had Worn

Thrown Over The Arm-Chair; The Silk Stockings,  The Satin Shoes--And A

Gleam Of Sunlight That Found Its Way Between The Blinds Fell Upon A

Piece Of White Petticoat. Lady Helen Lay In The Bed,  Thrown Back Low

Down On The Pillow,  The Chin Raised High,  Emphasizing A Line Of

Strained White Throat. She Lay In Shadow And Firelight,  Her Cheek

Touched By The Light. Around Her Eyes The Shadows Gathered,  And As A

Landscape Retains For An Hour Some Impression Of The Day Which Is

Gone,  So A Softened And Hallowed Trace Of Life Lingered Upon Her.

 

Then The Facts Of The Case Were Told. She Had Driven Up To The Hotel

In A Hansom. She Had Asked If No. 57 Was Occupied,  And On Being Told

It Was Not,  Said She Would Take It; Mentioning At The Same Time That

She Had Missed Her Train,  And Would Not Return Home Till Late In The

Afternoon. She Had Told The Housemaid To Light A Fire,  And Had Then

Dismissed Her. Nothing More Was Known; But As The Porter Explained,

It Was Clear She Had Gone To Bed So As To Make Sure Of Shooting

Herself Through The Heart.

 

"The Pistol Is Still In Her Hand; We Never Disturb Anything Till

After The Doctor Has Completed His Examination."

 

Each Felt The Chill Of Steel Against The Naked Side,  And Seeing The

Pair Of Stays On The Table,  They Calculated Its Resisting Force.

 

Harding Mused On The Ghastly Ingenuity,  Withal So Strangely

Reasonable. Thompson Felt He Would Give His Very Life To Make A

Sketch. Mike Wondered What Her Lover Was Like. Frank Was Overwhelmed

In Sentimental Sorrow. John's Soul Was Full Of Strife And Suffering.

He Had Sacrificed His Poems,  And Had Yet Ventured In Revels Which Had

Led To Such Results! Then As They Went Down-Stairs,  Harding Gave The

Porter Lewis Seymour's Name And Address,  And Said He Should Be Sent

For At Once.

Chapter 6 Pg 46

"I Don't Say We Have Never Had A Suicide Here Before,  Sir," Said The

Porter In Reply To Harding As They Descended The Steps Of The Hotel;

"But I Don't See How We Are To Help It. Whenever The Upper Classes

Want To Do Away With Themselves They Chose One Of The Big Hotels--The

Grosvenor,  The Langham,  Or Ourselves. Indeed They Say More Has Done

The Trick In The Langham Than 'Ere,  I Suppose Because It Is More

Central; But You Can't Get Behind The Motives Of Such People. They

Never Think Of The Trouble And The Harm They Do Us; They Only Think

Of Themselves."

 

London Was Now Awake; The Streets Were A-Clatter With Cabs; The Pick

Of The Navvy Resounded; Night Loiterers Were Disappearing And Giving

Place To Hurrying Early Risers. In The Resonant Morning The Young Men

Walked Together To The Corner. There They Stopped To Bid Each Other

Good-Bye. John Called A Cab,  And Returned Home In Intense Mental

Agitation.

 

"It Really Is Terrible," Said Mike. "It Isn't Like Life At All,  But

Some Shocking Nightmare. What Could Have Induced Her To Do It?"

 

"That We Shall Probably Never Know," Said Thompson; "And She Seemed

Brimming Over With Life And Fun. How She Did Dance! ..."

 

"That Was Nerves. I Had A Long Talk With Her,  And I Assure You She

Quite Frightened Me. She Spoke About The Weariness Of Living;--No,

Not As We Talk Of It,  Philosophically; There Was A Special Accent Of

Truth In What She Said. You Remember The Porter Mentioned That She

Asked If No. 57 Was Occupied. I Believe That Is The Room Where She

Used To Meet Her Lover. I Believe They Had Had A Quarrel,  And That

She Went There Intent On Reconciliation,  And Finding Him Gone

Determined To Kill Herself. She Told Me She Had Had A Lover For The

Last Four Years. I Don't Know Why She Told Me--It Was The First Time

I Ever Heard A Lady Admit She Had Had A Lover; But She Was In An

Awful State Of Nerve Excitement,  And I Think Hardly Knew What She Was

Saying. She Took The Letter Out Of Her Bosom And Read It Slowly. I

Couldn't Help Seeing It Was In A Man's Handwriting; It Began,  '_Ma

Chère Amie!_' I Heard Her Tell Her Husband To Take The Brougham; That

She Would Come Home In A Cab. However,  If My Supposition Is Correct,

I Hope She Burnt The Letter."

 

"Perhaps That's What She Lit The Fire For. Did You Notice If The

Writing Materials Had Been Used?"

 

"No,  I Didn't Notice," Said Mike. "And All So Elaborately Planned!

Just Fancy--Shooting Herself In A Nice Warm Bed! She Was Determined

To Do It Effectually. And She Must Have Had The Revolver In Her

Pocket The Whole Time. I Remember Now,  I Had Gone Out Of The Room For

A Moment,  And When I Came Back She Was Leaning Over The

Chimney-Piece,  Looking At Something."

 

"I Have Often Thought," Said Harding,  "That Suicide Is The

Culminating Point Of A State Of Mind Long Preparing. I Think That The

Mind Of The Modern Suicide Is Generally Filled,  Saturated With The

Idea. I Believe That He Or She Has Been Given For A Long Time

Preceding The Act To Considering,  Sometimes Facetiously,  Sometimes

Sentimentally,  The Advantages Of Oblivion. For A Long Time An

Infiltration Of Desire Of Oblivion,  And Acute Realization Of The

Folly Of Living,  Precedes Suicide,  And,  When The Mind Is Thoroughly

Chapter 6 Pg 47

Prepared,  A Slight Shock Or Interruption In The Course Of Life

Produces It,  Just As An Odorous Wind,  A Sight Of The Sea,  Results In

The Poem Which Has Been Collecting In The Mind."

 

"I Think You Might Have The Good Feeling To Forbear," Said Frank;

"The Present Is Hardly,  I Think,  A Time For Epigrams Or Philosophy. I

Wonder How You Can Talk So...."

 

"I Think Frank Is Quite Right. What Right Have We To Analyse Her

Motives?"

 

"Her Motives Were Simple Enough; Sad Enough Too,  In All Conscience.

Why Make Her Ridiculous By Forcing Her Heart Into The Groove Of Your

Philosophy? The Poor Woman Was Miserably Deceived; Abominably

Deceived. You Do Not Know What Anguish Of Mind She Suffered."

 

"There Is Nothing To Show That She Went To The Alexandra To Meet A

Lover Beyond The Fact Of A Statement Made To Mike In A Moment Of

Acute Nervous Excitement. We Have No Reason To Think That She Ever

Had A Lover. I Never Heard Her Name Mentioned In Any Such Way. Did

You,  Escott?"

 

"Yes; I Have Heard That You Were Her Lover."

 

"I Assure You I Never Was; We Have Not Even Been On Good Terms For A

Long Time Past."

 

"You Said Just Now That The Act Was Generally Preceded By A State Of

Feeling Long Preparing. It Was You Who Taught Her To Read

Schopenhauer."

 

"I Am Not Going To Listen To Nonsense At This Hour Of The Morning. I

Never Take Nonsense On An Empty Stomach. Come,  Thompson,  You Are

Going My Way."

 

Mike And Frank Walked Home Together. The Clocks Had Struck Six,  And

The Milkmen Were Calling Their Ware; Soon The Shop-Shutters Would Be

Coming Down,  And In This First Flush Of The Day's Enterprise,  A Last

Belated Vegetable-Cart Jolted Towards The Market. Mike's Thoughts

Flitted From The Man Who Lay A-Top Taking His Ease,  His Cap Pulled

Over His Eyes,  To The Scene That Was Now Taking Place In The Twilight

Bedroom. What Would Seymour Say? Would He Throw Himself On His Knees?

Frank Spoke From Time To Time; His Thoughts Growled Like A Savage

Dog,  And His Words Bit At His Friend. For Mike Had Incautiously Given

An Account In Particular Detail Of His _Tête-À-Tête_ With Lady Helen.

 

"Then You Are In A Measure Answerable For Her Death."

 

"You Said Just Now That Harding Was Answerable; We Can't Both Be

Culpable."

 

Frank Did Not Reply. He Brooded In Silence,  Losing All Perception Of

The Truth In A Stupid And Harsh Hatred Of Those Whom He Termed The

Villains That Ruined Women. When They Reached Leicester Square,  To

Escape From The Obsession Of The Suicide,  Mike Said--

 

"I Do Not Think That I Told You That I Have Sketched Out A Trilogy On

The Life Of Christ. The First Play _John_,  The Second _Christ_,  The

Third _Peter_. Of Course I Introduce Christ Into The Third Play. You

Know The Legend. When Peter Is Flying From Rome To Escape

Crucifixion,  He Meets Christ Carrying His Cross."

 

"Damn Your Trilogy--Who Cares! You Have Behaved Abominably. I Want

You To Understand That I Cannot--That I Do Not Hold With Your

Practice Of Making Love To Every Woman You Meet. In The First Place

It Is Beastly,  In The Second It Is Not Gentlemanly. Look At The

Result!"

 

"But I Assure You I Am In No Wise To Blame In This Affair. I Never

Was Her Lover."

 

Chapter 6 Pg 48

"But You Made Love To Her."

 

"No,  I Didn't; We Talked Of Love,  That Was All. I Could See She Was

Excited,  And Hardly Knew What She Was Saying. You Are Most Unjust. I

Think It Quite As Horrible As You Do; It Preys Upon My Mind,  And If I

Talk Of Other Things It Is Because I Would Save Myself The Pain Of

Thinking Of It. Can't You Understand That?"

 

The Conversation Fell,  And Mike Thrust Both Hands Into The Pockets Of

His Overcoat.

 

At The End Of A Long Silence,  Frank Said--

 

"We Must Have An Article On This--Or,  I Don't Know--I Think I Should

Like A Poem. Could You Write A Poem On Her Death?"

 

"I Think So. A Prose Poem. I Was Penetrated With The Modern

Picturesqueness Of The Room--The Venetian Blinds."

 

"If That's The Way You Are Going To Treat It,  I Would Sooner Not Have

It--The Face In The Glass,  A Lot Of Repetitions Of Words,  Sentences

Beginning With 'And,' Then A Mention Of Shoes And Silk Stockings. If

You Can't Write Feelingly About Her,  You Had Better Not Write At

All."

 

"I Don't See That A String Of Colloquialisms Constitute Feelings,"

Said Mike.

 

Mike Kept His Temper; He Did Not Intend To Allow It To Imperil His

Residence In Temple Gardens,  Or His Position In The Newspaper; But He

Couldn't Control His Vanity,  And Ostentatiously Threw Lady Helen's

Handkerchief Upon The Table,  And Admitted To Having Picked It Up In

The Hotel.

 

"What Am I To Do With It? I Suppose I Must Keep It As A Relic," He

Added With A Laugh,  As He Opened His Wardrobe.

 

There Were There Ladies' Shoes,  Scarves,  And Neckties; There Were

There Sachets And Pincushions; There Were There Garters,  Necklaces,

Cotillion Favours,  And A Tea-Gown.

 

Again Frank Boiled Over With Indignation,  And Having Vented His Sense

Of Rectitude,  He Left The Room Without Even Bidding His Friend

Good-Night Or Good-Morning. The Next Day He Spent The Entire

Afternoon With Lizzie,  For Lady Helen's Suicide Had Set His Nature In

Active Ferment.

 

In The Story Of Every Soul There Are Times Of Dissolution And

Reconstruction In Which Only The Generic Forms Are Preserved. A New

Force Had Been Introduced,  And It Was Disintegrating That Mass Of

Social Fibre Which Is Modern Man,  And The Decomposition Teemed With

Ideas Of Duty,  Virtue,  And Love. He Interrupted Lizzie's Chit-Chat

Constantly With Reflections Concerning The Necessity Of Religious

Belief In Women.

 

About Seven They Went To Eat In A Restaurant Close By. It Was An Old

Italian Chop-House That Had Been Enlarged And Modernized,  But The

Original Marble Tables Where Customers Ate Chops And Steaks At Low

Prices Were Retained In A Remote And Distant Corner. Lizzie Proposed

To Sit There. They Were Just Seated When A Golden-Haired Girl Of

Theatrical Mien Entered.

 

"That's Lottie Rily," Exclaimed Lizzie. Then Lowering Her Voice She

Whispered Quickly,  "She Was In Love With Mike Once; He Was The Fellow

She Left Her 'Ome For. She's On The Stage Now,  And Gets Four Pounds A

Week. I Haven't Seen Her For The Last Couple Of Years. Lottie,  Come

And Sit Down Here."

 

The Girl Turned Hastily. "What,  Lizzie,  Old Pal,  I Have Not Seen You

For Ages."

 

Chapter 6 Pg 49

"Not For More Than Two Years. Let Me Introduce You To My Friend,  Mr.

Escott--Miss Lottie Rily Of The Strand Theatre."

 

"Very Pleased To Make Your Acquaintance,  Sir; The Editor Of The

_Pilgrim_,  I Presume?"

 

Frank Smiled With Pleasure,  And The Waiter Interposed With The Bill

Of Fare. Lottie Ordered A Plate Of Roast Beef,  And Leaned Across The

Table To Talk To Her Friend.

 

"Have You Seen Mike Lately?" Asked Lizzie.

 

"Swine!" She Answered,  Tossing Her Head. "No; And Don't Want To. You

Know How He Treated Me. He Left Me Three Months After My Baby Was

Born."

 

"Have You Had A Baby?"

 

"What,  Didn't You Know That? It Is Seven Months Old; 'Tis A Boy,

That's One Good Job. And He Hasn't Paid Me One Penny Piece. I Have

Been Up To Barber And Barber's,  But They Advised Me To Do Nothing.

They Said That He Owed Them Money,  And That They Couldn't Get What He

Owed Them--A Poor Look-Out For Me. They Said That If I Cared To

Summons Him For The Support Of The Child,  That The Magistrate Would

Grant Me An Order At Once."

 

"And Why Don't You?" Said Frank; "You Don't Like The _Exposé_ In The

Newspapers."

 

"That's It."

 

"Do You Care For Him Still?"

 

"I Don't Know Whether I Do,  Or Don't. I Shall Never Love Another Man,

I Know That. I Saw Him In Front About A Month Ago. He Was In The

Stalls,  And He Fixed His Eyes Upon Me; I Didn't Take The Least

Notice,  He Was So Cross. He Came Behind After The First Act. He Said,

'How Old You Are Looking!' I Said,  'What Do You Mean?' I Was Very

Nicely Made Up Too,  And He Said,  'Under The Eyes.' I Said,  'What Do

You Mean?' And He Said,  'You Are All Wrinkles.' I Said,  'What Do You

Mean?' And He Went Down-Stairs.... Swine!"

 

"He Isn't Good-Looking," Said Frank,  Reflectively,  "A Broken Nose,  A

Chin Thrust Forward,  And A Mop Of Brown Curls Twisted Over His

Forehead. Give Me A Pencil,  And I'll Do His Caricature."

 

"Every One Says The Same Thing. The Girls In The Theatre All Say,

'What In The World Do You See In Him?' I Tell Them That If He

Chose--If He Were To Make Up To Them A Bit,  They'd Go After Him Just

The Same As I Did. There's A Little Girl In The Chorus,  And She Trots

About After Him; She Can't Help It. There Are Times When I Don't Care

For Him. What Riles Me Is To See Other Women Messing Him About."

 

"I Suppose It Is Some Sort Of Magnetism,  Electro-Biology,  And He

Can't Help Exercising It Any More Than You Women Can Resist It. Tell

Me,  How Did He Leave You?"

 

"Without A Word Or A Penny. One Night He Didn't Come Home,  And I Sat

Up For Him,  And I Don't Know How Many Nights After. I Used To Doze

Off And Awake Up With A Start,  Thinking I Heard His Footstep On The

Landing. I Went Down To Waterloo Bridge To Drown Myself. I Don't Know

Why I Didn't; I Almost Wish I Had,  Although I Have Got On Pretty Well

Since,  And Get A Pretty Tidy Weekly Screw."

 

"What Do You Get?"

 

"Three Ten. Mine's A Singing Part. Waiter,  Some Cheese And Celery."

 

"What A Blackguard He Is! I'll Never Speak To Him Again; He Shall

Edit My Paper No More. To-Night I'll Give Him The Dirty Kick-Out."

 

Chapter 6 Pg 50

Mike Remained The Topic Of Conversation Until Lottie Said--

 

"Good Lord,  I Must Be 'Getting'--It Is Past Seven O'clock."

 

Frank Paid Her Modest Bill,  And Still Discussing Mike,  They Walked To

The Stage-Door. Quick With Desire To Possess Lizzie Wholly Beyond

Recall,  And Obfuscated With Notions Concerning The Necessity Of

Placing Women In Surroundings In Harmony With Their Natural Goodness,

Frank Walked By His Mistress's Side. At The End Of A Long Silence,

She Said--

 

"That's The Way You'll Desert Me One Of These Days. All Men Are

Brutes."

 

"No,  Darling,  They Are Not. If You'll Act Fairly By Me,  I Will By

You--I'll Never Desert You."

 

Lizzie Did Not Answer.

 

"You Don't Think Me A Brute Like That Fellow Fletcher,  Do You?"

 

"I Don't Think There's Much Difference Between Any Of You."

 

Frank Ground His Teeth,  And At That Moment He Only Desired One

Thing--To Prove To Lizzie That Men Were Not All Vile And Worthless.

They Had Turned Into The Temple; The Old Places Seemed Dozing In The

Murmuring Quietude Of The Evening. Mike Was Coming Up The Pathway,

His Dress-Clothes Distinct In The Delicate Gray Light,  His Light-Gray

Overcoat Hanging Over His Arm.

 

"What A Toff He Is!" Said Lizzie. His Appearance And What It

Symbolized--An Evening In A Boudoir Or At The Gaming-Table--Jarred On

Frank,  Suggesting As It Did A Difference In Condition From That Of

The Wretched Girl He Had Abandoned; And As Mike Prided Himself That

Scandalous Stories Never Followed Upon His Loves,  The Unearthing Of

This Mean And Obscure Liaison Annoyed Him Exceedingly. Above All,  The

Accusation Of Paternity Was Disagreeable; But Determined To Avoid A

Quarrel,  He Was About To Pass By,  When Frank Noticed Lady Helen's

Pocket-Handkerchief Sticking Out Of His Pocket.

 

"You Blackguard," He Said,  "You Are Taking That Handkerchief To A

Gambling Hell."

 

Then Realizing That The Game Was Up,  He Turned And Would Have Struck

His Friend Had Not Lizzie Interposed. She Threw Herself Between The

Men,  And Called A Policeman,  And The Quarrel Ended In Mike's

Dismissal From The Staff Of The _Pilgrim_.

 

Frank Had Therefore To Sit Up Writing Till One O'clock,  For The Whole

Task Of Bringing Out The Paper Was Thrown Upon Him. Lizzie Sat By Him

Sewing. Noticing How Pale And Tired He Looked,  She Got Up,  And

Putting Her Arm About His Neck,  Said--

 

"Poor Old Man,  You Are Tired; You Had Better Come To Bed."

 

He Took Her In His Arms Affectionately,  And Talked To Her.

 

"If You Were Always As Kind And As Nice As You Are To-Night ...

I Could Love You."

 

"I Thought You Did Love Me."

 

"So I Do; You Will Never Know How Much." They Were Close Together,

And The Pure Darkness Seemed To Separate Them From All Worldly

Influences.

 

"If You Would Be A Good Girl,  And Think Only Of Him Who Loves You

Very Dearly."

 

"Ah,  If I Only Had Met You First!"

 

Chapter 6 Pg 51

"It Would Have Made No Difference,  You'd Have Only Been Saying This

To Some One Else."

 

"Oh,  No; If You Had Known Me Before I Went Wrong."

 

"Was He The First?"

 

"Yes; I Would Have Been An Honest Little Girl,  Trying To Make You

Comfortable."

 

Throwing Himself On His Back,  Frank Argued Prosaically--

 

"Then You Mean To Say You Really Care About Me More Than Any One

Else?"

 

She Assured Him That She Did; And Again And Again The Temptations Of

Women Were Discussed. He Could Not Sleep,  And Stretched At Length On

His Back,  He Held Lizzie's Hand.

 

She Was In A Communicative Humour,  And Told Him The Story Of The

Waiter,  Whom She Described As Being "A Fellow Like Mike,  Who Made

Love To Every Woman." She Told Him Of Three Or Four Other Fellows,

Whose Rooms She Used To Go To. They Made Her Drink; She Didn't Like

The Beastly Stuff; And Then She Didn't Know What She Did. There Were

Stories Of The Landlady In Whose House She Lodged,  And The Woman Who

Lived Up-Stairs. She Had Two Fellows; One She Called Squeaker--She

Didn't Care For Him; And Another Called Harry,  And She Did Care For

Him; But The Landlady's Daughter Called Him A S----,  Because He

Seldom Gave Her Anything,  And Always Had A Bath In The Morning.

 

"How Can A Girl Be Respectable Under Such Circumstances?" Lizzie

Asked,  Pathetically. "The Landlady Used To Tell Me To Go Out And Get

My Living!"

 

"Yes; But I Never Let You Want. You Never Wrote To Me For Money That

I Didn't Send It."

 

"Yes; I Know You Did,  But Sometimes I Think She Stopped The Letters.

Besides,  A Girl Cannot Be Respectable If She Isn't Married. Where's

The Use?"

 

He Strove To Think,  And Failing To Think,  He Said--

 

"If You Really Mean What You Say,  I Will Marry You." He Heard Each

Word; Then A Sob Sounded In The Dark,  And Turning Impulsively He Took

Lizzie In His Arms.

 

"No,  No," She Cried,  "It Would Never Do At All. Your Family--What

Would They Say? They Would Not Receive Me."

 

"What Do I Care For My Family? What Has My Family Ever Done For Me?"

 

For An Hour They Argued,  Lizzie Refusing,  Declaring It Was Useless,

Insisting That She Would Then Belong To No Set; Frank Assuring Her

That Hand-In-Hand And Heart-To-Heart They Would Together,  With United

Strength And Love,  Win A Place For Themselves In The World. They

Dozed In Each Other's Arms.

 

Rousing Himself,  Frank Said--

 

"Kiss Me Once More,  Little Wifie; Good-Night,  Little Wife ..."

 

"Good-Night,  Dear."

 

"Call Me Little Husband; I Shan't Go To Sleep Until You Do."

 

"Good-Night,  Little Husband."

 

"Say Little Hussy."

 

"Good-Night,  Little Hussy."

Chapter 6 Pg 52

Next Morning,  However,  Found Lizzie Violently Opposed To All Idea Of

Marriage. She Said He Didn't Mean It; He Said He Did Mean It,  And He

Caught Up A Bible And Swore He Was Speaking The Truth. He Put His

Back Against The Door,  And Declared She Should Not Leave Until She

Had Promised Him--Until She Gave Him Her Solemn Oath That She Would

Become His Wife. He Was Not Going To See Her Go To The Dogs--No,  Not

If He Could Help It; Then She Lost Her Temper And Tried To Push Past

Him. He Restrained Her,  Urging Again And Again,  And With Theatrical

Emphasis,  That He Thought It Right,  And Would Do His Duty. Then They

Argued,  They Kissed,  And Argued Again.

 

That Night He Walked Up And Down The Pavement In Front Of Her Door;

But The Servant-Girl Caught Sight Of Him Through The Kitchen-Window

And The Area-Railings,  And Ran Up-Stairs To Warn Miss Baker,  Who Was

Taking Tea With Two Girl Friends.

 

"He Is A-Walking Up And Down,  Miss,  'Is Great-Coat Flying Behind

Him."

 

Lizzie Slapped His Face When He Burst Into Her Room; And Scenes Of

Recrimination,  Love,  And Rage Were Transferred To And Fro Between

Temple Gardens And Winchester Street. Her Girl Friends Advised Her To

Marry,  And The Landlady When Appealed To Said,  "What Could You Want

Better Than A Fine Gentleman Like That?"

 

Frank Was Conscious Of Nothing But Her,  And Every Vision Of Mount

Rorke That Had Risen In His Mind He Had Unhesitatingly Swept Away.

All Prospects Were Engulfed In His Desire; He Saw Nothing But The

White Face,  Which Like A Star Led And Allured Him.

 

One Morning The Marriage Was Settled,  And Like A Knight Going To The

Crusade,  Frank Set Forth To Find Out When It Could Be. They Must Be

Married At Once. The Formalities Of A Religious Marriage Appalled

Him. Lizzie Might Again Change Her Mind; And A Registrar's Office

Fixed Itself In His Thought.

 

It Was A Hot Day In July When He Set Forth On His Quest. He Addressed

The Policeman At The Corner,  And Was Given The Name Of The Street And

The Number. He Hurried Through The Heat,  Irritated By The

Sluggishness Of The Passers-By,  And At Last Found Himself In Front Of

A Red Building. The Windows Were Full Of Such General Announcements

As--Working Men's Peace Preservation,  Limited Liability Company,  New

Zealand,  Etc. The Marriage Office Looked Like A Miniature Bank; There

Were Desks,  And A Brass Railing A Foot High Preserved The

Inviolability Of The Documents. A Fat Man With Watery Eyes Rose From

The Leather Arm-Chair In Which He Had Been Dozing,  And Frank

Intimated His Desire To Be Married As Soon As Possible; That

Afternoon If It Could Be Managed. It Took The Weak-Eyed Clerk Some

Little Time To Order And Grasp The Many Various Notions Which Frank

Urged Upon Him; But He Eventually Roused A Little (Frank Had Begun To

Shout At Him),  And Explained That No Marriage Could Take Place After

Two O'clock,  And Later On It Transpired That Due Notice Would Have To

Be Given.

 

Very Much Disappointed,  Frank Asked Him To Inscribe His Name. The

Clerk Opened A Book,  And Then It Suddenly Cropped Up That This Was

The Registry Office,  Not For Pimlico,  But For Kensington.

 

"Gracious Heavens!" Exclaimed Frank,  "And Where Is The Registry

Office For Pimlico In Kensington?"

 

"That I Cannot Tell You; It May Be Anywhere; You Will Have To Find

Out."

 

"How Am I To Find Out,  Damn It?"

 

"I Really Can't Tell You,  But I Must Beg Of You To Remember Where You

Are,  Sir,  And To Moderate Your Language," Said The Clerk,  With Some

Faint Show Of Hieratic Dignity. "And Now,  Ma'am,  What Can I Do For

You?" He Said,  Turning To A Woman Who Smelt Strongly Of The Kitchen.

Chapter 6 Pg 53

 

Frank Was Furious; He Appealed Again To The Casual Policeman,  Who,

Although Reluctantly Admitting He Could Give Him No Information,

Sympathized With Him In His Diatribe Against The Stupidities Of The

Authorities. The Policeman Had Himself Been Married By The Registrar,

And Some Time Was Lost In Vain Reminiscences; He At Last Suggested

That Inquiry Could Be Made At A Neighbouring Church.

 

Frank Hurried Away,  And Had A Long Talk With A Charwoman Whom He

Discovered In The Desert Of The Chairs. She Thought The Office Was

Situated Somewhere In A Region Unknown To Frank,  Which She Called St.

George-Of-The-Fields; Her Daughter,  Who Had Been Shamefully Deserted,

Had Been Married There. The Parson,  She Thought,  Would Know,  And She

Gave Him His Address.

 

The Heat Was Intolerable! There Were Few People In The Streets. The

Perspiration Collected Under His Hat,  And His Feet Ached So In His

Patent Leather Shoes That He Was Tempted To Walk After The Water-Cart

And Bathe Them In The Sparkling Shower. Several Hansoms Passed,  But

They Were Engaged. Nor Was The Parson At Home. The Maid-Servant

Sniggered,  But Having Some Sympathy With What She Discovered Was His

Mission,  Summoned The Housekeeper,  Who Eyed Him Askance,  And Directed

Him To Bloomsbury; And After A Descent Into A Grocer's Shop,  And An

Adventure Which Ended In An Angry Altercation In A Servants' Registry

Office,  He Was Driven To A Large Building Which Adjoined The Parish

Infirmary And Workhouse.

 

Even There He Was Forced To Make Inquiries,  So Numerous And Various

Were The Offices. At Last An Old Man In Gray Clothes Declared Himself

The Registrar's Attendant,  And Offered To Show Him The Way; But

Seeing Himself Now Within Range Of His Desire,  He Distanced The Old

Chap Up The Four Flights Of Stairs,  And Arrived Wholly Out Of Breath

Before The Brass Railing Which Guarded The Hymeneal Documents. A

Clerk As Slow Of Intellect As The First,  And Even More Somnolent,

Approached And Leaned Over The Counter.

 

Feeling Now Quite Familiar With A Registrar's Office,  Frank Explained

His Business Successfully. The Fat Clerk,  Whose Red Nose Had Sprouted

Into Many Knobs,  Balanced Himself Leisurely,  Evidently Giving Little

Heed To What Was Said; But The Broadness Of The Brogue Saved Frank

From Losing His Temper.

 

"What Part Of Oireland Do Ye Come From? Is It Tipperary?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I Thought So; Cashel,  I'm Thinking."

 

"Yes; Do You Come From There?"

 

"To Be Sure I Do. I Knew You When You Were A Boy; And Is His Lordship

In Good Health?"

 

Frank Replied That Lord Mount Rorke Was In Excellent Health,  And

Feeling Himself Obliged To Be Civil,  He Asked The Clerk His Name,  And

How Long It Was Since He Had Been In Ireland.

 

"Well,  This Is Odd," The Clerk Began,  And Then In An Irritating

Undertone Mr. Scanlon Proceeded To Tell How He And Four Others Were

Driving Through Portarlington To Take The Train To Dublin,  When One

Of Them,  Michael Carey He Thought It Was,  Proposed To Stop The Car

And Have Some Refreshment At The Royal Hotel.

 

Frank Tried Several Times To Return To The Question Of The License,

But The Imperturbable Clerk Was Not To Be Checked.

 

"I Was Just Telling You," He Interposed.

 

It Seemed Hard Luck That He Should Find A Native Of Cashel In The

Pimlico Registrar's Office. He Had Intended To Keep His Marriage A

Secret,  As Did Willy Brookes,  And For A Moment The New Danger

Chapter 6 Pg 54

Thrilled Him. It Was Intolerable To Have To Put Up With This

Creature's Idle Loquacity,  But Not Wishing To Offend Him He Endured

It A Little Longer.

 

When The Clerk Paused In His Narrative Of The Four Gentlemen Who Had

Stopped The Car To Have Some Refreshment,  Frank Made A Resolute Stand

Against Any Fresh Developments Of The Story,  And Succeeded In

Extracting Some Particulars Concerning The Marriage Laws. And Within

The Next Few Days All Formalities Were Completed,  And Frank's

Marriage Fixed For The End Of The Week--For Friday,  At A Quarter To

Eleven. He Slept Lightly That Night,  Was Out Of Bed Before Eight,  And

Mistaking The Time,  Arrived At The Office A Few Minutes Before Ten.

He Met The Old Man In Gray Clothes In The Passage,  And This Time He

Was Not To Be Evaded.

 

"Are You The Gentleman Who's Come To Be Married By Special License,

Sir?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Neither Mr. Southey--That Is The Registrar--Nor Mr. Freeman--That's

The Assistant-Registrar--Has Yet Arrived,  Sir."

 

"It Is Very Extraordinary They Should Be Late. Do They Never Keep

Their Appointments?"

 

"They Rarely Arrives Before Ten,  Sir."

 

"Before Ten! What Time Is It Now?"

 

"Only Just Ten. I Am The Regular Attendant. I'll See Yer Through It;

No Necessity To Hagitate Yerself. It Will Be Done Quietly In A

Private Room--A Very Nice Room Too,  Fourteen Feet By Ten High--Them's

The Regulations; All The Chairs Covered With Leather; A Very Nice

Comfortable Room. Would Yer Like To See The Room? Would Yer Like To

Sit Down There And Wait? There's A Party To Be Married Before You.

But They Won't Mind You. He's A Butcher By Trade."

 

"And What Is She?"

 

"I Think She's A Tailoress; They Lives Close By Here,  They Do."

 

"And Who Are You,  And Where Do You Live?"

 

"I'm The Regular Attendant; I Lives Close By Here."

 

"Where Close By?"

 

"In The Work'us; They Gives Me This Work To Do."

 

"Oh,  You Are A Pauper,  Then?"

 

"Yease; But I Works Here; I'm The Regular Attendant. No Need To Be

Afraid,  Sir; It's All Done In A Private Room; No One Will See You.

This Way,  Sir; This Way."

 

The Sinister Aspect Of Things Never Appealed To Frank,  And He Was

Vastly Amused At The Idea Of The Pauper Mercury,  And Had Begun To

Turn The Subject Over,  Seeing How He Could Use It For A Queer Story

For The _Pilgrim_. But Time Soon Grew Horribly Long,  And To Kill It

He Volunteered To Act As Witness To The Butcher's Marriage,  One Being

Wanted. The Effects Of A Jovial Night,  Fortified By Some Matutinal

Potations,  Were Still Visible In The Small Black Eyes Of The Rubicund

Butcher--A Huge Man,  Apparently Of Cheery Disposition; He Swung To

And Fro Before The Shiny Oak Table As Might One Of His Own Carcasses.

His Bride,  A Small-Featured Woman,  Wrapped In A Plaid Shawl,

Evidently Fearing That His State,  If Perceived By The Registrar,

Might Cause A Postponement Of Her Wishes,  Strove To Shield Him. His

Pal And A Stout Girl,  With The Air Of The Coffee-Shop About Her,

Exchanged Winks And Grins,  And At The Critical Moment,  When The

Registrar Was About To Read The Declaration,  The Pal Slipped Behind

Chapter 6 Pg 55

Some Friends And,  Catching The Bridegroom By The Collar,  Whispered,

"Now Then,  Old Man,  Pull Yourself Together." The Registrar

Looked Up,  But His Spectacles Did Not Appear To Help Him; The

Assistant-Registrar,  A Tall,  Languid Young Man,  Who Wore A Carnation

In His Button-Hole,  Yawned And Called For Order. The Room Was Lighted

By A Skylight,  And The Light Fell Diffused On The Hands And Faces;

And Alternately And In Combination The Whiskied Breath And The

Carnation's Scent Assailed The Nostrils. Suddenly The Silence Was

Broken By The Registrar,  Who Began To Read The Declarations. "I

Hereby Declare That I,  James Hicks,  Know Of No Impediment Whereby I

May Not Be Joined In Matrimony With Matilde,  Matilde--Is It Matilde

Or Matilda?"

 

"I Calls Her Tilly When I Am A-Cuddling Of Her; When She Riles Me,

And Gets My Dander Up,  I Says,  'Tilder,  Come Here!'" And The Butcher

Raised His Voice Till It Seemed Like An Ox's Bellow.

 

"I Really Must Beg," Exclaimed The Registrar,  "That The Sanctity

Of--The Gravity Of This Ceremony Is Not Disturbed By Any Foolish

Frivolity. You Must Remember ..." But At That Moment The Glassy Look

Of The Butcher's Eyes Reached The Old Gentleman's Vision,  And A Heavy

Hiccup Fell Upon His Ears. "I Really Think,  Mr. Freeman,  That That

Gentleman,  One Of The Contracting Parties I Mean,  Is Not In A Fit

State--Is In A State Bordering On Inebriation. Will You Tell Me If

This Is So?"

 

"I Didn't Notice It Before," Said Mr. Freeman,  Stifling A Yawn,  "But

Now You Mention It,  I Really Think He Is A Little Drunk,  And Hardly

In A Fit ..."

 

"I Ne--Ver Was More Jolly,  Jolly Dog In My Life (Hiccup)--When You

Gentlemen Have Made It (Hiccup) All Squ--Square Between Me And My

Tilly" (A Violent Hiccup),--Then Suddenly Taking Her Round The Waist,

He Hugged Her So Violently That Matilda Could Not Forbear A

Scream,--"I Fancy I Shall Be,  Just Be A Trifle More Jolly Still....

If Any Of You Ge--Gen'men Would Care To Join Us--Most 'Appy,  Tilly

And Me."

 

Lizzie,  Who Had Discovered A Relation Or Two--A Disreputable Father

And A Nondescript Brother--Now Appeared On The Threshold. Her

Presence Reminded Frank Of His Responsibility,  So Forthwith He

Proceeded To Bully The Registrar And Allude Menacingly To His

Newspaper.

 

"I'm Sure,  Sir,  I Am Very Sorry You Should Have Witnessed Such A

Scene. Never,  Really,  In The Whole Course Of My Life ..."

 

"There Is Positively No Excuse For Allowing Such People ..."

 

"I Will Not Go On With The Marriage," Roared The Registrar; "Really,

Mr. Freeman,  You Ought To Have Seen. You Know How Short-Sighted I Am.

I Will Not Proceed With This Marriage."

 

"Oh,  Please,  Sir,  Mr. Registrar,  Don't Say That," Exclaimed Matilda.

"If You Don't Go On Now,  He'll Never Marry Me; I'll Never Be Able To

Bring 'Im To The Scratch Again. Indeed,  Sir,  'E's Not So Drunk As He

Looks. 'Tis Mostly The Effect Of The Morning Hair Upon Him."

 

"I Shall Not Proceed With The Marriage," Said The Registrar,  Sternly.

"I Have Never Seen Anything More Disgraceful In My Life. You Come

Here To Enter Into A Most Solemn,  I May Say A Sacred,  Contract,  And

You Are Not Able To Answer To Your Names; It Is Disgraceful."

 

"Indeed I Am,  Sir; My Name Is Matilda,  That's The English Of It,  But

My Poor Mother Kept Company With A Frenchman,  And He Would Have Me

Christened Matilde; But It Is All The Same,  It Is The Same Name,

Indeed It Is,  Sir. Do Marry Us; I Shan't Be Able To Get Him To The

Scratch Again. For The Last Five Years ..."

 

"Potter,  Potter,  Show These People Out; How Dare You Admit People Who

Were In A State Of Inebriation?"

Chapter 6 Pg 56

 

"I Didn't 'Ear What You Said,  Sir."

 

"Show These People Out,  And If You Ever Do It Again,  You'll Have To

Remain In The Workhouse."

 

"This Way,  Ladies And Gentlemen,  This Way. I'm The Regular

Attendant."

 

"Come Along,  Tilly Dear,  You'll Have To Wait Another Night Afore We

Are Churched. Come,  Tilly; Do You Hear Me? Come,  Tilda."

 

Frightened As She Was,  The Words "Another Night" Suggested An Idea To

Poor Matilde,  And Turning With Supplicating Eyes To The Registrar,

She Implored That They Might Make An Appointment For The Morrow.

After Some Demur The Registrar Consented,  And She Went Away Tearful,

But In Hope That She Would Be Able To Bring Him On The Morrow,  As He

Put It,  "Fit To The Post." This Matter Having Been Settled,  The

Registrar Turned To Frank. Never In The Course Of His Experience Had

The Like Occurred. He Was Extremely Sorry That He (Mr. Escott) Had

Been Present. True,  They Were Not Situated In A Fashionable

Neighbourhood,  The People Were Ignorant,  And It Was Often Difficult

To Get Them To Sign Their Names Correctly; But He Was Bound To Admit

That They Were Orderly,  And Seemed To Realize,  He Would Say,  The

Seriousness Of The Transaction.

 

"It Is," Said The Registrar,  "Our Object To Maintain The Strictly

Legal Character Of The Ceremony--The Contract,  I Should Say--And To

Avoid Any Affectation Of Ritual Whatsoever. I Regret That You,  Sir,  A

Representative Of The Press ..."

 

"The Nephew And Heir To Lord Mount Rorke," Suggested The Clerk.

 

The Registrar Bowed,  And Murmured That He Did Not Know He Had That

Honour. Then He Spoke For Some Time Of The Moral Good The Registry

Offices Had Effected Among The Working Classes; How They Had Allowed

The Poor--For Instance,  The Person Who Has Been Known For Years In

The Neighbourhood As Mrs. Thompson,  To Legalize Her Cohabitation

Without Scandal.

 

But Frank Thought Only Of His Wife,  When He Should Clasp Her Hand,

Saying,  "Dearest Wife!" He Had Brought His Dramatic And Musical

Critics With Him. The Dramatic Critic--A Genial Soul,  Well Known To

The Shop-Girls In Oxford Street,  Without Social Prejudices--Was Deep

In Conversation With The Father And Brother Of The Bride; The Musical

Critic,  A Mild-Faced Man,  Adjusted His Spectacles,  And Awaking From

His Dream Reminded Them Of An Afternoon Concert That Began Unusually

Early,  And Where His Presence Was Indispensable. When The

Declarations Were Over,  Frank Asked When He Should Put The Ring On.

 

"Some Like To Use The Ring,  Some Don't; It Isn't Necessary; All The

Best People Of Course Do," Said The Assistant-Registrar,  Who Had Not

Yawned Once Since He Had Heard That Frank's Uncle Was Lord Mount

Rorke.

 

"I Am Much Obliged To You For The Information; But I Should Like To

Have My Question Answered--When Am I To Put On The Ring?"

 

The Dramatic Critic Tittered,  And Frank Authoritatively Expostulated.

But The Registrar Interposed,  Saying--

 

"It Is Usual To Put The Ring On When The Bride Has Answered To The

Declarations."

 

"Now All Of Ye Can Kiss The Bride," Exclaimed The Clerk From Cashel.

 

Frank Was Indignant; The Registrar Explained That The Kissing Of The

Bride Was An Old Custom Still Retained Among The Lower Classes,  But

Frank Was Not To Be Mollified,  And The Unhappy Clerk Was Ordered To

Leave The Room.

 

Chapter 6 Pg 57

The Wedding Party Drove To The Temple,  Where Champagne Was Awaiting

Them; And When Health And Happiness Had Been Drunk The Critics Left,

And The Party Became A Family One.

 

Mike Was In His Bedroom; He Was Too Indolent To Move Out Of Escott's

Rooms,  And By Avoiding Him He Hoped To Avert Expulsion And Angry

Altercations. The Night He Spent In Gambling,  The Evening In Dining;

And Some Hours Of Each Afternoon Were Devoted To The Composition Of

His Trilogy. Now He Lay In His Arm-Chair Smoking Cigarettes,  Drinking

Lemonade,  And Thinking. He Was Especially Attracted By The Picture He

Hoped To Paint In The First Play Of John And Jesus; And From Time To

Time His Mind Filled With A Picture Of Herod's Daughter. Closing His

Eyes Slightly He Saw Her Breasts,  Scarce Hidden Beneath Jewels,  And

Precious Scarves Floated From Her Waist As She Advanced In A Vaulted

Hall Of Pale Blue Architecture,  Slender Fluted Columns,  And Pointed

Arches. He Sipped His Lemonade,  Enjoying His Soft,  Changing,  And

Vague Dream. But Now He Heard Voices In The Next Room,  And Listening

Attentively He Could Distinguish The Conversation.

 

"The Drivelling Idiot!" He Thought. "So He's Gone And Married

Her--That Slut Of A Barmaid! Mount Rorke Will Never Forgive Him. I

Wouldn't Be Surprised If He Married Again. The Idiot!"

 

The Reprobate Father Declared He Had Not Hoped To See Such A Day,  So

Let Bygones Be Bygones,  That Was His Feeling. She Had Always Been A

Good Daughter; They Had Had Differences Of Opinion,  But Let Bygones

Be Bygones. He Had Lived To See His Daughter Married To A Gentleman,

If Ever There Was One; And His Only Desire Was That God Might Spare

Him To See Her Lady Mount Rorke. Why Should She Not Be Lady Mount

Rorke? She Was As Pretty A Girl As There Was In London,  And A Good

Girl Too; And Now That She Was Married To A Gentleman,  He Hoped They

Would Both Remember To Let Bygones Be Bygones.

 

"Great Scott!" Thought Mike; "And He'll Have To Live With Her For The

Next Thirty Years,  Watching Her Growing Fat,  Old,  And Foolish. And

That Father!--Won't He Give Trouble! What A Pig-Sty The Fellow Has

Made Of His Life!"

 

Lizzie Asked Her Father Not To Cry. Then Came A Slight Altercation

Between Lizzie And Her Husband,  In Which It Was Passionately Debated

Whether Harry,  The Brother,  Was Fitted To Succeed Mike On The Paper.

 

"How The Fellow Has Done For Himself! A Nice Sort Of Paper They'll

Bring Out."

 

A Cloud Passed Over Mike's Face When He Thought It Would Probably Be

This Young Gentleman Who Would Continue His Articles--_Lions Of The

Season_.

 

"You Have Quarrelled With Mike," Said Lizzie,  "And You Say You Aren't

Going To Make It Up Again. You'll Want Some One,  And Harry Writes

Very Nicely Indeed. When He Was At School His Master Always Praised

His Writing. When He Is In Love He Writes Off Page After Page. I

Should Like You To See The Letters He Wrote To ..."

 

"Now,  Liz,  I Really--I Wish You Wouldn't ..."

 

"I Am Sure He Would Soon Get Into It."

 

"Quite So,  Quite So; I Hope He Will; I'm Sure Harry Will Get Into

It--And The Way To Get Into It Is For Him To Send Me Some Paragraphs.

I Will Look Over His 'Copy,' Making The Alterations I Think

Necessary. But For The Moment,  Until He Has Learned The Trick Of

Writing Paragraphs,  He Would Be Of No Use To Me In The Office. I

Should Never Get The Paper Out. I Must Have An Experienced Writer By

Me."

 

Then He Dropped His Voice,  And Mike Heard Nothing Till Frank Said--

 

"That Cad Fletcher Is Still Here; We Don't Speak,  Of Course; We

Passed Each Other On The Staircase The Other Night. If He Doesn't

Chapter 6 Pg 58

Clear Out Soon I'll Have To Turn Him Out. You Know Who He Is--A

Farmer's Son,  And Used To Live In A Little House About A Mile From

Mount Rorke Castle,  On The Side Of The Road."

 

Mike Thrilled With Rage And Hatred.

 

"You Brute! You Fool! You Husband Of A Bar-Girl!--You'll Never Be

Lord Mount Rorke! He That Came From The Palace Shall Go To The

Garret; He That Came From The Little House On The Roadside Shall Go

To The Castle,  You Brute!"

 

And Mike Vowed That He Would Conquer Sloth And Lasciviousness,  And

Outrageously Triumph In The Gaudy,  Foolish World,  And Insult His

Rival With Riches And Even Honour. Then He Heard Lizzie Reproach

Frank For Refusing Her First Request,  And The Foolish Fellow's

Expostulations Suscitated Feelings In Mike Of Intense Satisfaction.

He Smiled Triumphantly When He Heard The Old Man's Talents As

Accountant Referred To.

 

"Father Never Told You About His Failure," Said Lizzie. Then The

Story With All Its Knots Was Laboriously Unravelled.

 

"But," Said The Old Man,  "My Books Were Declared To Be Perfect; I Was

Complimented On My Books; I Was Proud Of Them Books."

 

"Great Scott! The Brother As Sub-Editor,  The Father As Book-Keeper,

The Sister As Wife--It Would Be Difficult To Imagine Anything More

Complete. I'm Sorry For The Paper,  Though;--And My Series,  What A

Hash They'll Make Of It!" Taking The Room In A Glance,  And Imagining

The Others With Every Piece Of Furniture And Every Picture,  He

Thought--"I Give Him A Year,  And Then These Rooms Will Be For Sale. I

Shall Get Them; But I Must Clear Out."

 

He Had Won Four Hundred Pounds Within The Last Week,  And This And His

Share In A Play Which Was Doing Fairly Well In The Provinces,  Had Run

Up His Balance At The Bank Higher Than It Had Ever Stood--To Nearly A

Thousand Pounds.

 

As He Considered His Good Fortune,  A Sudden Desire Of Change Of Scene

Suddenly Sprang Upon Him,  And In Full Revulsion Of Feeling His Mind

Turned From The Long Hours In The Yellow Glare Of Lamp-Light,  The

Staring Faces,  The Heaps Of Gold And Notes,  And The Cards Flying

Silently Around The Empty Space Of Green Baize; From The Long Hours

Spent Correcting And Manipulating Sentences; From The Heat And

Turmoil And Dirt Of London; From Frank Escott And His Family; From

Stinking,  Steamy Restaurants; From The High Flights Of Stairs,  And

The Prostitution Of The Temple. And Like Butterflies Above Two

Flowers,  His Thoughts Hovered In Uncertain Desire Between The

Sanctity Of A Honeymoon With Lily Young In A Fair Enchanted Pavilion

On A Terrace By The Sea,  Near,  But Not Too Near,  White Villas,  In A

Place As Fairylike As A Town Etched By Whistler,  And Some Months Of

Pensive And Abstracted Life,  Full To Overflowing With The Joy And

Eagerness Of Incessant Cerebration; A Summer Spent In A Quiet

Country-Side,  Full Of Field-Paths,  And Hedge-Rows,  And Shadowy

Woodland Lanes--Rich With Red Gables,  Surprises Of Woodbine And Great

Sunflowers--Where He Would Walk Meditatively In The Sunsetting,

Seeing The Village Lads And Lassies Pass,  Interested In Their Homely

Life,  So Resting His Brain After The Day's Labour; Then In His Study

He Would Find The Candles Already Lighted,  The Kettle Singing,  His

Books And His Manuscripts Ready For Three Excellent Hours; Upon His

Face The Night Would Breathe The Rustling Of Leaves And The Rich

Odour Of The Stocks And Tall Lilies,  Until He Closed The Window At

Midnight,  Casting One Long Sad And Regretful Look Upon The Gold

Mysteries Of The Heavens.

 

So His Reverie Ran,  Interrupted By The Conversation In The Next Room.

He Heard His Name Mentioned Frequently. The Situation Was

Embarrassing,  For He Could Not Open A Door Without Being Heard. At

Last He Tramped Boldly Out,  Slamming The Doors After Him,  Leaving A

Note For Frank On The Table In The Passage. It Ran As Follows--"I Am

Leaving Town In A Few Days. I Shall Remove My Things Probably On

Chapter 6 Pg 59

Monday. Much Obliged To You For Your Hospitality; And Now,  Good-Bye."

"That Will Look," He Thought,  "As If I Had Not Overheard His Remarks.

How Glad I Shall Be To Get Away! Oh,  For New Scenes,  New Faces! 'How

Pleasant It Is To Have Money!--Heigh-Ho!--How Pleasant It Is To Have

Money!' Whither Shall I Go? Whither? To Italy,  And Write My Poem? To

Paris Or Norway? I Feel As If I Should Never Care To See This Filthy

Temple Again." Even The Old Dining-Hall,  With Its Flights Of Steps

And Balustrades,  Seemed To Have Lost All Accent Of Romance; But He

Stayed To Watch The Long Flight Of The Pigeons As They Came On

Straightened Wings From The Gables. "What Familiar Birds They Are!

Nothing Is So Like A Woman As A Pigeon; Perhaps That's The Reason

Norton Does Not Like Them. Norton! I Haven't Seen Him For Ages--Since

That Morning...." He Turned Into Pump Court. The Doors Were Wide

Open; And There Was Luggage And Some Packing-Cases On The Landing.

The Floor-Matting Was Rolled,  And The Screen Which Protected From

Draughts The High Canonical Chair In Which Norton Read And Wrote Was

Overthrown. John Was Packing His Portmanteau,  And On Either Side Of

Him There Was A Buddha And Indian Warrior Which He Had Lately

Purchased.

 

"What,  Leaving? Giving Up Your Rooms?"

 

"Yes; I'm Going Down To Sussex. I Do Not Think It Is Worth While

Keeping These Rooms On."

 

Mike Expressed His Regret. Mike Said,  "No One Understands You As I

Do." Herein Lay The Strength Of Mike's Nature; He Won Himself Through

All Reserve,  And Soon John Was Telling Him His State Of Soul: That He

Felt It Would Not Be Right For Him To Countenance With His Presence

Any Longer The Atheism And Immorality Of The Temple. Lady Helen's

Death Had Come For A Warning. "After The Burning Of My Poems,  After

Having Sacrificed So Much,  It Was Indeed A Pitiful Thing To Find

Myself One Of That Shocking Revel Which Had Culminated In The Death

Of That Woman."

 

"There He Goes Again," Thought Mike,  "Running After His Conscience

Like A Dog After His Tail--A Performing Dog,  Too; One That Likes An

Audience." And To Stimulate The Mental Antics In Which He Was So Much

Interested,  He Said,  "Do You Believe She Is In Hell?"

 

"I Refrain From Judging Her. She May Have Repented In The Moment Of

Death. God Is Her Judge. But I Shall Never Forget That Morning; And I

Feel That My Presence At Your Party Imposes On Me Some Measure Of

Responsibility. As For You,  Mike,  I Really Think You Ought To

Consider Her Fate As An Omen. It Was You ..."

 

"For Goodness' Sake,  Don't. It Was Frank Who Invented The Notion That

She Killed Herself Because I Had Been Flirting With Her. I Never

Heard Of Anything So Ridiculous. I Protest. You Know The Absurdly

Sentimental View He Takes. It Is Grossly Unfair."

 

Knowing Well How To Interest John,  Mike Defended Himself

Passionately,  As If He Were Really Concerned To Place His Soul In A

True Light; And Twenty Minutes Were Agreeably Spent In Sampling,

Classifying,  And Judging Of Motives. Then The Conversation Turned On

The Morality Of Women,  And Mike Judhave Inclined Their Ear To Its Voice! The Dwellers Of The

Kingdom Of Names Have Busied Themselves With The Gay Livery Of The World,

Forgetful That Every Man That Hath Eyes To Perceive And Ears To Hear

Cannot But Readily Recognize How Evanescent Are Its Colors.

 

A New Life Is,  In This Age,  Stirring Within All The Peoples Of The Earth;

And Yet None Hath Discovered Its Cause Or Perceived Its Motive. Consider

The Peoples Of The West. Witness How,  In Their Pursuit Of That Which Is

Vain And Trivial,  They Have Sacrificed,  And Are Still Sacrificing,

Countless Lives For The Sake Of Its Establishment And Promotion. The

Peoples Of Persia,  On The Other Hand,  Though The Repository Of A

Perspicuous And Luminous Revelation,  The Glory Of Whose Loftiness And

Renown Hath Encompassed The Whole Earth,  Are Dispirited And Sunk In Deep

Lethargy.

 

O Friends! Be Not Careless Of The Virtues With Which Ye Have Been Endowed,

Chapter 6 Pg 60

Neither Be Neglectful Of Your High Destiny. Suffer Not Your Labors To Be

Wasted Through The Vain Imaginations Which Certain Hearts Have Devised. Ye

Are The Stars Of The Heaven Of Understanding,  The Breeze That Stirreth At

The Break Of Day,  The Soft-Flowing Waters Upon Which Must Depend The Very

Life Of All Men,  The Letters Inscribed Upon His Sacred Scroll. With The

Utmost Unity,  And In A Spirit Of Perfect Fellowship,  Exert Yourselves,

That Ye May Be Enabled To Achieve That Which Beseemeth This Day Of God.

Verily I Say,  Strife And Dissension,  And Whatsoever The Mind Of Man

Abhorreth Are Entirely Unworthy Of His Station. Center Your Energies In

The Propagation Of The Faith Of God. Whoso Is Worthy Of So High A Calling,

Let Him Arise And Promote It. Whoso Is Unable,  It Is His Duty To Appoint

Him Who Will,  In His Stead,  Proclaim This Revelation,  Whose Power Hath

Caused The Foundations Of The Mightiest Structures To Quake,  Every

Mountain To Be Crushed Into Dust,  And Every Soul To Be Dumbfounded. Should

The Greatness Of This Day Be Revealed In Its Fullness,  Every Man Would

Forsake A Myriad Lives In His Longing To Partake,  Though It Be For One

Moment,  Of Its Great Glory--How Much More This World And Its Corruptible

Treasures!

 

Be Ye Guided By Wisdom In All Your Doings,  And Cleave Ye Tenaciously Unto

It. Please God Ye May All Be Strengthened To Carry Out That Which Is The

Will Of God,  And May Be Graciously Assisted To Appreciate The Rank

Conferred Upon Such Of His Loved Ones As Have Arisen To Serve Him And

Magnify His Name. Upon Them Be The Glory Of God,  The Glory Of All That Is

In The Heavens And All That Is On The Earth,  And The Glory Of The Inmates

Of The Most Exalted Paradise,  The Heaven Of Heavens.

 

 

Consider The Doubts Which They Who Have Joined Partners With God Have

Instilled Into The Hearts Of The People Of This Land. "Is It Ever

Possible," They Ask,  "For Copper To Be Transmuted Into Gold?" Say,  Yes,  By

My Lord,  It Is Possible. Its Secret,  However,  Lieth Hidden In Our

Knowledge. We Will Reveal It Unto Whom We Will. Whoso Doubteth Our Power,

Let Him Ask The Lord His God,  That He May Disclose Unto Him The Secret,

And Assure Him Of Its Truth. That Copper Can Be Turned Into Gold Is In

Itself Sufficient Proof That Gold Can,  In Like Manner,  Be Transmuted Into

Copper,  If They Be Of Them That Can Apprehend This Truth. Every Mineral

Can Be Made To Acquire The Density,  Form,  And Substance Of Each And Every

Other Mineral. The Knowledge Thereof Is With Us In The Hidden Book.

 

 

 

Say: O Leaders Of Religion! Weigh Not The Book Of God With Such Standards

And Sciences As Are Current Amongst You,  For The Book Itself Is The

Unerring Balance Established Amongst Men. In This Most Perfect Balance

Whatsoever The Peoples And Kindreds Of The Earth Possess Must Be Weighed,

While The Measure Of Its Weight Should Be Tested According To Its Own

Standard,  Did Ye But Know It.

 

 

Chapter 6 Pg 61

 

The Eye Of My Loving-Kindness Weepeth Sore Over You,  Inasmuch As Ye Have

Failed To Recognize S He To View This Strange Death As A Symbol,

As A Sign? And If She Had Not Been Killed? If He Had Married Her? To

Escape From These Assaults Of Conscience He Buried His Mind In His

Books And Writings,  Not In His History Of Christian Latin,  For Now

His History Of Those Writers Appeared To Him Sterile,  And He

Congratulated Himself That He Had Outgrown Love Of Such Paradoxes.

 

Solemn,  And With The Great Curves Of Palms,  The Sky Arched Above

Them,  And All The Coombes Filled With All The Mystery Of Evening

Shadow,  And All Around Lay The Sea--A Rim Of Sea Illimitable.

 

At The End Of A Long Silence Mike Spoke Of His Poem.

 

"You Must Have Written A Good Deal Of It By This Time."

 

"No,  I Have Written Very Little;" And Then Yielding To His Desire To

Astonish,  Confessed He Was Working At A Trilogy On The Life Of

Christ,  And Had Already Decided The Main Lines And Incidents Of The

Three Plays. His Idea Was The Disintegration Of The Legend,  Which Had

United Under A Godhead Certain Socialistic Aspirations Then Prevalent

In Judæa. In His First Play,  _John_,  He Introduces Two Reformers,  One

Of Whom Is Assassinated By John; The Second Perishes In A Street

Broil,  Leaving The Field Free For The Triumph Of Jesus Of Nazareth.

In The Second Play,  _Jesus_,  He Tells The Story Of Jesus And The

Magdalene. She Throws Over Her Protector,  One Of The Rabbi,  And

Refuses Her Admirer,  Judas,  For Jesus. The Rabbi Plots To Destroy

Jesus,  And Employs Judas. In The Third Play,  _Peter_,  He Pictures The

Struggle Of The New Idea In Pagan Rome,  And It Ends In Peter Flying

From Rome To Escape Crucifixion; But Outside The City He Sees Christ

Carrying His Cross,  And Christ Says He Is Going To Be Crucified A

Second Time,  Whereupon Peter Returns To Rome.

 

As They Descended The Rough Chalk Road Into The Weald,  John Said,  "I

Have Sacrificed Much For My Religion. I Think,  Therefore,  I Have A

Right To Say That It Is Hard That My House Should Be Selected For The

Manufacture Of Blasphemous Trilogies."

 

Knowing That Argument Would Profit Him Nothing,  Mike Allayed John's

Heaving Conscience With Promises Not To Write Another Line Of The

Trilogy,  And To Devote Himself Entirely To His Poem. At The End Of A

Long Silence,  John Said--

 

"Now The Very Name Of Schopenhauer Revolts Me. I Accept Nothing Of

His Ideas. From That Ridiculous Pessimism I Have Drifted Very Far

Indeed. Pessimism Is Impossible. To Live We Must Have An Ideal,  And

Pessimism Offers None. So Far It Is Inferior Even To Positivism."

 

"Pessimism Offers No Ideal! It Offers The Highest--Not To Create Life

Is The Only Good; The Creation Of Life Is The Only Evil; All Else

Which Man In His Bestial Stupidity Calls Good And Evil Is Ephemeral

And Illusionary."

 

"Schopenhauer's Arguments Against Suicide Are Not Valid,  That You

Admit,  Therefore It Is Impossible For The Pessimist To Justify His

Continued Existence."

 

"Pardon Me,  The Diffusion Of The Principle Of Sufficient Reason Can

Alone End This World,  And We Are Justified In Living In Order That By

Example And Precept We May Dissuade Others From The Creation Of Life.

The Incomparable Stupidity Of Life Teaches Us To Love Our

Parents--Divine Philosophy Teaches Us To Forgive Them."

 

That Evening Mike Played Numerous Games Of Backgammon With Mrs.

Norton; Talked Till Two In The Morning To John Of Literature,  And

Deplored The Burning Of The Poems,  And Besought Him To Write Them

Again,  And To Submit Them,  If Need Be,  To A Bishop. He Worked Hard To

Obliterate The Effect Of His Foolish Confidences; For He Was Very

Happy In This Large Country House,  Full Of Unexpected Impressions For

Him. On The Wide Staircases He Stopped,  Tense With Sensations Of

Chapter 6 Pg 62

Space,  Order,  And Ample Life. He Was Impressed By The Timely Meals,

Conducted By Well-Trained Servants; And He Found It Pleasant To Pass

From The House Into The Richly-Planted Garden,  And To See The

Coachman Washing The Carriage,  The Groom Scraping Out The Horse's

Hooves,  The Horse Tied To The High Wall,  The Cowman Stumping About

The Rick-Yard--Indeed All The Homely Work Always In Progress.

 

Sometimes He Did Not Come Down To Lunch,  And Continued His Work Till

Late In The Afternoon. At Five He Had Tea In The Drawing-Room With

Mrs. Norton,  And Afterwards Went Out To Gather Flowers In The Garden

With Her,  Or He Walked Around The House With John,  Listening To His

Plans For The Architectural Reformation Of His Residence.

 

Mike Had Now Been A Month At Thornby Place. He Was Enchanted With

This Country-Side,  And Seeing It Lent Itself To His Pleasure--In

Other Words,  That It Was Necessary To His State Of Mind--He Strove,

And With Insidious Inveiglements,  To Win It,  To Cajole It,  To Make It

Part And Parcel Of Himself. But Its People Were Reserved.

Instinctively Mike Attacked The Line And The Point Of Least

Resistance,  And The Point Of Least Resistance Lay About Three Miles

Distant. A Young Squire--A Young Man Of Large Property And An

Unimpeachable Position In The County--Lived There In A Handsome House

With His Three Sisters. His Life Consisted In Rabbit-Shooting And

Riding Out Every Morning To See His Sheep Upon The Downs. He Was The

Rare Man Who Does Not Desire Himself Other Than He Is. But Content,

Though An Unmixed Blessing To Its Possessor,  Is Not An Attractive

Quality,  And Mr. Dallas Stood Sorely In Need Of A Friend. He Loved

His Sisters,  But To Spend Every Evening In Their Society Was

Monotonous,  And He Felt,  And They Felt Still More Keenly,  That A Nice

Young Man Would Create An Interest That At Present Was Wanting In

Country Life. Mike Had Heard Of This Young Squire And His Sisters,

And Had Long Desired To Meet Him. But They Had Paid Their Yearly

Visit To Thornby Place,  And He Could Not Persuade John To Go To Holly

Park.

 

One Day Riding On The Downs,  Mike Inquired The Way To Henfield Of A

Young Man Who Passed Him Riding A Bay Horse. The Question Was

Answered Curtly--So Curtly That Mike Thought The Stranger Could Not

Be Led Into Conversation. In This He Was Mistaken,  And At The End Of

Half A Mile Felt He Had Succeeded In Interesting His Companion. As

They Descended Into The Weald,  Mike Told Him He Was Stopping At

Thornby Place,  And The Young Squire Told Him He Was Mr. Dallas. When

About To Part,  Mike Asked To Be Directed To The Nearest Inn,

Complaining That He Was Dying Of Thirst,  For He Wished To Give Mr.

Dallas An Excuse For Asking Him To His House. Mr. Dallas Availed

Himself Of The Excuse; And Mike Prayed That He Might Find The Ladies

At Home. They Were In The Drawing-Room. The Piano Was Played,  And

Amid Tea And Muffins,  Tennis Was Discussed,  Allusions Were Made To

Man's Inconstancy.

 

Mike Left No Uncertainty Regarding His Various Qualities. He Liked

Hunting As Much As Shooting,  And Having Regard For The Season Of The

Year,  He Laid Special Stress Upon His Love For,  And His Prowess In,

The Game Of Tennis. A Week Later He Received An Invitation To Tennis.

Henceforth He Rode Over Frequently To Holly Park. He Was Sometimes

Asked To Stay The Night,  And An Impression Was Gaining Ground There

That Life Was Pleasanter With Him Than Without Him.

 

When He Was Not There The Squire Missed The Morning Ride And The Game

Of Billiards In The Evening,  And The Companion To Whom He Could Speak

Of His Sheep And His Lambs. Mike Listened To The Little Troubles Of

Each Sister In The Back Garden,  Never Failing To Evince The

Profoundest Sympathy. He Was Surprised To Find That He Enjoyed These

Conversations Just As Much As A Metaphysical Disquisition With John

Norton. "I Am Not Pretending," He Often Said To Himself; "It Is Quite

True;" And Then He Added Philosophically,  "Were I Not Interested In

Them I Should Not Succeed In Interesting Them."

 

The Brother,  The Sisters,  The Servants,  Even The Lap-Dog Shared In

The Pleasure. The Maid-Servants Liked To Meet His Tall Figure In The

Passages; The Young Ladies Loved To Look Into His Tender Eyes When

Chapter 6 Pg 63

They Came In From Their Walk And Found Him In The Drawing-Room.

 

To Touch Mike's Skin Was To Touch His Soul,  And Even The Yorkshire

Terrier Was Sensible Of Its Gentleness,  And Soon Preferred Of All

Places To Doze Under His Hand. Mike Came Into Dallas' Room In The

Morning When He Was Taking His Bath; He Hung Around The Young Ladies'

Rooms,  Speaking Through The Half-Open Doors; Then When The Doors Were

Open,  The Young Ladies Fled And Wrapped Themselves In Dressing-Gowns.

He Felt His Power; And By Insidious Intimations,  By Looks,  Words,

Projects For Pleasure,  Presents,  Practical Jokes,  Books,  And Talks

About Books,  He Proceeded Joyously In His Corruption Of The Entire

Household.

 

Naturally Mike Rode His Host's Horses,  And He Borrowed His Spurs,

Breeches,  Boots,  And Hunting-Whip. And When He Began To Realize What

An Excellent Pretext Hunting Is For Making Friends,  And Staying In

Country Houses,  He Bought A Couple Of Horses,  Which He Kept At Holly

Park Free Of Cost. He Had Long Since Put Aside His Poem And His

Trilogy,  And Now Thought Of Nothing But Shooting And Riding. He Could

Throw His Energies Into Anything,  From Writing A Poem To Playing

Chuck-Farthing.

 

The First Meet Of The Hounds Was At Thornby Place,  And In The Vain

Hope Of Marrying Her Son,  Mrs. Norton Had Invited The Young Girls Of

The Entire Country-Side. Lady Edith Downsdale Was Especially Included

In Her Designs; But John Instantly Vetoed Her Hopes By Asking Mike To

Take Lady Edith In To Lunch. She Stood Holding Her Habit; And Feeling

The Necessity Of Being Brilliant,  Mike Said,  Pointing To The Hounds

And Horses--

 

"How Strange It Is That That Is Of No Interest To The Artist! I

Suppose Because It Is Only Parade; Whereas A Bit Of Lane With A

Wind-Blown Hedge Is A Human Emotion,  And That Is Always Interesting."

 

Soon After,  A Fox Was Found In The Plantation That Rimmed The Lawn,

And Seeing That Lady Edith Was Watching Him,  Mike Risked A Fall Over

Some High Wattles; And This Was The Only Notice He Took Of Her Until

Late In The Afternoon,  Until All Hope Of Hunting Was Ended. A Fox Had

Been "Chopped" In Cover,  Another Had Been Miserably Coursed And

Killed In A Back Garden. He Strove To Make Himself Agreeable While

Riding With Her Along The Hillsides,  Watching The Huntsman Trying

Each Patch Of Gorse In The Coombes. She Seemed To Him Splendid And

Charming,  And He Wondered If He Could Love Her--Marry Her,  And Never

Grow Weary Of Her. But When The Hounds Found In A Large Wood Beneath

The Hills,  And Streamed Across The Meadows,  He Forgot Her,  And Making

His Horse Go In And Out He Fought For A Start. A Hundred And Fifty

Were Cantering Down A Steep Muddy Lane; A Horseman Who Had Come

Across The Field Strove To Open A Strong Farm-Gate. "It Is Locked,"

He Roared; "Jump." The Lane Was Steep And Greasy,  The Gate Was Four

Feet And A Half. Mike Rode At It. The Animal Dropped His Hind-Legs,

Mike Heard The Gate Rattle,  And A Little Ejaculatory Cry Come From

Those He Left Behind. It Was A Close Shave. Turning In His Saddle He

Saw The Immense Crowd Pressing About The Gate,  Which Could Not Be

Opened,  And He Knew Very Well That He Would Have The Hounds To

Himself For Many A Mile.

 

He Raced Alone Across The Misty Pasture Lands,  Full Of Winter Water

And Lingering Leaf; The Lofty Downs Like Sea Cliffs,  Appearing

Through Great White Masses Of Curling Vapour. And All The Episodes Of

That Day--The Great Ox Fences Which His Horse Flew,  Going Like A Bird

From Field To Field; The Awkward Stile,  The Various Brooks,--That One

Overgrown With Scrub Which His Horse Had Refused--Thrilled Him. And

When The Day Was Done,  As He Rode Through The Gathering Night,

Inquiring Out The Way Down Many A Deep And Wooded Lane,  Happiness

Sang Within Him,  And Like A Pure Animal He Enjoyed The Sensation Of

Life,  And He Intoxicated On The Thoughts Of The Friends That Would

Have Been His,  The Women And The Numberless Pleasures And Adventures

He Could Have Engaged In,  Were He Not Obliged To Earn Money,  Or Were

Not Led Away From Them "By His Accursed Literary Tastes."

 

Should He Marry One Of The Sisters? Ridiculous! But What Was There To

Chapter 6 Pg 64

Do? To-Day He Was Nearly Thirty; In Ten Years He Would Be A

Middle-Aged Man; And,  Alas! For He Felt In Him Manifold Resources,

Sufficient Were He To Live For Five Hundred Years. Must He Marry

Agnes? He Might If She Was A Peeress In Her Own Right! Or Should He

Win A Peerage For Himself By Some Great Poem,  Or By Some Great

Political Treachery? No,  No; He Wanted Nothing Better Than To Live

Always Strong And Joyous In This Corner Of Fair England; And To Be

Always Loved By Girls,  And To Be Always Talked Of By Them About Their

Tea-Tables. Oh,  For A Cup Of Tea And A Slice Of Warm Buttered Toast!

 

A Good Hour's Ride Yawned Between Him And Holly Park,  But By Crossing

The Downs It Might Be Reduced To Three-Quarters Of An Hour. He

Hesitated,  Fearing He Might Miss His Way In The Fog,  But The

Tea-Table Lured Him. He Resolved To Attempt It,  And Forced His Horse

Up A Slightly Indicated Path,  Which He Hoped Would Led Him To A

Certain Barn. High Above Him A Horseman,  Faint As The Shadow Of A

Bird,  Made His Way Cantering Briskly. Mike Strove To Overtake Him,

But Suddenly Missed Him: Behind Him The Pathway Was Disappearing.

 

Fearing He Might Have To Pass A Night On The Downs,  He Turned His

Horse's Head; But The Animal Was Obdurate,  And A Moment After He Was

Lost. He Said,  "Great Scott! Where Am I? Where Did This Ploughed

Field Come From? I Must Be Near The Dike." Then Thinking That He

Recognized The Headland,  He Rode In A Different Direction,  But Was

Stopped By A Paling And A Chalk-Pit,  And,  Riding Round It,  He Guessed

The Chalk-Pit Must Be Fifty Feet Deep. Strange White Patches,

Fabulous Hillocks,  And Distortions Of Ground Loomed Through The White

Darkness; And A Valley Opened On His Right So Steep That He Was

Afraid To Descend Into It. Very Soon Minutes Became Hours And Miles

Became Leagues.

 

"There's Nothing For It But To Lie Under A Furze-Bush." With Two

Pocket-Handkerchiefs He Tied His Horse's Fore-Legs Close Together,

And Sat Down And Lit A Cigar. The Furze-Patch Was Quite Hollow

Underneath And Almost Dry.

 

"It Is Nearly Full Moon," He Said; "Were It Not For That It Would Be

Pitch Dark. Good Lord! Thirteen Hours Of This; I Wish I Had Never

Been Born!"

 

He Had Not,  However,  Finished His First Cigar Before A Horse's Head

And Shoulders Pushed Through The Mist. Mike Sprang To His Feet.

 

"Can You Tell Me The Way Off These Infernal Downs?" He Cried. "Oh,  I

Beg Your Pardon,  Lady Edith."

 

"Oh,  Is That You,  Mr. Fletcher? I Have Lost My Way And My Groom Too.

I Am Awfully Frightened; I Missed Him Of A Sudden In The Fog. What

Shall I Do? Can You Tell Me The Way?"

 

"Indeed I Cannot; If I Knew The Way I Should Not Be Sitting Under

This Furze-Bush."

 

"What Shall We Do? I Must Get Home."

 

"It Is Very Terrible,  Lady Edith,  But I'm Afraid You Will Not Be Able

To Get Home Till The Fog Lifts."

 

"But I Must Get Home. I Must! I Must! What Will They Think? They'll

Be Sending Out To Look For Me. Won't You Come With Me,  Mr. Fletcher,

And Help Me To Find The Way?"

 

"I Will,  Of Course,  Do Anything You Like; But I Warn You,  Lady Edith,

That Riding About These Downs In A Fog Is Most Dangerous; I As Nearly

As Possible Went Over A Chalk-Pit Fifty Feet Deep."

 

"Oh,  Mr. Fletcher,  I Must Get Home; I Cannot Stay Here All Night; It

Is Ridiculous."

 

They Talked So For A Few Minutes. Then Amid Many Protestations Lady

Edith Was Induced To Dismount. He Forced Her To Drink,  And To

Chapter 6 Pg 65

Continue Sipping From His Hunting-Flask,  Which Was Fortunately Full

Of Brandy; And When She Said She Was No Longer Cold,  He Put His Arm

About Her,  And They Talked Of Their Sensations On First Seeing Each

Other.

 

Three Small Stones,  Two Embedded In The Ground,  The Third,  A Large

Flint,  Lay Close Where The Grass Began,  And The Form Of A Bush Was

Faint On The Heavy White Blanket In Which The World Was Wrapped. A

Rabbit Crept Through The Furze And Frightened Them,  And They Heard

The Horses Browsing.

 

Mike Declared He Could Say When She Had Begun To Like Him.

 

"You Remember You Were Standing By The Sideboard Holding Your Habit

Over Your Boots; I Brought You A Glass Of Champagne,  And You Looked

At Me...."

 

She Told Him Of Her Troubles Since She Had Left School. He Related

The Story Of His Own Precarious Fortunes; And As They Lay Dreaming Of

Each Other,  The Sound Of Horse's Hoofs Came Through The Darkness.

 

"Oh,  Do Cry Out,  Perhaps They Will Be Able To Tell Us The Way."

 

"Do You Want To Leave Me?"

 

"No,  No,  But I Must Get Home; What Will Father Think?"

 

Mike Shouted,  And His Shout Was Answered.

 

"Where Are You?" Asked The Unknown.

 

"Here," Said Mike.

 

"Where Is Here?"

 

"By The Furze-Bush."

 

"Where Is The Furze-Bush?"

 

It Was Difficult To Explain,  And The Voice Grew Fainter. Then It

Seemed To Come From A Different Side.

 

Mike Shouted Again And Again,  And At Last A Horseman Loomed Like A

Nightmare Out Of The Dark. It Was Parker,  Lady Edith's Groom.

 

"Oh,  Parker,  How Did You Miss Me? I Have Been Awfully Frightened; I

Don't Know What I Should Have Done If I Had Not Met Mr. Fletcher."

 

"I Was Coming Round That Barn,  My Lady; You Set Off At A Trot,  My

Lady,  And A Cloud Of Fog Came Between Us."

 

"Yes,  Yes; But Do You Know The Way Home?"

 

"I Think,  My Lady,  We Are Near The Dike; But I Wouldn't Be Certain."

 

"I Nearly As Possible Rode Into A Chalk-Pit," Said Mike. "Unpleasant

As It Is,  I Think We Had Better Remain Where We Are Until It Clears."

 

"Oh,  No,  No,  We Cannot Remain Here; We Might Walk And Lead The

Horses."

 

"Very Well,  You Get On Your Horse; I'll Lead."

 

"No,  No," She Whispered,  "Give Me Your Arm,  And I'll Walk."

 

They Walked In The Bitter,  Hopeless Dark,  Stumbling Over The Rough

Ground,  The Groom Following With The Horses. But Soon Lady Edith

Stopped,  And Leaning Heavily On Mike,  Said--

 

"I Can Go No Further; I Wish I Were Dead!"

 

Chapter 6 Pg 66

"Dead! No,  No," He Whispered; "Live For My Sake,  Darling."

 

At That Moment The Gable Of A Barn Appeared Like An Apparition. The

Cattle Which Were Lying In The Yard Started From Under The Horses'

Feet,  And Stood Staring In Round-Eyed Surprise. The Barn Was Half

Full Of Hay,  And In The Dry Pungent Odour Mike And Lady Edith Rested

An Hour. Sometimes A Bullock Filled The Doorway With Ungainly Form

And Steaming Nostrils; Sometimes The Lips Of The Lovers Met. In About

Half An Hour The Groom Returned With The News That The Fog Was

Lifting,  And Discovering A Cart-Track,  They Followed It Over The

Hills For Many A Mile.

 

"There Is Horton Borstal," Cried Parker,  As They Entered A Deep

Cutting Overgrown With Bushes. "I Know My Way Now,  My Lady; We Are

Seven Miles From Home."

 

When He Bade Lady Edith Good-Bye,  Mike's Mind Thrilled With A Sense

Of Singular Satisfaction. Here Was An Adventure Which Seemed To Him

Quite Perfect; It Had Been Preceded By No Wearisome Preliminaries,

And He Was Not Likely Ever To See Her Again.

 

Weeks And Months Passed,  And The Simple-Minded Country Folk With Whom

He Had Taken Up His Abode Seemed More Thoroughly Devoted To Him; The

Anchor Of Their Belief Seemed Now Deeply Grounded,  And In The

Peaceful Bay Of Their Affection His Bark Floated,  Safe From

Shipwrecking Current Or Storm. There Was Neither Subterfuge Or

Duplicity In Mike; He Was Always Singularly Candid On The Subject Of

His Sins And General Worthlessness,  And He Was Never More Natural In

Word And Deed Than At Holly Park. If Its Inmates Had Been Reasonable

They Would Have Cast Him Forth; But Reason Enters Hardly At All In

The Practical Conduct Of Human Life,  And Our Loves And Friendships

Owe To It Neither Origin Or Modification.

 

It Was A House Of Copious Meals And Sleep. Mike Stirred These

Sluggish Livers,  And They Accepted Him As A Digestive; And They

Amused Him,  And He Only Dreamed Vaguely Of Leaving Them Until He

Found His Balance At The Bank Had Fallen Very Low. Then He Packed Up

His Portmanteau And Left Them,  And When He Walked Down The Strand He

Had Forgotten Them And All Country Pursuits,  And Wanted To Talk Of

Journalism; And He Would Have Welcomed The Obscurest Paragraphist.

Suddenly He Saw Frank; And Turning From A Golden-Haired Actress Who

Was Smiling Upon Him,  He Said--

 

"How Do You Do?" The Men Shook Hands,  And Stood Constrainedly Talking

For A Few Minutes; Then Mike Suggested Lunch,  And They Turned Into

Lubini's. The Proprietor,  A Dapper Little Man,  More Like A Rich Man's

Valet Than A Waiter,  Whose Fat Fingers Sparkled With Rings,  Sat

Sipping Sherry And Reading The Racing Intelligence To A Lord Who

Offered To Toss Him For Half-Crowns.

 

"Now Then,  Lubi," Cried The Lord,  "Which Is It? Come On; Just This

Once."

 

Lubi Demurred. "You Toss Too Well For Me; Last Night You Did Win

Seven Times Running--Damn!"

 

"Come On,  Lubi; Here It Is Flat On The Table."

 

Mike Longed To Pull His Money Out Of His Pocket,  But He Had Not Been

On Terms With Lubi Since He Had Called Him A _Marchand De Soupe_,  An

Insult Which Lubi Had Not Been Able To Forgive,  And It Was The

Restaurateur's Women-Folk Who Welcomed Him Back To Town After His

Long Absence.

 

"What An Air Of Dissipation,  Hilarity,  And Drink There Is About The

Place!" Said Mike. "Look!" And His Eyes Rested On Two Gross

Men--Music-Hall Singers--Who Sat With Their Agent,  Sipping

Chartreuse. "Three Years Ago," He Said,  "They Were Crying Artichokes

In An Alley,  And The Slum Is Still Upon Their Faces."

 

No One Else Was In The Long Gallery Save The Waiters,  Who Dozed Far

Chapter 6 Pg 67

Away In The Mean Twilight Of The Glass-Roofing.

 

"How Jolly It Is," Said Mike,  "To Order Your Own Dinner! Let's Have

Some Oysters--Three Dozen. We'll Have A Chateaubriand--What Do You

Say? And An Omelette Soufflée--What Do You Think? And A Bottle Of

Champagne. Waiter,  Bring Me The Wine-List."

 

Frank Had Spoken To Mike Because He Felt Lonely; The World Had Turned

A Harsh Face On Him. Lord Mount Rorke Had Married,  And The Paper Was

Losing Its Circulation.

 

"And How Is The Paper Going?"

 

"Pretty Well; Just The Same As Usual. Do You Ever See It? What Do You

Think Of My Articles?"

 

"Your Continuation Of My Series,  _Lions Of The Season?_ Very Good; I

Only Saw One Or Two. I Have Been Living In The Country,  And Have

Hardly Seen A Paper For The Last Year And A Half. You Can't Imagine

The Life I Have Been Leading. Nice Kind People 'Tis True; I Love

Them,  But They Never Open A Book. That Is All Very Nice For A

Time--For Three Months,  For Six,  For A Year--But After That You Feel

A Sense Of Alienation Stealing Over You."

 

Mike Saw That Frank Had Only Met With Failure; So He Was Tempted To

Brandish His Successes. He Gave A Humorous Description Of His

Friends--How He Had Picked Them Up; How They Had Supplied Him With

Horses To Ride And Guns To Shoot With.

 

"And What About The Young Ladies? Were They Included In The

Hospitality?"

 

"They Included Themselves. How Delicious Love In A Country House

Is!--And How Different From Other Love It Is,  To Follow A Girl

Dressed For Dinner Into The Drawing-Room Or Library,  And To Take Her

By The Waist,  To Feel A Head Leaning Towards You And A Mouth Closing

Upon Yours! Above All,  When The Room Is In Darkness--Better Still In

The Firelight--The Light Of The Fire On Her Neck.... How Good These

Oysters Are! Have Some More Champagne."

 

Then,  In A Sudden Silence,  A Music-Hall Gent Was Heard To Say That

Some One Was A Splendid Woman,  Beautifully Developed.

 

"Now Then,  Lubi,  Old Man,  I Toss You For A Sovereign," Cried A Lord,

Who Looked Like A Sandwich-Man In His Ample Driving-Coat.

 

"You No More Toss With Me,  I Have Done With You; You Too Sharp For

Me."

 

"What! Are You Going To Cut Me? Are You Going To Warn Me Off Your

Restaurant?"

 

Roars Of Laughter Followed,  And The Lions Of Song Gazed In Admiration

On The Lord.

 

"I May Be Hard Up," Cried The Lord; "But I'm Damned If I Ever Look

Hard Up; Do I,  Lubi?"

 

"Since You Turn Up Head When You Like,  Why Should You Look Hard Up?"

 

"You Want Us To Believe You Are A 'Mug,' Lubi,  That's About It,  But

It Won't Do. 'Mugs' Are Rare Nowadays. I Don't Know Where To Go And

Look For Them.... I Say,  Lubi," And He Whispered Something In The

Restaurateur's Ear,  "If You Know Of Any Knocking About,  Bring Them

Down To My Place; You Shall Stand In."

 

"Damn Me! You Take Me For A Pump,  Do You? You Get Out!"

 

The Genial Lord Roared The More,  And Assured Lubi He Meant "Mugs,"

And Offered To Toss Him For A Sovereign.

Chapter 6 Pg 68

"How Jolly This Is!" Said Mike. "I'm Dying For A Gamble; I Feel As If

I Could Play As I Never Played Before. I Have All The Cards In My

Mind's Eye. By George! I Wish I Could Get Hold Of A 'Mug,' I'd Fleece

Him To The Tune Of Five Hundred Before He Knew Where He Was. But Look

At That Woman! She's Not Bad."

 

"A Great Coarse Creature Like That! I Never Could Understand You....

Have You Heard Of Lily Young Lately?"

 

Mike's Face Fell.

 

"No," He Said,  "I Have Not. She Is The Only Woman I Ever Loved. I

Would Sooner See Her Than The Green Cloth. I Really Believe I Love

That Girl. Somehow I Cannot Forget Her."

 

"Well,  Come And See Her To-Day. Take Your Eyes Off That Disgusting

Harlot."

 

"No,  Not To-Day," He Replied,  Without Removing His Eyes. Five Minutes

After He Said,  "Very Well,  I Will Go. I Must See Her."

 

The Waiter Was Called,  The Bill Was Paid,  A Hansom Was Hailed,  And

They Were Rolling Westward. In The Pleasure Of This Little

Expedition,  Mike's Rankling Animosity Was Almost Forgotten. He Said--

 

"I Love This Drive West; I Love To See London Opening Up,  As It Were,

Before The Wheels Of The Hansom--Trafalgar Square,  The Clubs,  Pall

Mall,  St. James' Street,  Piccadilly,  The Descent,  And Then The

Gracious Ascent Beneath The Trees. You See How I Anticipate It All."

 

"Do You Remember That Morning When Lady Helen Committed Suicide? What

Did You Think Of My Article?"

 

"I Didn't See It. I Should Have Liked To Have Written About It; But

You Said That I Wouldn't Write Feelingly."

 

Mrs. Young Hardly Rose From Her Sofa; But She Welcomed Them In

Plaintive Accents. Lily Showed Less Astonishment And Pleasure At

Seeing Him Than Mike Expected. She Was Talking To A Lady,  Who Was

Subsequently Discovered To Be The Wife Of A Strange Fat Man,  Who,  In

His Character Of Orientalist,  Squatted Upon The Lowest Seat In The

Room,  And Wore A Velvet Turban On His Head,  A Voluminous Overcoat

Circulating About Him.

 

"As I Said To Lady Hazeldean Last Night--I Hope Mr. Gladstone Did Not

Hear Me,  He Was Talking To Lady Engleton Dixon About Divorce,  I

Really Hope He Did Not Hear Me--But I Really Couldn't Help Saying

That I Thought It Would Be Better If He Believed Less In The Divorce

Of Nations,  Even If I May Not Add That He Might With Advantage

Believe More In The Divorce Of Persons Not Suited To Each Other."

 

When The Conversation Turned On Arabi,  Which It Never Failed To Do In

This House,  The Perfume-Burners That Had Been Presented To Her And

Mr. Young On Their Triumphal Tour Were Pointed Out.

 

"I Telegraphed To Dilke," Said Sir Joseph,  "'You Must Not Hang That

Man.' And When Mrs. Young Accused Him Of Not Taking Sufficient

Interest In Africa,  He Said--'My Dear Mrs. Young,  I Not Interested In

Africa! You Forget What I Have Done For Africa; How I Have Laboured

For Africa. I Shall Not Believe In The Synthesis Of Humanity,  Nor

Will It Be Complete,  Till We Get The Black Votes.'"

 

"Mr. Young And Lord Granville Used To Have Such Long Discussions

About Buddhism,  And It Always Used To End In Mr. Young Sending A Copy

Of Your Book To Lord Granville."

 

"A Very Great Distinction For Me--A Very Great Distinction For Me,"

Murmured Buddha; And Allowing Mrs. Young To Relieve Him Of His

Tea-Cup,  He Said--"And Now,  Mrs. Young,  I Want To Ask For Your

Support And Co-Operation In A Little Scheme--A Little Scheme Which I

Have Been Nourishing Like A Rose In My Bosom For Some Years."

Chapter 6 Pg 69

Sir Joseph Raised His Voice; And It Was Not Until He Had Imposed

Silence On His Wife That He Consented To Unfold His Little Scheme.

 

Then The Fat Man Explained That In A Certain Province In Cylone (A

Name Of Six Syllables) There Was A Temple,  And This Temple Had

Belonged In The Sixth Century To A Tribe Of Buddhists (A Name Of

Seven Syllables),  And This Temple Had In The Eighth Century Been

Taken From The Buddhists By A Tribe Of Brahmins (A Name Of Eight

Syllables).

 

"And Not Being Mr. Gladstone," Said Sir Joseph,  "I Do Not Propose To

Dispossess The Brahmins Without Compensation. I Am Merely Desirous

That The Brahmins Should Be Bought Out By The Indian Government At A

Cost Of A Hundred And Fifty Or Two Hundred Thousand. If This Were

Done The Number Of Pilgrims To This Holy Shrine Would Be Doubled,  And

The Best Results Would Follow."

 

"Oh,  Mrs. Jellaby,  Where Art Thou?" Thought Mike,  And He Boldly Took

Advantage Of The Elaborate Preparations That Were Being Made For Sir

Joseph To Write His Name On A Fan,  To Move Round The Table And Take A

Seat By Lily.

 

But Frank's Patience Was Exhausted,  And He Rose To Leave.

 

"People Wonder At The Genius Of Shakespeare! I Must Say The Stupidity

Of The Ordinary Man Surprises Me Far More," Said Mike.

 

"I'm A Poor Man To-Day," Said Frank,  "But I Would Give £25 To Have

Had Dickens With Us--Fancy Walking Up Piccadilly With Him Afterwards!

 

"Now I Must Go," He Said. "Lizzie Is Waiting For Me. I'll See You

To-Morrow," He Cried,  And Drove Away.

 

"Just Fancy Having To Look After Her,  Having To Attend To Her Wants,

Having To Leave A Friend And Return Home To Dine With Her In A Small

Room! How Devilish Pleasant It Is To Be Free!--To Say,  'Where Shall I

Dine?' And To Be Able To Answer,  'Anywhere.' But It Is Too Early To

Dine,  And Too Late To Play Whist. Damn It! I Don't Know What To Do

With Myself."

 

Mike Watched The Elegantly-Dressed Men Who Passed Hurriedly To Their

Clubs,  Or Drove West To Dinner Parties. Red Clouds And Dark Clouds

Collected And Rolled Overhead,  And In A Chill Wintry Breeze The

Leaves Of The Tall Trees Shivered,  Fell,  And Were Blown Along The

Pavement With Sharp Harsh Sound. London Shrouded Like A Widow In Long

Crape.

 

"What Is There To Do? Five O'clock! After That Lunch I Cannot Dine

Before Eight--Three Hours! Whom Shall I Go And See?"

 

A Vision Of Women Passed Through His Mind,  But He Turned From Them

All,  And He Said--

 

"I Will Go And See Her."

 

He Had Met Miss Dudley In Brighton,  In A House Where He Had Been

Asked To Tea. She Was A Small,  Elderly Spinster With Sharp Features

And Gray Curls. She Had Expected Him To Address To Her A Few

Commonplace Remarks For Politeness' Sake,  And Then To Leave Her For

Some Attractive Girl. But He Had Showed No Wish To Leave Her,  And

When They Met Again He Walked By Her Bath-Chair The Entire Length Of

The Cliff. Miss Dudley Was A Cripple. She Had Fallen From Some Rocks

When A Child Playing On The Beach,  And Had Injured Herself

Irremediably. She Lived With Her Maid In A Small Lodging,  And Being

Often Confined To Her Room For Days,  Nearly Every Visitor Was

Welcome. Mike Liked This Pallid And Forgotten Little Woman. He Found

In Her A Strange Sweetness--A Wistfulness. There Was Poetry In Her

Loneliness And Her Ruined Health. Strength,  Health,  And Beauty Had

Been Crushed By A Chance Fall. But The Accident Had Not Affected The

Mind,  Unless Perhaps It Had Raised It Into More Intense Sympathy With

Chapter 6 Pg 70

Life. And In All His Various Passions And Neglected Correspondence He

Never Forgot For Long To Answer Her Letters,  Nor Did He Allow A Month

To Pass Without Seeing Her. And Now He Bought For Her A Great Packet

Of Roses And A Novel; And With Some Misgivings He Chose Zola's _Page

D'amour_.

 

"I Think This Is All Right. She'll Be Delighted With It,  If She'll

Read It."

 

She Would Have Read Anything He Gave,  And Seen No Harm Since It Came

From Him. The Ailing Caged Bird Cannot But Delight In The Thrilling

Of The Wild Bird That Comes To It With The Freedom Of The Sky And

Fields In Its Wings And Song. She Listened To All His Stories,  Even

To His Stories Of Pigeon-Shooting. She Knew Not How To Reproach Him.

Her Eyes Fixed Upon Him,  Her Gentle Hand Laid On The Rail Of Her

Chair,  She Listened While He Told Her Of The Friends He Had Made,  And

His Life In The Country; Its Seascape And Downlands,  The Furze Where

He Had Shot The Rabbits,  The Lane Where He Had Jumped The Gate. Her

Pleasures Had Passed In Thought--His In Action; The World Was For

Him--This Room For Her.

 

There Is The Long Chair In Which She Lies Nearly Always; There Is The

Cushion On Which The Tired Head Is Leaned,  A Small Beautifully-Shaped

Head,  And The Sharp Features Are Distinct On The Dark Velvet,  For The

Lamp Is On The Mantelpiece,  And The Light Falls Full On The Profile.

The Curtains Are Drawn,  And The Eyes Animate With Gratitude When Mike

Enters With His Roses,  And After Asking Kindly Questions He Takes A

Vase,  And Filling It With Water,  Places The Flowers Therein,  And Sets

It On The Table Beside Her. There Is Her Fire--(Few Indeed Are The

Days In Summer When She Is Without It)--The Singing Kettle Suggests

The Homely Tea,  And The Saucepan On The Hearth The Invalid. There Is

Her Bookcase,  Set With Poetry And Religion,  And In One Corner Are The

Yellow-Backed French Novels That Mike Has Given Her. They Are The

Touches The Most Conclusive Of Reality In Her Life; And She Often

Smiles,  Thinking How Her Friends Will Strive To Explain How They Came

Into Her Life When She Is Gone.

 

"How Good Of You To Come And See Me! Tell Me About Yourself,  What You

Have Been Doing. I Want To Hear You Talk."

 

"Well,  I've Brought You This Book; It Is A Lovely Book--You Can Read

It--I Think You Can Read It,  Otherwise I Should Not Have Given It To

You."

 

He Remained With Her Till Seven,  Talking To Her About Hunting,

Shooting,  Literature,  And Card-Playing.

 

"Now I Must Go," He Said,  Glancing At The Clock.

 

"Oh,  So Soon," Exclaimed Miss Dudley,  Waking From Her Dream; "Must

You Go?"

 

"I'm Afraid I Must; I Haven't Dined Yet."

 

"And What Are You Going To Do After Dinner? You Are Going To Play

Cards."

 

"How Did You Guess That?"

 

"I Can't Say," She Said,  Laughing; "I Think I Can Often Guess Your

Thoughts."

 

And During The Long Drive To Piccadilly,  And As He Eat His Sole And

Drank His Pomard,  He Dreamed Of The Hands He Should Hold,  And Of The

Risks He Should Run When The Cards Were Bad. His Brain Glowed With

Subtle Combinations And Surprises,  And He Longed To Measure His

Strength Against Redoubtable Antagonists. The Two Great Whist

Players,  Longley And Lovegrove,  Were There. He Always Felt Jealous Of

Lovegrove's Play. Lovegrove Played An Admirable Game,  Always Making

The Most Of His Cards. But There Was None Of That Dash,  And Almost

Miraculous Flashes Of Imagination And Decision Which Characterized

Chapter 6 Pg 71

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."

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7 Pg 72

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

Chapter 7 Pg 73

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

Chapter 7 Pg 74

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

A Couple Of Chums In A Comfortable Corner,  He Shouted--

 

"Henry,  Get Me A Chop And A Pint Of Bitter."

 

There He Was Sure To Meet A Young Barrister Ready To Talk To Him,  And

They Returned Together,  Swinging Their Sticks,  Happy In Their

Bachelordom,  Proud Of The Old Inns And Courts. Often They Stayed To

Look On The Church,  The Church Of The Knight Templars,  Those Terrible

And Mysterious Knights Who,  With Crossed Legs For Sign Of Mission,

And With Long Swords And Kite-Shaped Shields,  Lie Upon The Pavement

Of The Church.

 

One Wet Night,  When Every Court And Close Was Buried In A Deep,

Cloying Darkness,  And The Church Seemed A Dead Thing,  The Pathetic

Stories Of The Windows Suddenly Became Dreamily Alive,  And The Organ

Sighed Like One Sad At Heart. The Young Men Entered; And In The Pomp

Of The Pipes,  And In Shadows Starred By The Candles,  The Lone

Organist Sat Playing A Fugue By Bach.

 

"It Is," Said Mike,  "Like Turning The Pages Of Some Precious Missal,

Adorned With Gold Thread And Bedazzled With Rare Jewels. It Is Like A

Poem By Edgar Allen Poe." Quelled,  And In Strange Awe They Listened,

And When The Music Ceased,  Unable At Once To Return To The Simple

Prose Of Their Chambers,  They Lingered,  Commenting On The Mock Taste

Of The Architecture Of The Dining-Hall,  And Laughing At The Inflated

Inscription Over The Doorway.

 

"It Is Worse," Said Mike,  "Than The Middle Temple Hall--Far Worse;

But I Like This Old Colonnade,  There Is Something So Suggestive In

This Old Inscription In Bad Latin.

 

 

 

 

     'Vetustissima Templariorum Porticu

      Igne Consumptâ; An 1679

      Nova Hæc Sumptibus Medii

      Templie Extructa An 1681

      Gulielmo Whiteloche Arm

Chapter 7 Pg 75

      Thesauör.'"

 

 

 

 

Once Or Twice A Week Hall Dined At The Cock For The Purpose Of

Meeting His Friends,  Whom He Invited After Dinner To His Rooms To

Smoke And Drink Till Midnight. His Welcome Was So Cordial That All

Were Glad To Come. The Hospitality Was That Which Is Met In All

Chambers In The Temple. Coffee Was Made With Difficulty,  Delay,  And

Uncertain Result; A Bottle Of Port Was Sometimes Produced; Of Whiskey

And Water There Was Always Plenty. Every One Brought His Own Tobacco;

And In Decrepit Chairs Beneath Dangerously-Laden Bookcases Some Six

Or Seven Barristers Enjoyed Themselves In Conversation,  Smoke,  And

Drink. Mike Recognized How Characteristically Temple Was This

Society,  How Different From The Heterogeneous Visitors Of Temple

Gardens In The Heyday Of Frank's Fortune.

 

James Norris Was A Small,  Thin Man,  Dark And With Regular Features,

Clean Shaven Like A Priest Or An Actor,  Vaguely Resembling Both,

Inclining Towards The Hieratic Rather Than To The Histrionic Type. He

Dressed Always In Black,  And The Closely-Buttoned Jacket Revealed The

Spareness Of His Body. He Was Met Often In The Evening,  Going To Dine

At The Cock; But Was Rarely Seen Walking About The Temple In The

Day-Time. It Was Impossible To Meet Any One More Suasive And

Agreeable; His Suavity Was Penetrating As His Small Dark Eyes. He

Lived In Elm Court,  And His Rooms Impressed You With A Sense Of

Cleanliness And Comfort. The Furniture Was All In Solid Mahogany;

There Were No Knick-Knacks Or Any Lightness,  And Almost The Only

Æsthetic Intentions Were A Few Sober Engravings--Portraits Of Men In

Wigs And Breastplates. He Took Pleasure In These And Also In Some

First Editions,  Containing The Original Plates,  Which,  When You Knew

Him Well,  He Produced From The Bookcase And Descanted On Their Value

And Rarity.

 

Mr. Norris Had Always An Excellent Cigar To Offer You,  And He Pressed

You To Taste Of His Old Port,  And His Chartreuse; There Was Whiskey

For You Too,  If You Cared To Take It,  And Allusion Was Made To Its

Age. But It Was Neither An Influence Nor A Characteristic Of His

Rooms; The Port Wine Was. If There Was Fruit On The Sideboard,  There

Was Also Pounded Sugar; And It Is Such Detail As The Pounded Sugar

That Announces An Inveterate Bachelorhood. Some Men Are Born

Bachelors. And When A Man Is Born A Bachelor,  The Signs Unmistakable

Are Hardly Apparent At Thirty; It Is Not Until The Fortieth Year Is

Approached That The Fateful Markings Become Recognizable. James

Norris Was Forty-Two,  And Was Therefore A Full-Fledged Bachelor. He

Was A Bachelor In The Complete Equipment Of His Chambers. He Was

Bachelor In His Arm-Chair And His Stock Of Wine; His Hospitality Was

That Of A Bachelor,  For A Man Who Feels Instinctively That He Will

Never Own A "House And Home" Constructs The Materiality Of His Life

In Chambers Upon A Fuller Basis Than The Man Who Feels Instinctively

That He Will,  Sooner Or Later,  Exchange The Perch-Like Existence Of

His Chambers For The Nest-Like Completeness Of A Home In South

Kensington.

 

James Norris Was Of An Excellent County Family In Essex. He Had A

Brother In The Army,  A Brother In The Civil Service,  And A Brother In

The Diplomatic Service. He Had Also A Brother Who Composed Somewhat

Unsuccessful Waltz Tunes,  Who Borrowed Money,  And James Thought That

His Brother Caused Him Some Anxiety Of Mind. The Eldest Brother,  John

Norris,  Lived At The Family Place,  Halton Grange,  Where He Stayed

When He Went On The Eastern Circuit. James Was Far Too Securely A

Gentleman To Speak Much Of Halton Grange; Nevertheless,  The Flavour

Of Landed Estate Transpired In The Course Of Conversation. He Has

Returned From Circuit,  Having Finished Up With A Partridge Drive,

Etc.

 

James Norris Was A Sensualist. His Sensuality Was Recognizable In The

Close-Set Eyes And In The Sharp Prominent Chin (He Resembled Vaguely

The Portrait Of Baudelaire In _Les Fleurs Du Mal_); He Never Spoke Of

His Amours,  But Occasionally He Would Drop An Observation,  Especially

Chapter 7 Pg 76

If He Were Talking To Mike Fletcher,  That Afforded A Sudden Glimpse

Of A Soul Touched If Not Tainted With Erotism. But James Norris Was

Above All Things Prudent,  And Knew How To Keep Vice Well In Hand.

 

Like Another,  He Had Had His Love Story,  Or That Which In The Life Of

Such A Man Might Pass For A Love Story. He Had Flirted A Great Deal

When He Was Thirty,  With A Married Woman. She Had Not Troubled,  She

Had Only Slightly Eddied,  Stirred With A Few Ripples The Placidity Of

A Placid Stream Of Life. In Hours Of Lassitude It Pleased Him To

Think That She Had Ruined His Life. Man Is Ever Ready To Think That

His Failure Comes From Without Rather Than From Within. He Wrote To

Her Every Week A Long Letter,  And Spent A Large Part Of The Long

Vacation In Her House In Yorkshire,  Telling Her That He Had Never

Loved Any One But Her.

 

James Norris Was An Able Lawyer,  And He Was An Able Lawyer For Three

Reasons. First,  Because He Was A Clear-Headed Man Of The World,  Who

Had Not Allowed His Intelligence To Rust;--It Formed Part Of The

Routine Of His Life To Read Some Pages Of A Standard Author Before

Going To Bed; He Studied All The Notorious Articles That Appeared In

The Reviews,  Attempting The Assimilation Of The Ideas Which Seemed To

Him Best In Our Time. Secondly,  He Was Industrious,  And If He Led An

Independent Life,  Dining Frequently In A Tavern Instead Of Touting

For Briefs In Society,  And So Harmed Himself,  Such Misadventure Was

Counterbalanced By His Industry And His Prudence. Thirdly,  His

Sweetness And Geniality Made Him A Favourite With The Bench. He Had

Much Insight Into Human Nature,  He Studied It,  And Could Detect

Almost At Once The Two Leading Spirits On A Jury; And He Was Always

Aware Of The Idiosyncrasies Of The Judge He Was Pleading Before,  And

Knew How To Respect And To Flatter Them.

 

Charles Stokes Was The Oldest Man Who Frequented Hall's Chambers,  And

His Venerable Appearance Was An Anomaly In A Company Formed

Principally Of Men Under Forty. In Truth,  Charles Stokes Was Not More

Than Forty-Six Or Seven,  But He Explained That Living Everywhere,  And

Doing Everything,  Had Aged Him Beyond His Years. In Mind,  However,  He

Was The Youngest There,  And His Manner Was Often Distressingly

Juvenile. He Wore Old Clothes Which Looked As If They Had Not Been

Brushed For Some Weeks,  And His Linen Was Of Dubious Cleanliness,  And

About His Rumpled Collar There Floated A Half-Tied Black Necktie.

Mike,  Who Hated All Things That Reminded Him Of The Casualness Of

This Human Frame,  Never Was At Ease In His Presence,  And His Eye

Turned In Disgust From Sight Of The Poor Old Gentleman's Trembling

And Ossified Fingers. His Beard Was Long And Almost White; He

Snuffed,  And Smoked A Clay Pipe,  And Sat In The Arm-Chair Which Stood

In The Corner Beneath The Screen Which John Norton Had Left To Hall.

 

He Was Always Addressed As Mr. Stokes; Hall Complimented Him And Kept

Him Well Supplied With Whiskey-And-Water. He Was Listened To On

Account Of His Age--That Is To Say,  On Account Of His Apparent Age,

And On Account Of His Gentleness. Harding Had Described Him As One

Who Talked Learned Nonsense In Sweetly-Measured Intonations. But

Although Harding Ridiculed Him,  He Often Led Him Into Conversation,

And Listened With Obvious Interest,  For Mr. Stokes Had Drifted

Through Many Modes And Manners Of Life,  And Had In So Doing Acquired

Some Vague Knowledge.

 

He Had Written A Book On The Ancient Religions Of India,  Which He

Called The _Cradleland Of Arts And Creeds_,  And Harding,  Ever On The

Alert To Pick A Brain However Poor It Might Be,  Enticed Him Into

Discussion In Which Frequent Allusion Was Made To Vishnu And Siva.

 

Yes,  Drifted Is The Word That Best Expresses Mr. Stokes' Passage

Through Life--He Had Drifted. He Was One Of The Many Millions Who

Live Without A Fixed Intention,  Without Even Knowing What They

Desire; And He Had Drifted Because In Him Strength And Weakness Stood

At Equipoise; No Defect Was Heavy Enough For Anchor,  Nor Was There

Any Quality Large Enough For Sufficient Sail; He Had Drifted From

Country To Country,  From Profession To Profession,  Whither Winds And

Waves Might Bear Him.

 

Chapter 7 Pg 77

"Of Course I'm A Failure," Was A Phrase That Mr. Stokes Repeated With

A Mild,  Gentle Humour,  And Without Any Trace Of Bitterness. He Spoke

Of Himself With The Naïve Candour Of A Docile School-Boy,  Who Has

Taken Up Several Subjects For Examination And Been Ploughed In Them

All. For Mr. Stokes Had Been To Oxford,  And Left It Without Taking A

Degree. Then He Had Gone Into The Army,  And Had Proved Himself A

Thoroughly Inefficient Soldier,  And More Than Any Man Before Or

After,  Had Succeeded In Rousing The Ire Of Both Adjutant And Colonel.

It Was Impossible To Teach Him Any Drill; What He Was Taught To-Day

He Forgot To-Morrow; When The General Came Down To Inspect,  The

Confusion He Created In The Barrack-Yard Had Proved So Complex,  That

For A Second It Had Taxed The Knowledge Of The Drill-Sergeant To Get

The Men Straight Again.

 

Mr. Stokes Was Late At All Times And All Occasions: He Was Late For

Drill,  He Was Late For Mess,  He Was Late For Church; And When Sent

For He Was Always Found In His Room,  Either Learning A Part Or

Writing A Play. His One Passion Was Theatricals; And Wherever The

Regiment Was Stationed,  He Very Soon Discovered Those Who Were

Disposed To Get Up A Performance Of A Farce.

 

When He Left The Army He Joined The Indian Bar,  And There He Applied

Himself In His Own Absent-Minded Fashion To The Study Of Sanscrit,

Neglecting Hindustani,  Which Would Have Been Of Use To Him In His

Profession. Through India,  China,  And America He Had Drifted. In New

York He Had Edited A Newspaper; In San Francisco He Had Lectured,  And

He Returned Home With An English Nobleman Who Had Engaged Him As

Private Secretary.

 

When He Passed Out Of The Nobleman's Service He Took Chambers In The

Temple,  And Devoted His Abundant Leisure To Writing His Memoirs,  And

The Pleasantest Part Of His Life Began. The Temple Suited Him

Perfectly,  Its Bohemianism Was Congenial To Him,  The Library Was

Convenient,  And As No Man Likes To Wholly Cut Himself Adrift From His

Profession,  The Vicinity Of The Law Courts,  And A Modicum Of Legal

Conversation In The Evening,  Sufficed To Maintain In His

Absent-Minded Head The Illusion That He Was Practising At The Bar.

His Chambers Were Bare And Dreary,  Unadorned With Spoils From India

Or China. Mr. Stokes Retained Nothing; He Had Passed Through Life

Like A Bird. He Had Drifted,  And All Things Had Drifted From Him; He

Did Not Even Possess A Copy Of His _Cradleland Of Arts And Creeds_.

He Had Lost All Except A Small Property In Kent,  And Appeared To Be

Quite Alone In The World.

 

Mr. Stokes Talked Rarely Of His Love Affairs,  And His Allusions Were

So Partial That Nothing Exact Could Be Determined About Him. It Was,

However,  Noticed That He Wore A Gold Bracelet Indissolubly Fastened

Upon His Right Wrist,  And It Was Supposed That An Indian Princess Had

Given Him This,  And That A Goldsmith Had Soldered It Upon Him In Her

Presence,  As She Lay On Her Death-Bed. It Was Noticed That A Young

Girl Came To See Him At Intervals,  Sometimes Alone,  Sometimes

Accompanied By Her Aunt. Mr. Stokes Made No Secret Of This Young

Person,  And He Spoke Of Her As His Adopted Daughter. Mr. Stokes Dined

At A Theatrical Club. All Men Liked Him; He Was Genial And Harmless.

 

Mr. Joseph Silk Was The Son Of A London Clergyman. He Was A Tall,

Spare Young Man,  Who Was Often Met About The Temple,  Striding Towards

His Offices Or The Library. He Was Comically Careful Not To Say

Anything That Might Offend,  And Nervously Concerned To Retreat From

All Persons And Things Which Did Not Seem To Him To Offer

Possibilities Of Future Help; And His Assumed Geniality And

Good-Fellowship Hung About Him Awkwardly,  Like The Clothes Of A

Broad-Chested,  Thick-Thighed Man About Miserable Limbs. For Some Time

Silk Had Been Seriously Thinking Of Cutting Himself Adrift From All

Acquaintanceship With Hall. He Had,  Until Now,  Borne With His

Acquaintanceship Because Hall Was Connected With A Society Journal

That Wrote Perilously Near The Law Of Libel; Several Times The Paper

Had Been Threatened With Actions,  But Had Somehow,  Much To Silk's

Chagrin,  Managed To Escape. All The Actionable Paragraphs Had Been

Discussed With Silk; On Each Occasion Hall Had Come Down To His

Chambers For Advice,  And He Felt Sure That He Would Be Employed In

Chapter 7 Pg 78

The Case When It Did Come Off. But Unfortunately This Showed No Signs

Of Accomplishment. Silk Read The Paper Every Week For The Paragraph

That Was To Bring Him Fame; He Would Have Given Almost Anything To Be

Employed "In A Good Advertising Case." But He Had Noticed That

Instead Of Becoming More Aggressive And Personal,  That Week By Week

The Newspaper Was Moderating Its Tone. In The Last Issue Several

Paragraphs Had Caught His Eye,  Which Could Not Be Described Otherwise

Than As Complimentary; There Were Also Several New Pages Of

Advertisements; And These Robbed Him Of All Hope Of An Action. He

Counted The Pages,  "Twelve Pages Of Advertisements--Nothing Further

Of A Questionable Character Will Go Into That Paper," Thought He,  And

Forthwith Fell To Considering Hall's Invitation To "Come In That

Evening,  If He Had Nothing Better To Do." He Had Decided That He

Would Not Go,  But At The Last Moment Had Gone,  And Now,  As He Sat

Drinking Whiskey-And-Water,  He Glanced Round The Company,  Thinking It

Might Injure Him If It Became Known That He Spent His Evenings There,

And He Inwardly Resolved He Would Never Again Be Seen In Hall's

Rooms.

 

Silk Had Been Called To The Bar About Seven Years. The First Years He

Considered He Had Wasted,  But During The Last Four He Applied Himself

To His Profession. He Had Determined "To Make A Success Of Life,"

That Was How He Put It To Himself. He Had,  During The Last Four

Years,  Done A Good Deal Of "Devilling"; He Had Attended At The Old

Bailey Watching For "Soups" With Untiring Patience. But Lately,

Within The Last Couple Of Years,  He Had Made Up His Mind That Waiting

For "Soups" At The Old Bailey Was Not The Way To Fame Or Fortune. His

First Idea Of A Path Out Of His Present Circumstances Was Through

Hall And The Newspaper; But He Had Lately Bethought Himself Of An

Easier And Wider Way,  One More Fruitful Of Chances And Beset With

Prizes. This Broad And Easy Road To Success Which He Had Lately Begun

To See,  Wound Through His Father's Drawing-Room. London Clergymen

Have,  As A Rule,  Large Salaries And Abundant Leisure,  And Young Silk

Determined To Turn His Father's Leisure To Account. The Reverend Silk

Required No Pressing. "Show Me What Line To Take,  And I Will Take

It," Said He; And Young Silk,  Knowing Well The Various Firms Of

Solicitors That Were Dispensing Such Briefs As He Could Take,

Instructed His Father When And Where He Should Exercise His Tea-Table

Agreeabilities,  And Forthwith The Reverend Gentleman Commenced His

Social Wrigglings. There Were Teas And Dinners,  And Calls,  And Lying

Without End. Over The Wine Young Silk Cajoled The Senior Member Of

The Firm,  And In The Drawing-Room,  Sitting By The Wife,  He Alluded To

His Father's Philanthropic Duties,  Which He Relieved With Such

Sniggering And Pruriency As He Thought The Occasion Demanded.

 

About Six Months Ago,  Mr. Joseph Silk Had Accidentally Learnt,  In The

Treasurer's Offices,  That The Second Floor In No. 5,  Paper Buildings

Was Unoccupied. He Had Thought Of Changing His Chambers,  But A Second

Floor In Paper Buildings Was Beyond His Means. But Two Or Three Days

After,  As He Was Walking From His Area In King's Bench Walk To The

Library,  He Suddenly Remembered That The Celebrated Advocate,  Sir

Arthur Haldane,  Lived On The First Floor In Paper Buildings. Now At

His Father's House,  Or In One Of The Houses His Father Frequented,  He

Might Meet Sir Arthur; Indeed,  A Meeting Could Easily Be Arranged.

Here Mr. Silk's Sallow Face Almost Flushed With A Little Colour,  And

His Heart Beat As His Little Scheme Pressed Upon His Mind. Dreading

An Obstacle,  He Feared To Allow The Thought To Formulate; But After A

Moment He Let It Slip,  And It Said--"Now If I Were To Take The Second

Floor,  I Should Often Meet Sir Arthur On The Doorstep And Staircase.

What An Immense Advantage It Would Be To Me When Stoggard And Higgins

Learnt That I Was On Terms Of Friendship With Sir Arthur. I Know As A

Positive Fact That Stoggard And Higgins Would Give Anything To Get

Sir Arthur For Some Of Their Work.... But The Rent Is Very Heavy In

Paper Buildings. I Must Speak To Father About It." A Few Weeks After,

Mr. Joseph Transferred His Furniture To No. 2,  Paper Buildings; And

Not Long After He Had The Pleasure Of Meeting Sir Arthur At Dinner.

 

Mr. Silk's Love Affairs Were Neither Numerous Nor Interesting. He Had

Spent Little Of His Time With Women,  And Little Of His Money Upon

Women,  And His Amativeness Had Led Him Into No Wilder Exploit Than

The Seduction Of His Laundress's Daughter,  By Whom He Had Had A

Chapter 7 Pg 79

Child. Indeed,  It Had Once Been Whispered That The Mother,  With The

Child In Her Arms,  Had Knocked At King's Bench Walk And Had Insisted

On Being Admitted. Having Not The Slightest Knowledge Or Perception

Of Female Nature,  He Had Extricated Himself With Difficulty From The

Scandal By Which He Was Menaced,  And Was Severely Mulcted Before The

Girl Was Induced To Leave London. About Every Three Months She Wrote

To Him,  And These Letters Were Read With Horror And Burnt In

Trembling Haste; For Mr. Joseph Silk Was Now Meditating For

Matrimonial And Legal Purposes One Of The Daughters Of One Of The

Solicitors He Had Met In Paper Buildings,  And Being An Exceedingly

Nervous,  Ignorant,  And Unsympathetic Man In All That Did Not Concern

His Profession,  Was Vastly Disturbed At Every Echo Of His

Indiscretion.

 

Harding,  In Reply To A Question As To What He Thought Of Silk,  Said--

 

"What Do I Think Of Silk? Cotton Back" ... And Every One Laughed,

Feeling The Intrinsic Truth Of The Judgement.

 

Mr. George Cooper Was Mr. Joseph Silk's Friend. Cooper Consulted Silk

On Every Point. Whenever He Saw A Light In Silk's Chambers He

Thrilled A Little With Anticipation Of The Pleasant Hour Before Him,

And They Sat Together Discussing The Abilities Of Various Eminent

Judges And Barristers. Silk Told Humorous Anecdotes Of The Judges;

Cooper Was Exercised Concerning Their Morality,  And Enlarged

Anxiously On The Responsibility Of Placing A Man On The Bench Without

Having Full Knowledge Of His Private Life. Silk Listened,  Puffing At

His Pipe,  And To Avoid Committing Himself To An Opinion,  Asked Cooper

To Have Another Glass Of Port. Before They Parted Allusion Was Made

To The Law-Books That Cooper Was Writing--Cooper Was Always Bringing

Out New Editions Of Other People's Books,  And Continually Exposed The

Bad Law They Wrote In His Conversation. He Had Waited His Turn Like

Another For "Soups" At The Bailey,  And Like Another Had Grown Weary

Of Waiting; Besides,  The Meditative Cast Of His Mind Enticed Him

Towards Chamber Practice And Away From Public Pleading Before Judge

And Jury. Silk Sought "A Big Advertising Case"; He Desired The

Excitement Of Court,  And,  Though He Never Refused Any Work,  He

Dreaded The Lonely Hours Necessary For The Perfect Drawing Up Of A

Long Indictment. Cooper Was Very Much Impressed With Silk's

Abilities; He Thought Him Too Hard And Mechanical,  Not Sufficiently

Interested In The Science Of Morals; But These Defects Of Character

Were Forgotten In His Homage To His Friend's Worldly Shrewdness. For

Cooper Was Unendowed With Worldly Shrewdness,  And,  Like All Dreamers,

Was Attracted By A Mind Which Controlled While He Might Only Attempt

To Understand. Cooper's Aspirations Towards An Ideal Tickled Silk's

Mind As It Prepared Its Snares. Cooper Often Invited Silk To Dine

With Him At The National Liberal Club; Silk Sometimes Asked Cooper To

Dine With Him At The Union. Silk And Cooper Were Considered Alike,

And There Were Many Points In Which Their Appearances Coincided.

Cooper Was The Shorter Man Of The Two,  But Both Were Tall,  Thin,

Narrow,  And Sallow Complexioned; Both Were Essentially Clean,

Respectable,  And Middle-Class.

 

Cooper Was The Son Of A Low Church Bishop Who Had Gained His Mitre By

Temperance Oratory,  And What His Lordship Was In The Cathedral,

Cooper Was In The Suburban Drawing-Rooms Where Radical Politics And

The Woman's Cause Were Discussed. When He Had A Brief He Brought It

To The Library To Show It; He Almost Lived In The Library. He Arrived

The Moment It Was Opened,  And Brought A Packet Of Sandwiches So As

Not To Waste Time Going Out To Lunch. His Chambers Were Furnished

Without Taste,  But The Works Of Comte And Spencer Showed That He Had

Attempted To Think; And The Works Of Several Socialistic Writers

Showed That He Had Striven To Solve The Problem Of Human Misery. On

The Table Were Several Novels By Balzac,  Which Conversation With

Harding Had Led Him To Purchase And To Read. He Likewise Possessed A

Few Volumes Of Modern Poetry,  But He Freely Confessed That He

Preferred Pope,  Dryden,  And Johnson; And It Was Impossible To Bring

Him To Understand That De Quincey Was More Subtle And Suggestive Than

The Author Of London.

 

Generally Our Souls Are Made Of One Conspicuous Modern Mental Aspect;

Chapter 7 Pg 80

But Below This Aspect We Are Woven And Coloured By The Spirit Of Some

Preceding Century,  Our Chance Inheritance,  And Cooper Was A Sort Of

Product Of The Pedantry Of Johnson And The Utilitarian Mysticism Of

Comte. Perhaps The Idea Nearest To Cooper's Heart Was "The Woman's

Cause." The Misery And Ignominy Of Human Life Had Affected Him,  And

He Dreamed Of The World's Regeneration Through Women; And Though Well

Aware That Comte And Spencer Advocate The Application Of Experience

In All Our Many Mental Embarrassments,  He Failed To Reconsider

His Beliefs In Female Virtue,  Although Frequently Pressed To Do

So By Mike. Some Personal Animosity Had Grown Out Of Their Desire

To Convince Each Other. Cooper Had Once Even Meditated Mike's

Conversion,  And Mike Never Missed An Opportunity Of Telling Some

Story Which He Deemed Destructive Of Cooper's Faith. His Faith Was

To Him What A Microscope Is To A Scientist,  And It Enabled Him To

Discover The Finest Characteristics In The Souls Of Bar-Girls,  Chorus

Girls,  And Prostitutes; And Even When He Fell,  And They Fell,  His

Belief In Their Virtue And The Nobility Of Their Womanly Instincts

Remained Unshaken.

 

Mike Had Just Finished A Most Racy Story Concerning His First

Introduction To A Certain Countess. Cooper Had Listened In Silence,

But When Mike Turned At The End Of His Tale And Asked Him What He

Thought Of His Conduct,  Cooper Rose From His Chair.

 

"I Think You Behaved Like A Blackguard."

 

In A Moment Mike Was Aware He Had Put Himself In The Wrong--The Story

About The Countess Could Not Be Told Except To His Destruction In Any

Language Except His Own,  And He Must Therefore Forbear To Strike

Cooper And Swallow The Insult.

 

"You Ass,  Get Out; I Can't Quarrel With You On Such A Subject."

 

The Embarrassment Was Increased By Cooper Calling To Silk And Asking

If He Were Coming With Him. The Prudent Silk Felt That To Stay Was To

Signify His Approval Of Mike's Conduct In The Case Of The Indiscreet

Countess. To Leave With Cooper Was To Write Himself Down A Prig,

Expose Himself To The Sarcasm Of Several Past Masters In The Art Of

Gibing,  And To Make In Addition Several Powerful Enemies. But The

Instinct Not To Compromise Himself In Any Issue Did Not Desert Him,

And Rushing After Cooper He Attempted The Peace-Maker. He Knew The

Attempt Would Mean No More Than Some Hustling In The Doorway,  And

Some Ineffectual Protestation,  And He Returned A Few Minutes After To

Join In The Ridicule Heaped Upon The Unfortunate Cooper,  And To Vow

Inwardly That This Was His Last Evening In Bohemia.

 

By The Piano,  Smoking A Clay Pipe,  There Sat A Large,  Rough,  Strong

Man. His Beard Was Bristly And Flame-Coloured,  His Face Was Crimson

And Pimply; Lion-Like Locks Hung In Profusion About The Collar Of His

Shabby Jacket. His Linen Was Torn And Thin; Crumpled Was The Necktie,

And Nearly Untied,  And The Trousers Were Worn And Frayed,  And The

Boots Heavy. He Looked As If He Could Have Carried A Trunk

Excellently Well,  But As That Thought Struck You Your Eyes Fell Upon

His Hands,  Which Were The Long,  Feminine-Shaped Hands Generally Found

In Those Of Naturally Artistic Temperament,  Nearly Always In Those

Who Practise Two Or More Of The Arts. Sands Affected All The Arts.

Enumerate: He Played Snatches Of Bach On The Violin,  On The Piano,

And On The Organ; He Composed Fragments For All Three Instruments. He

Painted Little Landscapes After (A Long Way After) The Manner Of

Corot,  Of Whom He Could Talk Until The Small Hours In The Morning If

An Occasional Drink And Cigar Were Forthcoming. He Modelled Little

Statuettes In Wax,  Cupids And Nymphs,  And He Designed Covers For

Books. He Could Do All These Things A Little,  And Not Stupidly,

Although Inefficiently. He Had Been A Volunteer,  And Therefore Wrote

On Military Subjects,  And Had On Certain Occasions Been Permitted To

Criticize Our Naval Defences And Point Out The Vices And Shortcomings

In Our Military System In The Leading Evening Papers. He Was

Generally Seen With A Newspaper Under His Arm Going Towards Charing

Cross Or Fleet Street. He Never Strayed Further West Than Charing

Cross,  Unless He Was Going To A "Picture Show," And There Was No

Reason Why He Should Pass Ludgate Circus,  For Further East There Were

Chapter 7 Pg 81

Neither Newspapers Nor Restaurants. He Was Quite Without Vanity,  And

Therefore Without Ambition,  Buddha Was Never More So,  Not Even After

Attaining The Nirvana. A Picture Show In Bond Street,  A Half-Crown

Dinner At Simpson's,  Or The Rainbow,  Coffee And Cigars After,  Was All

That He Desired; Give Him That,  And He Was A Pleasant Companion Who

Would Remain With You Until You Turned Him Out,  Or In Charity,  For He

Was Often Homeless,  Allowed Him To Sleep On Your Sofa.

 

Sands Was Not A Member Of The Temple,  But Hall's Rooms Were Ever A

Refuge To The Weary--There They Might Rest,  And There Was There Ever

For Them A Drink And A Mouthful Of Food. And There Sands Had Met The

Decayed Barrister Who Held The Rooms Opposite; Which,  Although He Had

Long Ceased To Occupy,  And Had No Use For,  He Still Wished To Own,  If

He Could Do So Without Expense,  And This Might Be Done By Letting Two

Rooms,  And Reserving One For Himself.

 

The Unwary Barrister,  Believing In The Solvency Of Whoever He Met At

Hall's,  Intrusted His Chambers To Sands,  Without Demanding The Rent

In Advance. A Roof To Sleep Under Had Been The Chief Difficulty In

Sands' Life. He Thought Not At All Of A Change Of Clothes,  And Clean

Linen Troubled Him Only Slightly. Now Almost Every Want Seemed

Provided For. Coals He Could Get From Hall,  Also Occasional

Half-Crowns; These Sufficed To Pay For His Breakfast; A Dinner He

Could Generally "Cadge," And If He Failed To Do So,  He Had Long Ago

Learnt To Go Without. It Was Hard Not To Admire His Gentleness,  His

Patiel-Wise. On Him Shall Also Descend The Concourse On High,  Each Bearing

Aloft A Chalice Of Pure Light. Thus Hath It Been Foreordained In The Realm

Of God's Revelation,  By The Behest Of Him Who Is The All-Glorious,  The

Most Powerful.

 

There Lay Concealed Within The Holy Veil,  And Prepared For The Service Of

God,  A Company Of His Chosen Ones Who Shall Be Manifested Unto Men,  Who

Shall Aid His Cause,  Who Shall Be Afraid Of No One,  Though The Entire

Human Race Rise Up And War Against Them. These Are The Ones Who,  Before

The Gaze Of The Dwellers On Earth And The Denizens Of Heaven,  Shall Arise

And,  Shouting Aloud,  Acclaim The Name Of The Almighty,  And Summon The

Children Of Men To The Path Of God,  The All-Glorious,  The All-Praised.

Walk Thou In Their Way,  And Let No One Dismay Thee. Be Of Them Whom The

Tumult Of The World,  However Much It May Agitate Them In The Path Of Their

Creator,  Can Never Sadden,  Whose Purpose The Blame Of The Blamer Will

Never Defeat.

 

Go Forth With The Tablet Of God And His Signs,  And Rejoin Them That Have

Believed In Me,  And Announce Unto Them Tidings Of Our Most Holy Paradise.

Warn,  Then,  Those That Have Joined Partners With Him. Say: I Am Come To

You,  O People,  From The Throne Of Glory,  And Bear You An Announcement From

God,  The Most Powerful,  The Most Exalted,  The Most Great. In Mine Hand I

Carry The Testimony Of God,  Your Lord And The Lord Of Your Sires Of Old.

Weigh It With The Just Balance That Ye Possess,  The Balance Of The

Testimony Of The Prophets And Messengers Of God. If Ye Find It To Be

Established In Truth,  If Ye Believe It To Be Of God,  Beware,  Then,  Lest Ye

Cavil At It,  And Render Your Works Vain,  And Be Numbered With The

Infidels. It Is Indeed The Sign Of God That Hath Been Sent Down Through

The Power Of Truth,  Through Which The Validity Of His Cause Hath Been

Demonstrated Unto His Creatures,  And The Ensigns Of Purity Lifted Up

Betwixt Earth And Heaven.

 

Say: This Is The Sealed And Mystic Scroll,  The Repository Of God's

Irrevocable Decree,  Bearing The Words Which The Finger Of Holiness Hath

Traced,  That Lay Wrapt Within The Veil Of Impenetrable Mystery,  And Hath

Now Been Sent Down As A Token Of The Grace Of Him Who Is The Almighty,  The

Ancient Of Days. In It Have We Decreed The Destinies Of All The Dwellers

Of The Earth And The Denizens Of Heaven,  And Written Down The Knowledge Of

All Things From First To Last. Nothing Whatsoever Can Escape Or Frustrate

Him,  Whether Created In The Past Or To Be Created In The Future,  Could Ye

But Perceive It.

 

Say: The Revelation Sent Down By God Hath Most Surely Been Repeated,  And

The Outstretched Hand Of Our Power Hath Overshadowed All That Are In The

Heavens And All That Are On The Earth. We Have,  Through The Power Of

Truth,  The Very Truth,  Manifested An Infinitesimal Glimmer Of Our

Chapter 7 Pg 82

Impenetrable Mystery,  And Lo,  They That Have Recognized The Radiance Of

The Sinaic Splendor Expired,  As They Caught A Lightening Glimpse Of This

Crimson Light Enveloping The Sinai Of Our Revelation. Thus Hath He Who Is

The Beauty Of The All-Merciful Come Down In The Clouds Of His Testimony,

And The Decree Accomplished By Virtue Of The Will Of God,  The

All-Glorious,  The All-Wise.

 

Say: Step Out Of Thy Holy Chamber,  O Maid Of Heaven,  Inmate Of The Exalted

Paradise! Drape Thyself In Whatever Manner Pleaseth Thee In The Silken

Vesture Of Immortality,  And Put On,  In The Name Of The All-Glorious,  The

Broidered Robe Of Light. Hear,  Then,  The Sweet,  The Wondrous Accent Of The

Voice That Cometh From The Throne Of Thy Lord,  The Inaccessible,  The Most

High. Unveil Thy Face,  And Manifest The Beauty Of The Black-Eyed Damsel,

And Suffer Not The Servants Of God To Be Deprived Of The Light Of Thy

Shining Countenance. Grieve Not If Thou Hearest The Sighs Of The Dwellers

Of The Earth,  Or The Voice Of The Lamentation Of The Denizens Of Heaven.

Leave Them To Perish On The Dust Of Extinction. Let Them Be Reduced To

Nothingness,  Inasmuch As The Flame Of Hatred Hath Been Kindled Within

Their Breasts. Intone,  Then,  Before The Face Fellow So-And-So Is; You Do Meet A Nice Lot

Of Fellows In The Temple,  Don't You?" It Seemed Almost Sufficient

That A Man Should Belong To The Temple For L'estrange To Find Him

Admirable. The Dinners In Hall Were Especially Delightful. Between

The Courses He Looked In Admiration On The Portraits And Old Oak

Carvings,  And The Armorial Bearings,  And Would Tell How One Bencher

Had Been Debarred From Election As Treasurer Because He Had,  On Three

Occasions,  Attended Dinner Without Partaking Of Any Food. Such An

Insult To The Kitchen Could Not Be Forgiven. L'estrange Was Full Of

Such Stories,  And He Relished Their Historical Flavour As A Gourmet

An Unusually Successful Piece Of Cooking. He Regarded The Temple And

Its Associations With Love.

 

When He Had Friends To Dinner In His Rooms The Dinner Was Always

Brought From The Hall; He Ordered It Himself In The Large Spacious

Kitchen,  Which He Duly Admired,  And Prying About Amid The Various

Meats,  He Chose With Care,  And When Told That What He Desired Could

Not Be Obtained That Day,  He Continued His Search Notwithstanding. He

Related That On One Occasion He Discovered A Greengage Pie,  After

Many Assurances That There Was No Such Thing In The Kitchen. If He

Was With A Friend He Laid His Hand On His Shoulder,  And Pointing Out

An Inscription,  He Said,  "Now One Thing I Notice About The Temple Is

That Never Is An Occasion Missed Of Putting Up An Inscription; And

Note The Legal Character Of The Inscriptions,  How Carefully It Is

Explained,  That,  For Instance,  The Cloisters,  Although They Are For

The Use Of The Inner As Well As The Middle Temple,  Yet It Was The

Middle Temple That Paid To Have Them Put Up,  And Therefore Owns The

Property." L'estrange Always Spoke Of The Gardens As "Our Gardens,"

Of The Church As "Our Church." He Was An Authority On All That

Related To The Temple,  And He Delighted In A Friend In Whom He Might

Confide; And To Walk About The Courts With Hall Or Sands,  Stopping

Now And Then To Note Some Curious Piece Of Sculpture Or Date,  And

Forthwith To Relate An Anecdote That Brought Back Some Of The

Fragrance And Colour Of Old Time,  And To Tell How He Intended To Work

Such Curious Facts Into The Book He Was Writing On The Temple,  Was

The Essence And The Soul Of This Dreamy Man's Little Life.

 

Saturday Night Is The Night Of Dalliance In The Temple,  And Not

Unfrequently On Sunday Morning,  Leaving A Lady Love,  L'estrange Would

Go To Church--Top Hat,  Umbrella,  And Prayer-Book--And Having A Sense

Of Humour,  He Was Amused By The Incongruity.

 

"I Have Left The Accursed Thing Behind Me," He Once Said To Mr.

Collier,  And By Such Facetiousness Had Seriously Annoyed The Immense

And Most Staid Mr. Collier.

 

A Gaunt,  Hollow-Eyed Man Was He,  Worn To A Thread By Diabetes; And To

Keep The Disease In Check,  Strictly Dieted. His Appearance Was So

Suggestive Of Illness,  That Whenever He Was Present The Conversation

Always Turned On What He Might Eat And What He Must Refrain From

Touching. A Large,  Gray-Skinned Man,  Handsome Somewhat Like A Figure

Of Melancholy Carved Out Of Limestone. Since He Had Left Oxford,

Where He Had Taken A Double First,  He Had Failed--At The Bar,  In

Chapter 7 Pg 83

Literature,  And In Love. It Was Said That He Had Once Written An

Absurd Letter Asking A Lady,  Who Hoped To Marry A Duke,  To Go To

South America With Him. This Letter Had Been His Only Adventure.

 

He Was Like A Bookcase,  A Store Of Silent Learning,  With This

Difference--From The Bookcase Much May Be Extracted,  From Mr. Edmund

Collier Nothing. He Reminded You Of A Dry Well,  A London Fog,  An

Abandoned Quarry,  The Desert Of Sahara,  And The North Pole; Of All

Dull And Lugubrious Things He Seemed The Type. Nature Had Not

Afflicted Him With Passions Nor Any Original Thought,  He Therefore

Lived An Exemplary Existence,  His Mind Fortified With Exemplary

Opinions,  Doctrines,  And Old Saws.

 

"I Wonder If He Is Alive," Mike Had Once Said.

 

"_Hé,  Hé,  Tout Au Plus_," Harding Had Replied,  Sardonically.

 

Collier Was Now Learning Sanscrit And Writing An Article For The

_Quarterly_. L'estrange Used,  As He Said,  "To Dig At Him," And After

Many Exhausting Efforts Brought Up Interesting Facts To The Effect

That He Had Just Finished His Treatise On The Greek Participle,  And

Was About To Launch A Volume Of Verses Mainly Addressed To Children.

 

Collier Had Once Possessed Considerable Property,  But He Had Invested

Some In A Newspaper Of Which He Was Editor,  And He Had Squandered

Much In Vague Speculation. From The Account He Gave Of His Losses It

Was Difficult To Decide Whether He Had Been Moved By Mercenary Or

Charitable Temptations. Now Only The Merest Competence Remained. He

Lived In A Small Garret Where No Solicitor Had Penetrated,  Studying

Uninteresting Literatures,  Dimly Interested In All That The World Did

Not Care For. He Lived In The Gloom Of Present Failure,  Embittered By

The Memory Of Past Successes,  Wearied With Long Illness,  And

Therefore Constrained To Live Like A Hermit,  Never Appearing Anywhere

Except In Hall's Rooms.

 

Even Mr. Horace Baird,  The Recluse Of The Temple,  Was Sometimes Met

In Hall's Chambers. When He Lifted His Hat,  The White Locks Growing

Amid The Black,  Magnificent Masses Of Hair Caught The Eye,  And Set

The Mind Thinking On The Brevity Of Youth,  Or Wondering What

Ill-Fortune Had Thus Done The Work Of Time. A Passing Glance Told You

That He Was Unsuccessful In His Profession And Unfortunate In His

Life,  And If You Spoke To Him,  An Affected Gaiety Of Manner Confirmed

The Truth Of The First Impression. Near Him Sat A Patriarchal

Barrister Who Had Travelled In The Colonies,  Had Had Political

Appointments,  And In Vague Hopes Of Further Political Appointments

Professed Advanced Views,  Which He Endeavoured To Redeem With

Flavourless Humour. There Were Also Two Young Men Who Shared Chambers

And Took In Pupils. Fine Tales Their Laundress Told Of The State Of

Their Sitting-Room In The Morning,  The Furniture Thrown About,  The

Table-Cloth Drenched In Whiskey.

 

There Was A Young Man Whose Hobby Was Dress And Chorus Girls. There

Was A Young Man Whose Hobby Was Pet Birds; He Talked About The

Beautiful South American Bird He Had Just Bought,  And He Asked You To

Come And See It Taking Its Bath In The Morning. Several Persons Were

Writing Law-Books,  Which Their Authors Hoped Would Rival _Chitty On

Contracts_.

 

The Temple,  Like A Fatherland,  Never Loses Its Influence Over Its

Children. He Who Has Lived In The Temple Will Return To The Temple.

All Things Are Surrendered For The Temple. All Distances Are

Traversed To Reach The Temple. The Temple Is Never Forgotten. The

Briefless Barrister,  Who Left In Despair And Became Attorney-General

Of New South Wales,  Grows Homesick,  Surrenders His Position,  And

Returns. The Young Squire Wearies In His Beautiful Country House,  And

His Heart Is Fixed In The Dingy Chambers,  Which He Cannot Relinquish,

And For Which Wealth Cannot Compensate Him. Even The Poor Clerks Do

Not Forget The Temple,  And On Saturday Afternoons They Prowl About

Their Old Offices,  And Often Give Up Lucrative Employments. They Are

Drawn By The Temple As By A Magnet,  And Must Live Again In The Shadow

Of The Old Inns. The Laundresses' Daughters Pass Into Wealthy

Chapter 7 Pg 84

Domesticities,  But Sooner Or Later They Return To Drudge Again In The

Temple.

 

"How Awfully Jolly!--I Do Enjoy An Evening Like This," Said Mike,

When The Guests Had Departed.

 

At That Moment A Faint Footstep Was Heard On The Landing; Hall Rushed

To See Who Was There,  And Returned With Two Women. They Explained

That They Wanted A Drink. Mike Pressed Them To Make Themselves At

Home,  And Hall Opened Another Bottle.

 

"How Comfortable You Bachelors Are Here By Yourselves," Said One.

 

"I Should Think We Are Just; No Fear Of Either Of Us Being Such Fools

As To Break Up Our Home By Getting Married," Replied Mike.

 

Sometimes Mike And Hall Returned Early From The Restaurant,  And Wrote

From Eight To Eleven; Then Went Out For A Cup Of Coffee And A Prowl,

Beating Up The Strand For Women. They Stayed Out Smoking And Talking

At The Corners Till The Streets Were Empty. Once They Sent A Couple

Of Harlots To Rouse A Learned Old Gentleman Who Lived In Brick Court,

And With Bated Breath Listened From The Floor Beneath To The Dialogue

Above.

 

But To Continue This Life,  Which He Enjoyed So Intensely That He Had

Even Lost His Desire To Gamble,  Mike Was Forced To Borrow. Knowing

How Such Things Are Bruited About,  Mike Chose To Go To A Woman Rather

Than To Any Of His Men Friends. Mrs. Byril Lent Him Twenty Pounds,

Wherefore He Thought It Necessary To Lecture Hall For One Whole

Evening On The Immorality Of Ever Accepting Money From Women; And He

Remained For Weeks In Idleness,  Smoking And Drinking In Restaurants

And Bar Rooms,  Deaf To Frank's Many Pleadings For "Copy." At Last He

Roused A Little,  And Feeling He Could Do Nothing In London,  Proposed

To Come And Stay With Frank In His Cottage At Marlow,  And There Write

The Letters.

 

It Was A Bright October Afternoon,  Frank Had Gone To The Station,  And

Lizzie,  To Appease The Baby,  Had Unbuttoned Her Dress. The Little

Servant-Girl Who Assisted With The House-Work Was Busy In The

Kitchen; For The Fatted Calf Had Been Killed--That Is To Say,  A Pair

Of Soles,  A Steak,  And A Partridge Were In Course Of Preparation.

Lizzie Thought Of The Partridge. She Had Omitted Soup From The Dinner

So That She Might Herself See To The Fish; The Steak,  Unless

Something Quite Unforeseen Occurred,  Annie Would Be Able To Manage,

But The Partridge! Lizzie Determined She Would Find An Excuse For

Leaving The Room; Frank Would Not Like It,  But Anything Would Be

Better Than That The Bird Should Appear In A Raw Or Cindery

Condition,  Which Would Certainly Be The Case If She Did Not See To

It. The Jam-Pudding Was Boiling And Would Be Taken Out Of The Pot At

A Fixed Time. And With Baby Upon Her Breast,  She Watched Sally Scrape

And Clean The Fish And Beat The Steak; Then,  Hearing The Front Door

Open,  She Buttoned Her Dress,  Put Baby In His Cot,  And Went To Meet

Her Visitor. Mike Said He Had Never Seen Her Looking So Well; But In

Truth He Thought She Had Grown Fat And Coarse; And In Half An Hour He

Had Realized All The Detail Of Their Misfortune. He Guessed That She

Had Helped To Cook The Dinner,  That The Wine Had Come From The

Public-House,  That They Had Given Up Their Room To Him,  And Were

Sleeping In Some Small Cupboard-Like Place At The End Of The Passage.

 

Of The Many Various Unpleasantnesses Of Married Life Which Had

Crowded Into His Consciousness Since He Had Been In The Cottage,  This

Impressed Him The Most. He Went To Sleep Thinking Of It,  And When He

Sat Down To Write Next Morning (A Little Study Had Been Arranged For

Him),  It Was The First Thought That Stirred In Him.

 

"How Fearfully Unpleasant!--And After Having Been Married For Nearly

Two Years! I Could Not Do It. If I Were Married--Even If I Were To

Marry Lily,  I Should Insist On Having Separate Rooms. Even With

Separate Rooms Marriage Is Intolerable. How Much Better To See Her

Sometimes,  Sigh For Her From Afar,  And So Preserve One's Ideal.

Married! One Day I Should Be Sure To Surprise Her Washing Herself;

Chapter 7 Pg 85

And I Know Of No More Degrading Spectacle Than That Of A Woman

Washing Herself Over A Basin. Degas Painted It Once. I'd Give

Anything To Have That Picture."

 

But He Could Not Identify Lily As Forming Part Of That Picture; His

Imagination Did Not Help Him,  And He Could Only See Her Staid And

Gracious,  Outside All The Gross Materialism Of Life. He Felt That

Lily Would Never Lose Her Dignity And Loveliness,  Which In Her Were

One,  And In His Mind She Ever Stood Like A Fair Statue Out Of Reach

Of The Mud And The Contumely Of The Common Street; And Ashamed,  An

Unsuccessful Iconoclast,  He Could Not Do Otherwise Than Kneel And

Adore.

 

And When At The End Of A Week He Received An Invitation To A Ball

Where He Thought She Would Be,  He Must Perforce Obey,  And Go With

Tremulous Heart. She Was Engaged In A Quadrille That Passed To And

Fro Beneath Blue Tapestry Curtains,  And He Noticed The Spray Of

Lilies Of The Valley In Her Bodice,  So Emblematic Did They Seem Of

Her. Beneath The Blue Curtain She Stood Talking To Her Partner After

The Dance; And He Did Not Go To Speak To Her,  But Remained Looking.

They Only Danced Together Twice; And That Evening Was Realized By Him

In A Strangely Intense And Durable Perception Of Faint Scent And

Fluent Rhythm. The Sense Of Her Motion,  Of Her Frailness,  Lingered In

His Soul Ever Afterwards. And He Remembered Ever Afterwards The

Moments He Spent With Her In A Distant Corner--The Palm,  The Gold Of

The Screen,  The Movement Of Her White Skirt As She Sat Down. All Was,

As It Were,  Bitten Upon His Soul--Exquisite Etchings! Even The Pauses

In The Conversation Were Remembered; Pauses Full Of Mute Affection;

Pauses Full Of Thought Unexpressed,  Falling In Sharp Chasms Of

Silence. In Such Hours And In Such Pauses Is The Essence Of Our

Lives,  The Rest Is Adjunct And Decoration. He Watched,  Fearing Each

Man That Looked Through The Doorway Might Claim Her For The Next

Dance. His Thought Swept Through His Soul Edgeways. Did He Love Her?

Would He Love Her Always? And He Was Conscious Of The Contrast His

Speech Presented,  To The Tumult That Raged And Shrieked Within Him.

Yet He Couldn't Speak The Word,  And He Cursed His Little Cowardice.

 

The Ball Came And Went--A Little Year With Its Four Seasons; And When

In The Hall He Stood By Her,  Helping Her With Her Cloak (Silk And

Gray Fur,  Folding The Delicate Line Of The Neck),  And Became Aware

That Even Those Last Moments Did Not Hold The Word His Soul Was

Whispering,  He Cursed His Cowardice,  And,  Weary Of Himself,  He Turned

Down The Dark Street,  Feeling That He Had Lost His Life.

 

"Now All Is Ended," He Thought,  "I'm Like A Convict Who Attempted

Escape And Has Been Brought Back And Yoked Again In The Sweaty And

Manacled Gang; And I Must Continue In And Bear With This Life Of

Gross Sensuality And Dirty Journalism,  'Which I Have Borne And Yet

Must Bear'--A Wearisome Repetition Of What Has Been Done And Re-Done

A Thousand Times,  'Till Death-Like Sleep Shall Steal On Me,' And I

May Hear Some Horrible Lodging-House Keeper 'Breathe O'er My Dying

Brain A Last Monotony.' And In Various Degradations My Intellect Will

Suffer,  Will Decay; But With Her Refining And Elevating Influence,  I

Might Be A Great Writer. It Is Certain That The Kernel Of Art Is

Aspiration For Higher Things; At All Events,  I Should Lead A Cleanly

Life. If I Were Married To Her I Should Not Write This Book. It

Certainly Is A Disgraceful Book; And Yet It Amuses Me."

 

His Thoughts Paused,  Then An Idea Came,  And With His Pen He Pursued

It And The Quickly Rising Flight Which Followed For A Couple Of

Hours.

 

"Why Should I Not Write And Ask Her To Marry Me?" He Smiled At The

Thought,  But The Thought Was Stronger Than He,  And He Went To Bed

Thinking Of Her,  And He Rose Thinking Of Her; And The Desire To Write

And Tell Her That He Loved Her And Wanted Her For Wife Persisted; He

Shook It Off A Dozen Times,  But It Grew More And More Poignant,  Until

It Settled On His Heart,  A Lancinating Pain Which Neither Work Nor

Pleasure Could Remove. Daily He Grew Feebler,  Losing At Each Effort

Some Power Of Resistance. One Day He Took Up The Pen To Write The

Irrevocable. But The Reality Of The Ink And Paper Frightened Him.

Chapter 7 Pg 86

"Will You Be My Wife?" Seemed To Him Silly. Even In This Crisis

Self-Esteem Lay Uppermost In His Mind; And He Wrote Many Letters

Before He Felt Certain He Had Guarded Himself Against Ridicule. At

Last He Folded Up A Sheet Upon Which He Had Written--"Dearest Lily,

You Are The Only Woman I May Love; Will You Allow Me To Love You For

Ever?" He Put This Into An Envelope And Directed It; Nothing Remained

But To Post It. The Clock Told Him He Could Catch The Post If He

Started Away At Once,  But He Drew Back,  Frightened At The Reality Of

The Post-Office,  And Decided To Sleep Over His Letter.

 

The Night Was Full Of Lily--Fair,  Chaste Dreams,  Whence He Rose As

From A Bath Clothed In The Samite Of Pure Delight. While Dressing He

Felt Sure That Marriage--Marriage With Lily Must Be The Realization

Of Such Dreams,  And That It Would Be Folly Not To Post His Letter.

Still,  It Might Be As Well To Hear The Opinion Of One Who Had Taken

The Important Step,  And After Breakfast He Drew Frank Into

Conversation About Lizzie.

 

"I Am Quite Happy," He Said. "Lizzie Is A Good Wife,  And I Love Her

Better To-Day Than The Day I Married Her; But The Price I Paid For

Her Was Too High. Mount Rorke Has Behaved Shamefully,  And So Has

Everybody But You. I Never See Any Of The Old Lot Now. Snowdown Came

Once To Dine About A Year Ago,  But I Never Go Anywhere Where Lizzie

Is Not Asked. Mount Rorke Has Only Written Once Since My Marriage,

And Then It Was To Say He Never Wished To See Me Again. The Next I

Heard Was The Announcement Of His Marriage."

 

"So He Has Married Again," Said Mike,  Looking At Frank,  And Then He

Thought--"So You Who Came From The Top Shall Go To The Bottom! Shall

He Who Came From The Bottom Go To The Top?"

 

"I Have Not Heard Yet Of A Child. I Have Tried To Find Out If One Is

Expected; But What Does It Matter?--Mount Rorke Wouldn't Give Me A

Penny-Piece To Save Me From Starvation,  And I Should Have Time To

Starve A Good Many Times Before He Goes Off The Hooks. I Don't Mind

Telling You I'm About As Hard Up As A Man Possibly Can Be. I Owe

Three Quarters' Rent For My Rooms In Temple Gardens,  Nearly Two

Hundred Pounds. The Inn Is Pressing Me,  And I Can't Get Three Hundred

For My Furniture,  And I'm Sure I Paid More Than Fifteen Hundred For

What There Is There."

 

"Why Don't You Sell A Share In The Paper?"

 

"I Have Sold A Small Part Of It,  A Very Small Part Of It,  A Fifth,

And There Is A Fellow Called Thigh--You Know The Fellow,  He Has

Edited Every Stupid Weekly That Has Appeared And Disappeared For The

Last Ten Years--Well,  He Has Got Hold Of A Mug,  And By All Accounts A

Real Mug,  One Of The Right Sort,  A Mr. Beacham Brown. Mr. Brown Wants

A Paper,  And Has Commissioned Thigh To Buy Him One. Thigh Wants Me To

Sell A Half Share In The _Pilgrim_ For A Thousand,  But I Shall Have

To Give Thigh Back Four Hundred; And I Shall--That Is To Say,  I Shall

If I Agree To Thigh's Terms--Become Assistant Editor At A Salary Of

Six Pounds A Week; Two Pounds A Week Of Which I Shall Have To Hand

Over To Thigh,  Who Comes In As Editor At A Salary Of Ten Pounds A

Week. All The Staff Will Be Engaged On Similar Conditions. Thigh Is

'Working' Beacham Brown Beautifully--He Won't Have A Sixpence To

Bless Himself With When Thigh Has Done With Him."

 

"And Are You Going To Accept Thigh's Terms?"

 

"Not If I Can Possibly Help It. If Your Articles Send Up The

Circulation And My New Advertising Agent Can Do The West End

Tradesmen For A Few More Advertisements,  I Shall Stand Off And Wait

For Better Terms. My New Advertising Agent Is A Wonder,  The Finest In

Christendom. The Other Day A Bond Street Jeweller Who Advertises With

Us Came Into My Office. He Said,  'Sir,  I Have Come To Ask You If You

Circulate Thirty Thousand Copies A Week.' 'Well,' I Said,  'Perhaps

Not Quite.' 'Then,  Sir,' He Replied,  'You Will Please Return Me My

Money; I Gave Your Agent My Advertisement Upon His Implicit Assurance

That You Circulated Thirty Thousand A Week.' I Said There Must Be

Some Mistake; Mr. Tomlinson Happens To Be In The Office,  If You'll

Chapter 7 Pg 87

Allow Me I'll Ask Him To Step Down-Stairs. I Touched The Bell,  And

Told The Boy To Ask Mr. Tomlinson To Step Into The Office. 'Mr.

Tomlinson,' I Said,  'Mr. Page Says That He Gave You His Advertisement

On Our Implicit Assurance That We Circulated Thirty Thousand Copies

Weekly. Did You Tell Him That?' Quite Unabashed,  Tomlinson Answered,

'I Told Mr. Page That We Had More Than Thirty Thousand Readers A

Week. We Send To Ten Line Regiments And Five Cavalry Regiments--Each

Regiment Consists Of,  Let Us Say,  Eight Hundred. We Send To Every

Club In London,  And Each Club Has On An Average A Thousand Members.

Why,  Sir,' Exclaimed Tomlinson,  Turning Angrily On The Jeweller,  'I

Might Have Said That We Had A Hundred Thousand Readers And I Should

Have Still Been Under The Mark!' The Jeweller Paid For His

Advertisement And Went Away Crestfallen. Such A Man As Tomlinson Is

The Very Bone And Muscle Of A Society Journal."

 

"And The Nerves Too," Said Mike.

 

"Better Than The Contributors Who Want To Write About The Relation

Between Art And Morals."

 

The Young Men Laughed Mightily.

 

"And What Will You Do," Said Mike,  "If You Don't Settle With Thigh?"

 

"Perhaps My Man Will Be Able To Pick Up Another Advertisement Or Two;

Perhaps Your Articles May Send Up The Circulation. One Thing Is

Certain,  Things Can't Go On As They Are; At This Rate I Shall Not Be

Able To Carry The Paper On Another Six Months."

 

The Conversation Fell,  And Mike Remembered The Letter In His Side

Pocket; It Lay Just Over His Heart. Frank's Monetary Difficulties Had

Affected His Matrimonial Aspirations. "For If The Paper 'Bursts Up'

How Shall I Live,  Much Less Support A Wife? Live! I Shall Always Be

Able To Live,  But To Support A Wife Is Quite Another Matter. Perhaps

Lily Has Some Money. If She Had Five Hundred A Year I Would Marry

Her; But I Don't Know If She Has A Penny. She Must Have Some,  A Few

Thousands--Enough To Pay The First Expenses. To Get A House And Get

Into The House Would Cost A Thousand." A Cloud Passed Over His Face.

The Householder,  The Payer Of Rates And Taxes Which The Thought

Evoked,  Jarred And Caricatured The Ideal,  The Ideal Mike Fletcher,

Which In More Or Less Consistent Form Was Always Present In His Mind.

He Who Had Always Received,  Would Have To Make Presents. The

Engagement Ring Would Cost Five-And-Twenty Pounds,  And Where Was He

To Get The Money? The Ring He Would Have To Buy At Once; And His

Entire Fortune Did Not For The Moment Amount To Ten Pounds. Her

Money,  If She Had Any,  Would Pay For The Honeymoon; And It Was Only

Right That A Woman Should Pay For Her Honeymoon. They Would Go To

Italy. She Was Italy! At Least She Was His Idea Of Italy. Italy! He

Had Never Been There; He Had Always Intended To Keep Italy For His

Wedding Tour. He Was Virgin Of Italy. So Much Virginity He Had At All

Events Kept For His Wife. She Was The Emblem And Symbol Of Italy.

 

Venice Rose Into His Eyes. He Is In A Gondola With Her; The Water Is

Dark With Architrave And Pillar; And A Half Moon Floats In A

Boundless Sky But Remembering That This Is The Venice Of A Hundred

"Chromos," His Imagination Filled The Well-Known Water-Way With

Sunlight And Maskers,  Creating The Carnival Upon The Grand Canal.

Laughing And Mocking Loves; Young Nobles In Blue Hose,  Sword On

Thigh,  As In Shakespeare's Plays; Young Brides In Tumultuous Satin,

With Collars Of Translucent Pearls; Garlands Reflected In The Water;

Scarves Thrown About The Ample Bosoms Of Patrician Matrons. Then The

Brides,  The Nobles,  The Pearls,  The Loves,  And The Matrons Disappear

In A Shower Of Confetti. Wearying Of Venice He Strove To See

Florence,  "The City Of Lilies"; But The Phrase Only Suggested

Flower-Sellers. He Intoxicated Upon His Love,  She Who To Him Was Now

Italy. He Imagined Confidences,  Sudden Sights Of Her Face More

Exquisite Than The Botticelli Women In The Echoing Picture Galleries,

More Enigmatic Than The Eyes Of A Leonardo; And In These Days Of

Desire,  He Lived Through The Torment Of Impersonal Love,  Drawn For

The First Time Out Of Himself. All Beautiful Scenes Of Love From

Books,  Pictures,  And Life Floated In His Mind. He Especially

Chapter 7 Pg 88

Remembered A Sight Of Lovers Which He Had Once Caught On An Hotel

Staircase. A Young Couple,  Evidently Just Returned From The Theatre,

Had Entered Their Room; The Woman Was Young,  Tall,  And Aristocratic;

She Was Dressed In Some Soft Material,  Probably A Dress Of

Cream-Coloured Lace In Numberless Flounces; He Remembered That Her

Hair Was Abundant And Shadowed Her Face. The Effect Of Firelight

Played Over The Hangings Of The Bed; She Stood By The Bed And Raised

Her Fur Cloak From Her Shoulders. The Man Was Tall And Thin,  And The

Light Caught The Points Of The Short Sharp Beard. The Scene Had

Bitten Itself Into Mike's Mind,  And It Reappeared At Intervals

Perfect As A Print,  For He Sometimes Envied The Calm And

Healthfulness Of Honourable Love.

 

"Great Scott! Twelve O'clock!" Smiling,  Conscious Of The Incongruity,

He Set To Work,  And In About Three Hours Had Finished A Long Letter,

In Which He Usefully Advised "Light O' Loves" On The Advantages Of

Foreign Travel.

 

"I Wonder," He Thought,  "How I Can Write In Such A Strain While I'm

In Love With Her. What Beastliness! I Hate The Whole Thing. I Desire

A New Life; I Have Tried Vice Long Enough And Am Weary Of It; I'm Not

Happy,  And If I Were To Gain The Whole World It Would Be Dust And

Ashes Without Her. Then Why Not Take That Step Which Would Bring Her

To Me?" He Faced His Cowardice Angrily,  And Resolved To Post The

Letter. But He Stopped Before He Had Walked Fifty Yards,  For His

Doubts Followed Him,  Buzzing And Stinging Like Bees. Striving To Rid

Himself Of Them,  And Weary Of Considering His Own Embarrassed

Condition,  He Listened Gladly To Lizzie,  Who Deplored Mount Rorke's

Cruelty And Her Husband's Continuous Ill Luck.

 

"I Told Him His Family Would Never Receive Me; I Didn't Want To Marry

Him; For Days I Couldn't Make Up My Mind; He Can't Say I Persuaded

Him Into It."

 

"But You Are Happy Now; Don't You Like Being Married?"

 

"Oh,  Yes,  I Should Be Happy Enough If Things Only Went Better With

Us. He Is So Terribly Unlucky. No One Works Harder Than Frank; He

Often Sits Up Till Three O'clock In The Morning Writing. He Tries

Everything,  But Nothing Seems To Succeed With Him. There's This

Paper. I Don't Believe He Has Ever Had A Penny Out Of It. Tell Me,

Mr. Fletcher,  Do You Think It Will Ever Succeed?"

 

"Newspapers Generally Fail For Want Of A Concerted Plan Of Appeal To

A Certain Section Of Society Kept Steadily In View; They Are Nearly

Always Vague And Undetermined; But I Believe When Four Clever Pens

Are Brought Together,  And Write Continuously,  And With Set Purpose

And Idea,  That They Can,  That They Must And Invariably Do Create A

Property Worth At Least Twenty Thousand Pounds."

 

"Frank Has Gone To The Station To Meet Thigh. I Distrust That Man

Dreadfully; I Hope He Won't Rob My Poor Husband. Frank Told Me To Get

A Couple Of Pheasants For Dinner. Which Way Are You Going? To The

Post-Office? Do You Want A Stamp?"

 

"No,  Thank You,  My Letter Is Stamped." He Held The Letter In The Box

Unable To Loose His Fingers,  Embarrassed In The Consideration Whether

Marriage Would Permit Him To Develop His Artistic Nature As He

Intended. Lizzie Was Looking At Him,  And It Was With Difficulty That

He Concealed From Her The Fact That He Had Not Dropped His Letter In

The Box.

 

When They Returned To The Cottage They Found Thigh And Frank Were

Turning Over The Pages Of The Last Number Of The _Pilgrim_.

 

"Just Let's Go Through The Paper," Said Frank. "One,  Two,

Three--Twelve Columns Of Paragraphs! And I'll Bet That In Every One

Of Those Columns There Is A Piece Of News Artistic,  Political,  Or

Social,  Which No Other Paper Has Got. Here Are Three Articles,  One

Written By Our Friend Here,  One By Me,  And One By A Man Whose Name I

Am Not At Liberty To Mention; But I May Tell You He Has Written Some

Chapter 7 Pg 89

Well-Known Books,  And Is A Constant Contributor To The _Fortnightly_;

Here Is A Column Of Gossip From Paris Excellently Well Done; Here Is

A Short Story ... What Do You Think The Paper Wants?"

 

Thigh Was A Very Small And Very Neatly-Dressed Man. His Manner Was

Quiet And Reserved,  And He Caressed A Large Fair Moustache With His

Left Hand,  On Which A Diamond Ring Sparkled.

 

"I Think It Wants Smartening Up All Round," He Said. "You Want To

Make It Smarter; People Will Have Things Bright Nowadays."

 

"Bright!" Said Frank; "I Don't Know Where You Are Going For

Brightness Nowadays. Just Look At The Other Papers--Here Is The

_Club_--Did You Ever See Such A Rag? Here Is The _Spy_--I Don't Think

You Could Tell If You Were Reading A Number Of Last Year Or This Week

If You Didn't Look At The Date! I've Given Them Up For News. I Look

To See If They Have Got A New Advertisement; If They Have,  I Send

Tomlinson And See If I Can Get One Too."

 

Thigh Made Some Judicious Observations,  And The Conversation Was

Continued During Dinner. Frank And Mike Vying With Each Other To Show

Their Deference To Thigh's Literary Opinions--Lizzie Eager To Know

What He Thought Of Her Dinner.

 

Thigh Said The Turbot Was Excellent,  That The Cutlets Were Very Nice,

That The Birds Were Splendid; The Jam Pudding Was Voted Delicious.

And They Leaned Back In Their Chairs,  Their Eyes Filled With The

Torpor Of Digestion. Frank Brought Out A Bottle Of Old Port,  The Last

Of A Large Supply Which He Had Had From Mount Rorke's Wine Merchant.

The Pleasure Of The Wine Was In Their Stomachs,  And Under Its

Influence They Talked Of Tennyson,  Leonardo Da Vinci,  Corot,  And The

_Ingoldsby Legends_. The Servant Had Brought In The Lamp,  Cigars Were

Lighted,  The Clock Struck Nine. As Yet Not A Word Had Been Spoken Of

The Business,  And Seeing That Mike Was Deep In Conversation With

Lizzie,  Frank Moved His Chair Towards Thigh,  And Said--

 

"Well,  What About Buying Half Of The Paper?"

 

"I'm Quite Ready To Buy Half The Paper On The Conditions I've Already

Offered You."

 

"But They Won't Do. If I Have To Go Smash,  I May As Well Go Smash For

A Large Sum As A Small One. To Clear Myself Of Debts I Must Have Five

Hundred Pounds."

 

"Well,  You'll Get Six Hundred; You'll Receive A Thousand And You'll

Give Me Back Four Hundred."

 

"Yes,  But I Did Not Tell You That I Have Sold A Small Share In The

Paper To An Old Schoolfellow Of Mine. When I Have Paid Him I Shall

Have Only Two Hundred,  And That Won't Be Of The Slightest Use To Me."

 

"Oh,  You Have Sold Part Of The Paper Already,  Have You? How Do You

Know Your Friend Will Consent To Be Bought Out? That Complicates

Matters."

 

"My Friend Only Did It To Oblige Me; He Is Only Too Anxious To Be

Bought Out. He Is In A Fearful Funk Lest He Should Be Compromised In

A Libel Action."

 

"Oh,  Then I Think It Can Be Managed. Were I In Your Place I Should

Try And Get Rid Of Him For Nothing. I Can't Offer You Better Terms;

It Wouldn't Pay Me To Do So; I Might As Well Start A New Paper."

 

"Yes,  But Tell Me,  How Can I Get Rid Of Him For Nothing?"

 

Thigh Looked At Frank Inquiringly,  And Apparently Satisfied He Drew

His Chair Nearer,  Stroked His Moustache,  And Said,  Speaking Under His

Breath--

 

"Have You Collected What Money Is Owing To The Paper Lately? Have You

Chapter 7 Pg 90

Many Outstanding Debts?"

 

"We Have Got Some."

 

"Well,  Don't Collect Any Money That Is Owing,  But Make Out A Long

Statement Of The Paper's Liabilities; Don't Say A Word About The

Outstanding Debts,  And Tell Your Friend That He Is Responsible As

Part Owner Of The Paper For This Money. When You Have Sufficiently

Frightened Him,  Suggest That He Should Sign Over His Share To You,

You Being A Man Of Straw Whom It Would Be Useless To Proceed Against.

Or You Might Get Your Printer To Press You For Money--"

 

"That Won't Be Difficult."

 

"Offer Him A Bill,  And Then Mix The Two Accounts Up Together."

 

At This Moment Mike Was Speaking To Lizzie Of Love. She Told Him

There Was No Real Happiness Except In Married Life,  Assured Him That

Though They Might Be Beggars To-Day,  She Would Not Give Up Her

Husband For All The Wealth Of The Three Kingdoms.

 

Very Anxious To Ascertain The Truth About Married Life,  Mike Pressed

Lizzie Upon Several Points; The Old Ache Awoke About His Heart,  And

Again He Resolved To Regenerate His Life,  And Love Lily And None But

Her. He Looked Round The Room,  Considering How He Could Get Away.

Frank Was Talking Business. He Would Not Disturb Him. No Doubt Thigh

Was Concocting Some Swindle,  But He (Mike) Knew Nothing Of Business;

He Had A Knack Of Turning The King At Écarté,  But Was Nowhere Once

Bills And The Cooking Of Accounts Were Introduced. Should He Post The

Letter? That Was The Question,  And It Played In His Ears Like An

Electric Bell. Here Was The Letter; He Could Feel It Through His

Coat,  Lying Over His Heart,  And There It Had Lain Since He Had

Written It.

 

Frank And Thigh Continued Talking; Lizzie Went To The Baby,  And Mike

Walked Into The Night,  Looking At The Stars. He Walked Along The

White High-Road--To Him A Road Of Dreams--Towards The White Town--To

Him A Town Of Chimeras--And Leaning Over The Moon-Lit River,  Shaking

Himself Free From The Hallucination Within And Without Him,  He Said--

 

"On One Hand I Shall Belong To One Woman. Her House Shall Be My

House,  Her Friends Shall Be My Friends; The Others,  The Beautiful,

Fascinating Others,  Will Cease To Dream Of Me,  I Shall No Longer Be

Their Ideal. On The Other Hand I Shall Gain The Nicest Woman,  And

Surely It Must Be Right To Take,  Though It Be For Life,  The Nicest

Woman In The World. She Will Supply What Is Wanting In My Character;

Together We Shall Attain A Goal; Alone I Shall Attain None. In Twenty

Years I Shall Be A Foolish Old Bachelor Whom No One Cares For. I Have

Stated Both Cases--On Which Side Does The Balance Turn?"

 

The Balance Still Stood At Equipoise. A Formless Moon Soared Through

A White Cloud Wrack,  And Broken Gold Lay In The Rising Tide. The

Sonorous Steps Of The Policeman On The Bridge Startled Him,  And

Obeying The Impulse Of The Moment,  He Gave The Officer The Letter,

Asking Him To Post It. He Waited For Some Minutes,  As If Stupefied,

Pursuing The Consequences Of His Act Even Into Distant Years. No,  He

Would Not Send The Letter Just Yet. But The Officer Had Disappeared

In Some By-Streets,  And Followed By The Spirits Of Future Loves,  Mike

Ran Till He Reached The Post-Office,  Where He Waited In Nervous

Apprehension. Presently Steps Were Heard In The Stillness,  And

Getting Between Him And The Terrible Slot,  Mike Determined To Fight

For His Letter If It Were Refused Him.

 

"I Met You Just Now On The Bridge And Asked You To Post A Letter;

Give It Back To Me,  If You Please. I've Changed My Mind."

 

The Officer Looked At Him Narrowly,  But He Took The Proffered

Shilling,  And Returned The Letter.

 

"That Was The Narrowest Squeak I've Had Yet," Thought Mike.

 

Chapter 7 Pg 91

When He Returned To The Cottage He Found Frank And Thigh Still

Together.

 

"Mr. Beacham Brown," Said Thigh,  "Is Now Half-Proprietor Of The

_Pilgrim_. The Papers Are Signed. I Came Down Quite Prepared. I

Believe In Settling Things Right Off. When Mrs. Escott Comes In,  We

Will Drink To The New _Pilgrim_,  Or,  If You Like It Better,  To The

Old _Pilgrim_,  Who Starts Afresh With A New Staff And Scrip,  And A

Well-Filled Scrip Too," He Added,  Laughing Vacuously.

 

"I Hope," Said Mike,  "That Holloway Is Not The Shrine He Is

Journeying Towards."

 

"I Hope Your Book Won't Bring Us There."

 

"Why,  I Didn't Know You Were Going To Continue--"

 

"Oh,  Yes," Said Thigh; "That Is To Say,  If We Can Come To An

Arrangement About The Purchase," And Thigh Lapsed Into A Stony

Silence,  As Was His Practice When Conducting A Bargain.

 

"By God!" Mike Thought,  "I Wish We Were Playing At Écarté Or Poker.

I'm No Good At Business."

 

"Well," He Said At Last,  "What Terms Do You Propose To Offer Me?"

 

Thigh Woke Up.

 

"I Never Bargain," He Said. "I'll Give You Beacham Brown's Cheque For

A Hundred And Fifty If You Will Give Me A Receipt For Three Hundred,"

And He Looked Inquiry Out Of His Small,  Pale Blue Eyes,  And Mike

Noticed The Diamond Ring On The Hand That Caressed His Moustache.

 

"No," Said Mike,  "That Isn't Fair. You Don't Write A Line Of The

Book. There Is Not Even The Excuse Of Commission,  For The Book Is Now

Appearing."

 

"Escott Would Not Have Paid You Anything Like That Amount. I Think

I'm Treating You Very Liberally. Indeed I Don't Mind Telling You That

I Should Not Offer You Anything Like Such Terms If Beacham Brown Were

Not Anxious To Have The Book; He Read Your Last Article In The Train,

And Came Back Raving About It."

 

Bright Pleasure Passed Across Mike's Face; He Thought Thigh Had

Slipped In The Avowal,  And He Girt Himself For Resolute Resistance

And Cautious Attack. But Thigh Was The Superior Strategist. Mike Was

Led From The Subject,  And Imperceptibly Encouraged To Speak Of Other

Things,  And Without Interruption He Span Paradoxes And Scattered

Jokes For Ten Minutes. Then The Conversation Dropped,  And Annoyed,

Mike Fixed His Eyes On Thigh,  Who Sat In Unmovable Silence.

 

"Well," Said Mike,  "What Do You Intend To Do?"

 

"About What?" Said Thigh,  With A Half-Waking Stare.

 

"About This Book Of Mine. You Know Very Well That If I Take It To

Another Shop You'll Find It Difficult To Get Anything Like As Good A

Serial. I Know Pretty Well What Talent Is Walking About Fleet

Street."

 

Thigh Said Nothing,  Only Raised His Eyes As If Mike's Words Were Full

Of Suggestion,  And Again Beguiled,  Mike Rambled Into Various

Criticisms Of Contemporary Journalism. Friends Were Laughed At,  And

The Papers They Edited Were Stigmatized As Rags That Lived Upon The

Ingenuity Of The Lies Of Advertising Agents. When The Conversation

Again Dropped,  Thigh Showed No Inclination Of Returning To The Book,

But,  As Before,  Sat In Stony Silence,  And Out Of Temper With Himself,

Mike Had To Ask Him Again What The Terms Were.

 

"I Cannot Offer You Better Terms Than I Have Already Done."

 

Chapter 7 Pg 92

"Very Well; I'll Take One Hundred And Fifty For The Serial Rights."

 

"No,  For The Entire Rights."

 

"No,  I'll Be Damned,  I Don't Care What Happens!"

 

Then Frank Joined In The Discussion. Every One Withdrew The Offer He

Had Made,  And All Possibility Of Agreement Seemed At An End. Somehow

It Was Suggested That Thigh Should Toss Mike Whether He Should Pay

Him Two Hundred Or A Hundred And Fifty. The Men Exchanged Questioning

Looks,  And At That Moment Lizzie Entered With A Pack Of Cards,  And

Thigh Said--

 

"I'll Play You At Écarté--The Best Out Of Seven Games."

 

Mike Realized At Once The Situation,  And He Hoped Frank Would Not

Betray Him. He Saw That Thigh Had Been Drinking. "God Has Given Him

Into My Hands," He Thought; And It Was Agreed That They Should Play

The Best Out Of Seven Games For Twenty-Five Pounds,  And That The

Loser Should Have The Right To Call For A Return Match. Mike Knew

Nothing Of His Opponent's Play,  But He Did Not For A Moment Suspect

Him Of Superior Skill. Such A Thing Could Hardly Be,  And He Decided

He Would Allow Him To Win The First Games,  Watching Carefully The

While,  So That He Might Study His Combinations And Plans,  And Learn

In What Measure He Might Pack And "Bridge" The Cards. There Is Much

In A Shuffle,  And Already Mike Believed Him To Be No More Than An

Ordinary Club Player,  Capable Of Winning A Few Sovereigns From A

Young Man Fresh From The University; And Although The Cards Mike Held

Did Not Warrant Such A Course,  He Played Without Proposing,  And When

He Lost The Trick He Scanned His Opponent's Face,  And Seeing It

Brighten,  He Knew The Ruse Had Succeeded. But Luck Seemed To Run

Inexplicably Against Him,  And He Was Defeated. In The Return Match He

Met With Similar Luck,  And Rose From The Table,  Having Lost Fifty

Pounds. Mike Wrote A Second I O U For Twenty-Five Pounds,  To Be Paid

Out Of The Hundred And Fifty Pounds Which He Had Agreed In Writing To

Accept For The Book Before Sitting Down To Play. Then He Protested

Vehemently Against His Luck,  And So Well Did He Act His Part,  That

Even If Thigh Had Not Drunk Another Glass Of Whiskey-And-Water He

Would Not Have Perceived That Mike Was Simulating An Excitement Which

He Did Not Feel.

 

"I'll Play You For A Hundred Pounds--The Best Out Of Seven Games;

Damn The Cards! I Can Beat You No Matter How They Run!"

 

"Very Well,  I Don't Mind,  Anything To Oblige A Friend."

 

Lizzie Besought Mike Not To Play Again,  And She Nearly Upset The

Apple-Cart By Angrily Telling Thigh She Did Not Wish Her House To Be

Turned Into A Gambling Hell. Thigh Rose From The Table,  But Frank

Apologized For His Wife,  And Begged Of Him To Sit Down. The Incident

Was Not Without A Good Effect,  For It Removed Thigh's Suspicions,  If

He Had Any,  And Convinced Him That He Was "In For A Real Good Thing."

He Laid On The Table A Cheque,  Signed Beacham Brown,  For A Hundred

Pounds; Mike Produced His Nearly Completed Manuscript. Thigh Looked

Over The Ms.,  Judging Its Length.

 

"It Is All Here?"

 

"No,  There's One Chapter To Come; That's Gain: «C'est Gelé! C'est

Mort!... Voyez,  Le Bois Doit Être Blanc». Et Il Me Faisait Voir Une Petite

Teinte Brune,  La Teinte D'un Bois Qui Devient Du Bois À Fagot.

 

Vraiment,  Quoique Ça Paraisse Imbécile De Dire,  C'est Fait Pour Moi,  Pour

Moi Seul,  Elle Est Vraiment Singulière La Malechance Que Je Rencontre En

Tout Et Partout. Moi,  Resté Si Longtemps Indifférent À La Nature,  Si Peu

Soucieux De Ses Beautés,  Il Arrive Qu'une Année,  Je Me Toque D'arbustes,

Que Je Plante,  Que Je Fais Tout Mon Bonheur Et Ma Passion D'un Petit Coin

De Verdure Idéal,  Eh Bien,  Cette Année Il Faut Qu'il Gèle,  Comme Il N'a

Pas Gelé Depuis Cent Ans,  Et Tout Ce Que J'ai Planté,  Tout Ce Que J'aimais

Des Arbres Plantés Par Mon Prédécesseur,  Tout Cela «Est Gelé,  Est Mort»,

Comme Le Disait Maître Theulier.

Chapter 7 Pg 93

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Mardi 9 Janvier_.--Dîner De Brébant. Ernest Picard,  Avec Lequel Je Dîne

Pour La Première Fois,  A Le Ventripotent Aspect De Ces Petits Manieurs

D'argent De Village,  À La Fois Percepteur Et Régisseur D'un Grand

Propriétaire Habitant Paris,  Et Cela Avec Un Oeil Goguenard,  Et Une Parole

D'avocat,  Spirituellement Malicieuse. A Propos Des Récentes Élections

Académiques Il Déclare Qu'il Ne Connaît Pas De Corruption Électorale

Semblable À Celle De L'institut.

 

On Le Met Sur Les Derniers Événements. Il Dit Qu'il A Eu Dès D'abord La

Plus Grande Défiance De Trochu,  Pour Avoir Vu Sa Signature,  Une Signature

Au Paraphe Tremblé,  Qui Lui A Fait Penser De Suite À Un Ramollissement Du

Cerveau,  Et Il Explique Le Défenseur De Paris,  Par Ce Ramollissement,  Tout

En Le Reconnaissant Très Complexe,  Et Ne Pouvant Donner La Clef De Ce

Mélange De Roublarderie Et De Mysticisme.

 

Puis,  Il Affirme Que Tous Nos Malheurs Viennent Du Mois D'octobre 1869,

Sont Dûs À Une Douzaine D'hommes Qui Se Sont Laissé Emporter Par Leurs

Passions. Sans La Scission Produite Par Ces Inventeurs Du Mandat Impératif

Dans L'opposition,  Ernest Picard A La Conviction Que L'opposition Attirait

À Elle La Masse Flottante Existant Dans L'assemblée,  Et Qu'elle Devenait

Une Majorité Empêchant La Guerre Et Tous Nos Désastres.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_10 Janvier_.--Aujourd'hui,  Chez Le Français,  Le Journal A Remplacé Le

Catéchisme. Un Premier Paris De Machin Ou De Chose Devient Un Article De

Foi,  Que L'abonné Accepte Avec La Même Absence De Libre Examen Que Chez Le

Catholique D'autrefois Trouvait Le Mystère De La Trinité.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_11 Janvier_.--Un Interne Soutenait Que Dans Les Hôpitaux,  Pour Les

Malades Misérables,  Le Bain,  La Chemise Blanche,  Les Draps Propres,  Le

Passage De La Saleté À La Propreté,  Amenait Une Amélioration Médicalement

Constatée.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_11 Janvier_.--Ces Jours-Ci,  Trouvant Dans La Rue De La Paix Un

Encombrement De Voitures De Maîtres,  Tout Semblable À Celui D'une Première

Au Théâtre Français,  Je Me Demandais Quel Était Le Grand Personnage Qui

Avait Sa Porte Assiégée Par Tant De Grand Monde,  Quand,  Levant Les Yeux

Au-Dessus D'une Porte Cochère,  Je Lus: «Worth». Paris Est Toujours Le

Paris De L'empire.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_16 Janvier_.--Rien Ne M'agace Comme Les Gens Qui Viennent Vous Supplier

De Leur Faire Voir Des Choses D'art,  Qu'ils Touchent Avec Des Mains

Irrespectueuses,  Qu'ils Regardent Avec Des Yeux Ennuyés.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_17 Janvier_.--Flaubert Est,  Dans Le Moment,  Si Grincheux,  Si Cassant,  Si

Irascible,  Si Érupé À Propos De Tout Et De Rien,  Que Je Crains Que Mon

Pauvre Ami Ne Soit Atteint De L'irritabilité Maladive Des Affections

Nerveuses À Leur Germe.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_28 Janvier_.--Aujourd'hui,  Après Deux Années Sans Un Achat,  J'ai,  Pour La

Première Fois,  La Tentation D'un Dessin.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Lundi 29 Janvier_.--La Première Personne Que J'aperçois À L'église,  C'est

Elle! Je La Vois À Travers Le Jour Des Ogives Du Choeur. Elle A La Tête

Penchée Sur L'ép Cruel."

Chapter 7 Pg 94

Tears Swam In His Eyes,  And Covering His Face In His Hands He Burst

Into A Storm Of Heavy Sobbing.

 

Mike Was Sincere,  But "There Is Something Not Wholly Disagreeable To

Us In Hearing Of The Misfortunes Even Of Our Best Friends," And Mike

Felt The Old Thought Forced Into His Mind That He Who Had Come From

The Top Had Gone To The Bottom,  And That He Who Came From The Bottom

Was Going--Had Gone To The Top. Taking Care,  However,  That None Of

The Triumph Ebullient Within Him Should Rise Into His Voice,  He

Said--

 

"I Am Really Sorry For You,  Frank. You Mustn't Despair; Perhaps The

Child Won't Live,  And Perhaps The Paper Will Succeed. It Must

Succeed. It Shall Succeed."

 

"Succeed! Nothing Succeeds With Me. I And My Wife And Child Are

Beggars On The Face Of The Earth. It Matters Little To Me Whether The

Paper Succeeds Or Fails. Thigh Has Got Pretty Nearly All Of It. When

My Debts Are Paid I Shall Not Have Enough To Set Myself Up In Rooms."

 

At The End Of A Painful Silence,  Mike Said--

 

"We've Had Our Quarrels,  But You've Been A Damned Good Friend To Me;

It Is My Turn Now To Stand To You. To Begin With,  Here Is The Three

Hundred That I Won From Thigh. I Don't Want It. I Assure You I Don't.

Then There Are Your Rooms In Temple Gardens; I'll Take Them Off Your

Hands. I'll Pay All The Arrears Of Rent,  And Give You The Price You

Paid For Your Furniture."

 

"What Damned Nonsense! How Can You Do That? Take Three Hundred Pounds

From You--The Price Of Your Book. You Have Nothing Else In The

World!"

 

"Yes,  I Have; It Is All Right,  Old Chap; You Can Have The Money. The

Fact Is," He Said,  "Lady Seeley Has Left Me Her Whole Fortune; The

Letter I Just Received Is From The Solicitors. They Say Three

Thousand A Year In Various Securities,  And A Property In Berkshire.

So You See I Can Afford To Be Generous. I Shall Feel Much Hurt If You

Don't Accept. Indeed,  It Is The Least I Can Do; I Owe It To You."

 

The Men Looked At Each Other,  Their Eyes Luminous With Intense And

Quickening Emotions. Fortune Had Been So Derisive That Mike Feared

Frank Would Break Into Foolish Anger,  And That Only A Quarrel And

Worse Hatred Might Result From His Offer Of Assistance.

 

"It Was In My Box You Met Her; I Remember The Night Quite Well. You

Were With Harding." [Footnote: See _Spring Days_.] The Men Exchanged

An Inquiring Look. "She Wanted Me To Go Home And Have Supper With

Her; She Was In Love With Me Then; I Might Have Been Her Lover. But I

Refused,  And I Went Into The Bar And Spoke To Lizzie; When She Went

Off On Duty I Went And Sat With You And Harding. Not Long After I Saw

You At Reading,  In The Hotel Overlooking The River. I Was With

Lizzie." [Footnote: See _Spring Days_.]

 

"You Can't Accuse Me Of Having Cut You Out. You Could Have Got Her,

And--"

 

"I Didn't Want Her; I Was In Love With Lizzie,  And I Am Still. And

Strange As It May Appear To You,  I Regret Nothing,  At Least Nothing

That Concerns Lizzie."

 

Mike Wondered If This Were True. His Fingers Fidgeted With The

Cheques. "Won't You Take Them?"

 

Frank Took Them. It Was Impossible To Continue The Conversation.

Frank Made A Remark,  And The Young Men Bade Each Other Good-Night.

 

As Mike Went Up The Staircase To His Room,  His Exultation Swelled,

And In One Of Those Hallucinations Of The Brain Consequent Upon

Nerve Excitement,  And In Which We Are Conscious Of Our Insanity,  He

Chapter 7 Pg 95

Wondered The Trivial Fabric Of The Cottage Did Not Fall,  And His Soul

Seemed To Pierce The Depth And Mystery Imprisoned In The Stars. He

Undressed Slowly,  Looking At Himself In The Glass,  Pausing When He

Drew Off His Waistcoat,  Unbuttoning His Braces With Deliberation.

 

"I Can Make Nothing Of It; There Never Was Any One Like Me.... I

Could Do Anything,  I Might Have Been Napoleon Or Cæsar."

 

As He Folded His Coat He Put His Hand Into The Breast Pocket And

Produced The Unposted Letter.

 

"That Letter Will Drive Me Mad! Shall I Burn It? What Do I Want With

A Wife? I've Plenty Of Money Now."

 

He Held The Letter To The Flame Of The Candle. But He Could Nyour Desires And Unmortified Passions May Not Hinder You From That Which

Hath Been Ordained For You.

 

 

 

O Salman! All That The Sages And Mystics Have Said Or Written Have Never

Exceeded,  Nor Can They Ever Hope To Exceed,  The Limitations To Which Man's

Finite Mind Hath Been Strictly Subjected. To Whatever Heights The Mind Of

The Most Exalted Of Men May Soar,  However Great The Depths Which The

Detached And Understanding Heart Can Penetrate,  Such Mind And Heart Can

Never Transcend That Which Is The Creature Of Their Own Conceptions And

The Product Of Their Own Thoughts. The Meditations Of The Profoundest

Thinker,  The Devotions Of The Holiest Of Saints,  The Highest Expressions

Of Praise From Either Human Pen Or Tongue,  Are But A Reflection Of That

Which Hath Been Created Within Themselves,  Through The Revelation Of The

Lord,  Their God. Whoever Pondereth This Truth In His Heart Will Readily

Admit That There Are Certain Limits Which No Human Being Can Possibly

Transgress. Every Attempt Which,  From The Beginning That Hath No

Beginning,  Hath Been Made To Visualize And Know God Is Limited By The

Exigencies Of His Own Creation--A Creation Which He,  Through The Operation

Of His Own Will And For The Purposes Of None Other But His Own Self,  Hath

Called Into Being. Immeasurably Exalted Is He Above The Strivings Of Human

Mind To Grasp His Essence,  Or Of Human Tongue To Describe His Mystery. No

Tie Of Direct Intercourse Can Ever Bind Him To The Things He Hath Created,

Nor Can The Most Abstruse And Most Remote Allusions Of His Creatures Do

Justice To His Being. Through His World-Pervading Will He Hath Brought

Into Being All Created Things. He Is And Hath Ever Been Veiled In The

Ancient Eternity Of His Own Exalted And Indivisible Essence,  And Will

Everlastingly Continue To Remain Concealed In His Inaccessible Majesty And

Glory. All That Is In Heaven And All That Is In The Earth Have Come To

Exist At His Bidding,  And By His Will All Have Stepped Out Of Utter

Nothingness Into The Realm Of Being. How Can,  Therefore,  The Creature

Which The Word Of God Hath Fashioned Comprehend The Nature Of Him Who Is

The Ancient Of Days?

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7 Pg 96

Should Any Man,  In This Day,  Arise And,  With Absolute Detachment From All

That Is In The Heavens And All That Is On The Earth,  Set His Affections On

Him Who Is The Day Spring Of God's Holy Revelation,  He Will,  Verily,  Be

Empowered To Subdue All Created Things,  Through The Potency Of One Of The

Names Of The Lord,  His God,  The All-Knowing,  The All-Wise. Know Thou Of A

Certainty That The Day Star Of Truth Hath,  In This Day,  Shed Upon The

World A Radiance,  The Like Of Which Bygone Ages Have Never Witnessed. Let

The Light Of His Glory,  O People,  Shine Upon You,  And Be Not Of The

Negligent.

 

 

 

 

 

Cl: When The Victory Arriveth,  Every Man Shall...

 

 

 

 

When The Victory Arriveth,  Every Man Shall Profess Himself As Believer And

Shall Hasten To The Shelter Of God's Faith. Happy Are They Who In The Days

Of World-Encompassing Trials Have Stood Fast In The Cause And Refused To

Swerve From Its Truth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cli: Release Yourselves,  O Nightingales Of God,...

 

 

 

 

Release Yourselves,  O Nightingales Of God,  From The Thorns And Brambles Of

Wretchedness And Misery,  And Wing Your Flight To The Rose-Garden Of

Unfading Splendor. O My Friends That Dwell Upon The Dust! Haste Forth Unto

Your Celestial Habitation. Announce Unto Yourselves The Joyful Tidings:

"He Who Is The Best-Beloved Is Come! He Hath Crowned Himself With The

Glory Of God's Revelation,  And Hath Unlocked To The Face Of Men The Doors

Of His Ancient Paradise." Let All Eyes Rejoice,  And Let Every Ear Be

Gladdened,  For Now Is The Time To Gaze On His Beauty,  Now Is The Fit Time

To Hearken To His Voice. Proclaim Unto Every Longing Lover: "Behold,  Your

Well-Beloved Hath Come Among Men!" And To The Messengers Of The Monarch Of

Love Impart The Tidings: "Lo,  The Adored One Hath Appeared Arrayed In The

FullY Light,  Taking Refuge In Some

Osier-Beds. And As He Looked Down Stream He Saw The Night Clouds

Dispersing In The Wind. He Pulled,  Making The Boat Shoot Through The

Water For About A Mile,  Then Touched By The Beauty Of The Landscape,

Paused To View It. Cattle Lay In The Long,  Moist Meadows,  Harmonizing

In Their Semi-Unconsciousness With The Large Gray Earth; Mist Hung In

The Sedges,  Floated Evanescent Upon The Surface Of The Water,  Within

Reach Of His Oars,  Floated And Went Out In The Sunshine. But On The

Verge Of An Oak Wood,  Amid Tangled And Tawny Masses Of Fern And

Grass,  A Hound Stopped And Looked Up. Then The Huntsman Appeared

Galloping Along The Upland,  And Turning In His Saddle,  He Blew A

Joyful Blast.

 

Mike Sat Still,  His Heart Close Shut,  The Beauty Of The Scene In Its

Quick And Core. Then Yielding Utterly He Drove The Boat Ashore,  And

Calling To The Nearest,  To One Who Had Stopped And Was Tightening His

Chapter 7 Pg 97

Horse's Girths,  He Offered To Buy His Horse. A Hundred Pounds Was

Asked. "It Is Not Worth It," He Thought; "But I Must Spend My Four

Thousand A Year." The Desire To Do What Others Think Of Doing But

Don't Do Was Always Active In Mike. He Gave His Name And Address;

And,  Fearing To Miss Dealing On Such Advantageous Terms,  The Owner

Consented To Allow Mike To Try The Horse Then And There. But The

Hounds Had Got On The Scent Of A Fox. The Horn Was Heard Ringing In

The Seared Wood In The Crimson Morning,  And The Hounds Streamed

Across The Meadows.

 

"I Must Try Him Over Some Fences. Take My Boat And Row Up To Ash

Cottage; I'll Meet You There."

 

"I'll Do Nothing Of The Sort!" Roared The Man In Top-Boots.

 

"Then Walk Across The Fields," Cried Mike; And He Rode At The Hedge

And Rail,  Coming Down Heavily,  But Before The Owner Could Reach Him

He Had Mounted And Was Away.

 

Some Hours Later,  As He Approached The Cottage,  He Saw Frank And A

Man In Top-Boots Engaged In Deep Converse.

 

"Get Off My Horse Instantly!" Exclaimed The Latter.

 

"The Horse Is Mine," Said Mike,  Who Unfortunately Could Not Control

His Laughter.

 

"Your Horse! Certainly Not! Get Off My Horse,  Or I'll Pull You Off."

 

Mike Jumped Off.

 

"Since You Will Have It So,  I'll Not Dispute With You. There Is Your

Horse; Not A Bad Sort Of Animal--Capital Sport."

 

"Now Pay Me My Hundred Pounds!" Said The Owner,  Between His Clenched

Teeth.

 

"You Said Just Now That You Hadn't Sold Me The Horse. There Is Your

Horse,  And Here Is The Name Of My Solicitors,  If You Want To Go To

Law With Me."

 

"Law With You! I'll Give You Law!" And Letting Go The Horse,  That

Immediately Began To Browse,  He Rushed At Mike,  His Whip In The Air.

 

Mike Fought,  His Long Legs Wide Apart,  His Long Arms Going Like

Lightning,  Straight From The Shoulder,  Scattering Blood Over Necktie

And Collar; And Presently The Man Withdrew,  Cursing Mike For An Irish

Horse-Stealer.

 

"I Never Heard Of Such A Thing!" Said Frank. "You Got On His Horse

And Rode Away,  Leaving Him Standing On The Outside Of The Cover."

 

"Yes," Shouted Mike,  Delighted With His Exploit; "I Felt I Must Go

After The Hounds."

 

"Yes,  But To Go Away With The Man's Horse!"

 

"My Dear Fellow,  Why Not? Those Are The Things That Other Fellows

Think Of Doing But Don't Do. An Excitement Like That Is Worth

Anything."

 

While Waiting For Lily's Answer,  Mike Finished The Last Chapter Of

His Book,  And Handed The Manuscript To Frank. Between The Sentences

He Had Speculated On The State Of Soul His Letter Would Produce In

Her,  And Had Imagined Various Answers. "Darling,  How Good Of You! I

Did Not Know You Loved Me So Well." She Would Write,  "Your Letter

Surprised Me,  But Then You Always Surprise Me. I Can Promise You

Nothing; But You May Come And See Me Next Thursday." She Would Write

At Once,  Of That There Could Be No Doubt; Such Letters Were Always

Answered At Once. He Watched The Postman And The Clock; Every Double

Knock Made Tumult In His Heart; And In His Stimulated Perceptions He

Chapter 7 Pg 98

Saw The Well-Remembered Writing As If It Lay Under His Eyes. And The

Many Communications Hledge. Be Ablaze As The Fire,  That Ye May Burn Away

The Veils Of Heedlessness And Set Aglow,  Through The Quickening Energies

Of The Love Of God,  The Chilled And Wayward Heart. Be Light And

Untrammeled As The Breeze,  That Ye May Obtain Admittance Into The

Precincts Of My Court,  My Inviolable Sanctuary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cliii: O Banished And Faithful Friend! Quench The...

 

 

 

 

O Banished And Faithful Friend! Quench The Thirst Of Heedlessness With The

Sanctified Waters Of My Grace,  And Chase The Gloom Of Remoteness Through

The Morning-Light Of My Divine Presence. Suffer Not The Habitation Wherein

Dwelleth My Undying Love For Thee To Be Destroyed Through The Tyranny Of

Covetous Desires,  And Overcloud Not The Beauty Of The Heavenly Youth With

The Dust Of Self And Passion. Clothe Thyself With The Essence Of

Righteousness,  And Let Thine Heart Be Afraid Of None Except God. Obstruct

Not The Luminous Spring Of Thy Soul With The Thorns And Brambles Of Vain

And Inordinate Affections,  And Impede Not The Flow Of The Living Waters

That Stream From The Fountain Of Thine Heart. Set All Thy Hope In God,  And

Cleave Tenaciously To His Unfailing Mercy. Who Else But Him Can Enrich The

Destitute,  And Deliver The Fallen From His Abasement?

 

O My Servants! Were Ye To Discover The Hidden,  The Shoreless Oceans Of My

Incorruptible Wealth,  Ye Would,  Of A Certainty,  Esteem As Nothing The

World,  Nay,  The Entire Creation. Let The Flame Of Search Burn With Such

Fierceness Within Your Hearts As To Enable You To Attain Your Supreme And

Most Exalted Goal--The Station At Which Ye Can Draw Nigh Unto,  And Be

United With,  Your Best-Beloved....

 

O My Servants! Let Not Your Vain Hopes And Idle Fancies Sap The

Foundations Of Your Belief In The All-Glorious God,  Inasmuch As Such

Imaginings Have Been Wholly Unprofitable Unto Men,  And Failed To Direct

Their Steps Unto The Straight Path. Think Ye,  O My Servants,  That The Hand

Of My All-Encompassing,  My Overshadowing,  And Transcendent Sovereignty Is

Chained Up,  That The Flow Of Mine Ancient,  My Ceaseless,  And All-Pervasive

Mercy Is Checked,  Or That The Clouds Of My Sublime And Unsurpassed Favors

Have Ceased To Rain Their Gifts Upon Men? Can Ye Imagine That The Wondrous

Works That Have Proclaimed My Divine And Resistless Power Are Withdrawn,

Or That The Potency Of My Will And Purpose Hath Been Deterred From

Directing The Destinies Of Mankind? If It Be Not So,  Wherefore,  Then,  Have

Ye Striven To Prevent The Deathless Beauty Of My Sacred And Gracious

Countenance From Being Unveiled To Men's Eyes? Why Have Ye Struggled To

Hinder The Manifestation Of The Almighty And All-Glorious Being From

Shedding The Radiance Of His Revelation Upon The Earth? Were Ye To Be Fair

In Your Judgment,  Ye Would Readily Recognize How The Realities Of All

Created Things Are Inebriated With The Joy Of This New And Wondrous

Revelation,  How All The Atoms Of The Earth Have Been Illuminated Through

The Brightness Of Its Glory. Vain And Wretched Is That Which Ye Have

Imagined And Still Imagine!

 

Retrace Your Steps,  O My Servants,  And Incline Your Hearts To Him Who Is

The Source Of Your Creation. Deliver Yourselves From Your Evil And Corrupt

Affections,  And Hasten To Embrace The Light Of The Undying Fire That

Gloweth On The Sinai Of This Mysterious And Transcendent Revelation.

Corrupt Not The Holy,  The All-Embracing,  And Primal Word Of God,  And Seek

Not To Profane Its Sanctity Or To Debase Its Exalted Character. O Heedless

Ones! Though The Wonders Of My Mercy Have Encompassed All Created Things,

Both Visible And Invisible,  And Though The Revelations Of My Grace And

Bounty Have Permeated Every Atom Of The Universe,  Yet The Rod With Which I

Can Chastise The Wicked Is Grievous,  And The Fierceness Of Mine Anger

 

Chapter 7 Pg 99

Against Them Terrible. With Ears That Are Sanctified From Vain-Glory And

Worldly Desires Hearken Unto The Counsels Which I,  In My Merciful

Kindness,  Have Revealed Unto You,  And With Your Inner And Outer Eyes

Contemplate The Evidences Of My Marvelous Revelation....

 

O My Servants! Depriaggle

Of The Bustle,  In Which There Was Genius,  And Mike Could Not But

Applaud. Suddenly He Became Aware That A Pair Of Opera-Glasses Were

Bracketed Upon Him,  And Looking Up He Saw Kitty Carew Sitting With A

Young Nobleman,  And He Saw The White Line Of Her Teeth,  For She Was

Laughing. She Waved Him To Come To Her.

 

"You Dear Old Sweet," She Said,  "Where Have You Been All This

Time?--Come,  Kiss Me At Once." And She Bent Her Head Towards Him.

 

"And Now Newtimber,  Good-Bye; I Want To Be With Mike. But You'll Not

Forget Me,  You'll Come And See Me One Of These Days?" And She Spoke

So Winningly That The Boy Hardly Perceived That He Was Dismissed.

Mike And Kitty Exchanged An Inquiring Look.

 

"Ah! Do You Remember," She Said,  "When I Was At The Avenue,  And You

Used To Come Behind? ... You Remember The Dear Old Marquis. When I Was

Ill He Used To Come And Read To Me. He Used To Say I Was The Only

Friend He Had. The Dear Marquis--And He Is Gone Now. I Went To His

Grave Yesterday,  And I Strewed The Tomb With Chrysanthemums,  And

Every Spring He Has The First Lilac Of My Garden."

 

"And Who Is Your Lover?"

 

"I Assure You I Haven't Got One. Harding Was The Last,  But He Is

Becoming A Bore; He Philosophizes. I Dare Say He's Very Clever,  But

People Don't Kiss Each Other Because They Are Clever. I Don't Think I

Ever Was In Love.... But Tell Me,  How Do You Think I Am Looking? Does

This Dress Suit Me? Do I Look Any Older?"

 

Mike Vowed He Had Never Seen Her So Charming.

 

"Very Well,  If You Think So,  I'll Tell You What We'll Do. As Soon As

Coburn Has Sung His Song,  We'll Go; My Brougham Is Waiting ... You'll

Come Home And Have Supper With Me."

 

A Remembrance Of Lily Came Over Him,  But In Quick Battle He Crushed

It Out Of Mind And Murmured,  "That Will Be Very Nice; You Know I

Always Loved You Better Than Any One."

 

At That Moment They Were Interrupted By Cheers And Yells. Muchross

Had Just Entered At The Head Of His Gang; His Lieutenants,  Snowdown

And Dicky The Driver,  Stood Beside Him. They Stood Under The Gallery

Bowing To The Courtesans In The Boxes,  And Singing--

 

     "Two Lovely Black Eyes

        Oh! What A Surprise,

      Two Lovely Black Eyes."

 

"I Wish We Could Avoid Those Fellows," Said Kitty; "They'll Only

Bother Me With Questions. Come,  Let's Be Off,  They'll Be Up Here In A

Moment." But They Were Intercepted By Muchross And His Friends In A

Saloon Where Sally And Battlemoor Were Drinking With Various Singers,

Waiting Their Turns.

 

"Where Are You Going? You Aren't Going Off Like That?" Cried

Muchross,  Catching Her By Her Sleeve.

 

"Yes,  I Am; I Am Going Home."

 

"Let Me See You Home," Whispered Dicky.

 

"Thanks,  Mike Is Seeing Me Home."

 

"You Are In Love," Cried Muchross; "I Shan't Leave You."

 

Chapter 7 Pg 100

"You Are In Drink; I'll Leave You In Charge If You Don't Loose My

Sleeve."

 

"This Joker," Cried Sally,  "Will Take A Ticket If Something Wins A

Lincoln,  And He Doesn't Know Which." She Stood In The Doorway,  Her

Arms Akimbo. "People Are Very Busy Here," She Snarled,  When A Woman

Tried To Pass.

 

"I Beg Your Pardon," Said The Ex-Chorus Girl.

 

"And A Good Thing Too," Said Sally. "You Are One Of The Busy Ones,

Just Got Your Salary For Shoving,  I Suppose." There Was No Competing

With Sally's Tongue,  And The Girl Passed Without Replying.

 

This Queen Of Song Was Attired In A Flowery Gown Of Pale Green,  And

She Wore A Large Hat Lavishly Trimmed With Wild Flowers; She Moved

Slowly,  Conscious Of Her Importance And Fame.

 

But At That Moment A Man In A Check Suit Said,  Doffing His Cap,  "Very

Pleased To See You Here,  Miss Slater."

 

Sally Looked Him Over. "Well,  I Can't Help That."

 

"I Was At Your Benefit. Mr. Jackson Was There,  And He Introduced Me

To You After The Performance."

 

"No,  I'm Sure He Didn't."

 

"I Beg Your Pardon,  Miss Slater. Don't You Remember When Peggy Praed

Got On The Table And Made A Speech?"

 

"No,  I Don't; You Saw _Me_ On The Stage And You Paid Your Money For

That. What More Do You Want?"

 

"I Assure You--"

 

"Well,  That's All Right,  Now's Your Chance To Lend Me A Fiver."

 

"I'll Lend You A Fiver Or A Tenner,  If You Like,  Miss Slater."

 

"You Could Not Do It If You Tried,  And Now The Roast Pork's Off."

 

The Witticism Was Received With A Roar From Her Admirers,  And

Satisfied With Her Victory,  She Said--"And Now,  You Girls,  You Come

And Have Drinks With Me. What Will You Have,  Kitty,  What Will You

Have? Give It A Name."

 

Kitty Protested But Was Forced To Sit Down. The Courtesans Joined The

Comic Vocalists,  Waiting To Do Their "Turns." Lord Muchross And Lord

Snowdown Ordered Magnums,  And Soon The Hall Was Almost Deserted. A

Girl Was,  However,  Dancing Prettily On The Stage,  And Mike Stood To

Watch Her. Her Hose Were Black,  And In Limp Pink Silk Skirts She

Kicked Her Slim Legs Surprisingly To And Fro. After Each Dance She

Ran Into The Wings,  Reappearing In A Fresh Costume,  Returning At

Length In Wide Sailor's Trousers Of Blue Silk,  Her Bosom Partially

Covered In White Cambric. As The Band Played The First Notes Of The

Hornpipe,  She Withdrew A Few Hair-Pins,  And Forthwith An Abundant

Darkness Fell To Her Dancing Knees,  Almost To Her Tiny Dancing Feet,

Heavy As A Wave,  Shadowy As Sleeping Water. As Some Rich Weed That

The Warm Sea Holds And Swings,  As Some Fair Cloud Lingers In Radiant

Atmosphere,  Her Hair Floated,  Every Parted Tress An Impalpable Film

Of Gold In The Crude Sunlight Of The Ray Turned Upon Her; And When

She Danced Towards The Footlights,  The Bright Softness Of The Threads

Clung Almost Amorously About Her White Wrists--Faint Cobwebs Hanging

From White Flowers Were Not More Faint,  Fair,  And Soft; Wonderful Was

The Hair Of This Dancing Girl,  Suggesting All Fabled Enchantments,

All Visions Of Delicate Perfume And All The Poetry Of Evanescent

Colour.

 

She Was Followed By The Joyous Peggy Praed (Sweet Minx),  The Soul And

Voice Of The Small Back Streets. Screwing Up Her Winsome,  Comical

Chapter 7 Pg 101

Face,  Drawling A Word Here,  Accentuating A Word There,  She Evoked,  In

An Illusive Moment,  The Washing Day,  The Quarrel With The

Mother-In-Law (Who Wanted To Sleep In The House),  Tea-Time,  And The

Trip To The Sea-Side With All Its Concomitant Adventures Amid Bugs

And Landladies. With An Accent,  With A Gesture,  She Recalled In A

Moment A Phase Of Life,  Creating Pictures Vivid As They Were

Transitory,  But Endowing Each With The Charm Of The Best And Most

Highly Finished Works Of The Dutch Masters. Lords,  Courtesans,  And

Fellow-Artists Crowded To Listen,  And Profiting By The Opportunity,

Kitty Touched Mike On The Shoulder With Her Fan.

 

"Now We Had Better Go."

 

"I'm Driving To-Morrow. Come Down To Brighton With Us," Said Dicky

The Driver. "Shall I Keep Places For You?"

 

Rising,  Kitty Laid Her Hand Upon His Mouth To Silence Him,  And

Whispered,  "Yes; We'll Come,  And Good-Night."

 

In The Soft Darkness Of The Brougham,  Gently Swung Together,  The

Passing Gaslights Revealing The Blueness Of The Cushions,  A Diamond

Stud Flashing Intermittently,  They Lay,  Their Souls Sunk Deep In The

Intimacy Of A Companionship Akin To That Of A Nest--They,  The

Inheritors Of The Pleasure Of The Night And The Gladness Of The

Morrow.

 

Dressing Was Delirium,  And Kitty Had To Adjure Mike To Say No More;

If He Did She Should Go Mad. Breakfast Had To Be Skipped,  And It Was

Only By Bribing A Cabman To Gallop To Westminster That They Caught

The Coach. Even So They Would Have Missed It Had Not Mike Sprung At

Risk Of Limb From The Hansom And Sped On The Toes Of His Patent

Leather Shoes Down The Street,  His Gray Cover Coat Flying.

 

"What A Toff He Is," Thought Kitty,  Full Of The Pride Of Her Love.

Bessie,  Whom Dear Laura Had Successfully Chaperoned Into Well-Kept

Estate,  Sat With Dicky On The Box; Laura Sat With Harding In The Back

Seat; Muchross And Snowdown Sat Opposite Them. The Middle Of The

Coach Was Taken Up By What Muchross Said Were A Couple Of Bar-Girls

And Their Mashers.

 

On Rolled The Coach Over Westminster Bridge,  Through Lambeth,  In

Picturesqueness And Power,  A Sympathetic Survival Of Aristocratic

Days. The Aristocracy And Power Sell In One World,  And Have Been Created Through The Operation Of One

Will. Blessed Is He Who Mingleth With All Men In A Spirit Of Utmost

Kindliness And Love."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clvii: They That Have Forsaken Their Country For...

 

 

 

 

They That Have Forsaken Their Country For The Purpose Of Teaching Our

Cause--These Shall The Faithful Spirit Strengthen Through Its Power. A

Company Of Our Chosen Angels Shall Go Forth With Them,  As Bidden By Him

Who Is The Almighty,  The All-Wise. How Great The Blessedness That Awaiteth

Him That Hath Attained The Honor Of Serving The Almighty! By My Life! No

Act,  However Great,  Can Compare With It,  Except Such Deeds As Have Been

Ordained By God,  The All-Powerful,  The Most Mighty. Such A Service Is,

Indeed,  The Prince Of All Goodly Deeds,  And The Ornament Of Every Goodly

Act. Thus Hath It Been Ordained By Him Who Is The Sovereign Revealer,  The

Ancient Of Days.

 

Chapter 7 Pg 102

Whoso Ariseth To Teach Our Cause Must Needs Detach Himself From All

Earthly Things,  And Regard,  At All Times,  The Triumph Of Our Faith As His

Supreme Objective. This Hath,  Verily,  Been Decreed In The Guarded Tablet.

And When He Determineth To Leave His Home,  For The Sake Of The Cause Of

His Lord,  Let Him Put His Whole Trust In God,  As The Best Provision For

His Journey,  And Array Himself With The Robe Of Virtue. Thus Hath It Been

Decreed By God,  The Almighty,  The All-Praised.

 

If He Be Kindled With The Fire Of His Love,  If He Forgoeth All Created

Things,  The Words He Uttereth Shall Set On Fire Them That Hear Him.

Verily,  Thy Lord Is The Omniscient,  The All-Informed. Happy Is The Man

That Hath Heard Our Voice,  And Answered Our Call. He,  In Truth,  Is Of Them

That Shall Be Brought Nigh Unto Us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clviii: God Hath Prescribed Unto Every One The...

 

 

 

 

God Hath Prescribed Unto Every One The Duty Of Teaching His Cause. Whoever

Ariseth To Discharge This Duty,  Must Needs,  Ere He Proclaimeth His

Message,  Adorn Himself With The Ornament Of An Upright And Praiseworthy

Character,  So That His Words May Attract The Hearts Of Such As Are

Receptive To His Call. Without It,  He Can Never Hope To Influence His

Hearers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clix: Consider The Pettiness Of Men's Minds. They...

 

 

 

 

Consider The Pettiness Of Men's Minds. They Ask For That Which Injureth

Them,  And Cast Away The Thing That Profiteth Them. They Are,  Indeed,  Of

Those That Are Far Astray. We Find Some Men Desiring Liberty,  And Priding

Themselves Therein. Such Men Are In The Depths Of Ignorance.

 

Liberty Must,  In The End,  Lead To Sedition,  Whose Flames None Can Quench.

Thus Warneth You He Who Is The Reckoner,  The All-Knowing. Know Ye That The

Embodiment Of Liberty And Its Symbol Is The Animal. That Which Beseemeth

Man Is Submission Unto Such Restraints As Will Protect Him From His Own

Ignorance,  And Guard Him Against The Harm Of The Mischief-Maker. Liberty

Causeth Man To Overstep The Bounds Of Propriety,  And To Infringe On The

Dignity Of His Station. It Debaseth Him To The Level Of Extreme Depravity

And Wickedness.

 

Regard Men As A Flock Of Sheep That Need A Shepherd For Their Protection.

This,  Verily,  Is The Truth,  The Certain Truth. We Approve Of Liberty In

Certain Circumstances,  And Refuse To Sanction It In Others. We,  Verily,

Are The All-Knowing.

 

Say: True Liberty Consisteth In Man's Submission Unto My Commandments,

Little As Ye Know It. Were Men To Observe That Which We Have Sent Down

Unto Them From The Heaven Of Revelation,  They Would,  Of A Certainty,

Attain Unto Perfect Liberty. Happy Is The Man That Hath Apprehended The

Purpose Of God In Whatever He Hath Revealed From The Heaven Of His Will,

Chapter 7 Pg 103

That Pervadeth All Created Things. Say: The Liberty That Profiteth You Is

To Be Found Nowhere Except In Complete Servitude Unto God,  The Eternal

Truth. Whoso Hath Tasted Of Its Sweetness Will Refuse To Barter It For All

The Dominion Of Earth And Heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clx: He Is Indeed A True Believer In The Unity Of...

 

 

 

 

He Is Indeed A True Believer In The Unity Of God Who,  In This Day,  Will

Regard Him As One Immeasurably Exalted Aboveliever In The Unity Ofe All The Comparisons And

Likenesses With Which Men Have Compared Him. He Hath Erred Grievously Who

Hath Mistaken These Comparisons And Likenesses For God Himself. Consider

The Relation Between The Craftsman And His Handiwork,  Between The Painter

And His Painting. Can It Ever Be Maintained That The Work Their Hands Have

Produced Is The Same As Themselves? By Him Who Is The Lord Of The Throne

Above And Of Earth Below! They Can Be Regarded In No Other Light Except As

Evidences That Proclaim The Excellence And Perfection Of Their Author.

 

O _Sh_Ay_Kh_,  O Thou Who Hast Surrendered Thy Will To God! By

Self-Surrender And Perpetual Union With God Is Meant That Men Should Merge

Their Will Wholly In The Will Of God,  And Regard Their Desires As Utter

Nothingness Beside His Purpose. Whatsoever The Creator Commandeth His

Creatures To Observe,  The Same Must They Diligently,  And With The Utmost

Joy And Eagerness,  Arise And Fulfil. They Should In No Wise Allow Their

Fancy To Obscure Their Judgment,  Neither Should They Regard Their Own

Imaginings As The Voice Of The Eternal. In The Prayer Of Fasting We Have

Revealed: "Should Thy Will Decree That Out Of Thy Mouth These Words

Proceed And Be Addressed Unto Them,  'Observe,  For My Beauty's Sake,  The

Fast,  O People,  And Set No Limit To Its Duration,' I Swear By The Majesty

Of Thy Glory,  That Every One Of Them Will Faithfully Observe It,  Will

Abstain From Whatsoever Will Violate Thy Law,  And Will Continue To Do So

Until They Yield Up Their Souls Unto Thee." In This Consisteth The

Complete Surrender Of One's Will To The Will Of God. Meditate On This,

That Thou Mayest Drink In The Waters Of Everlasting Life Which Flow

Through The Words Of The Lord Of All Mankind,  And Mayest Testify That The

One True God Hath Ever Been Immeasurably Exalted Above His Creatures. He,

Verily,  Is The Incomparable,  The Ever-Abiding,  The Omniscient,  The

All-Wise. The Station Of Absolute Self-Surrender Transcendeth,  And Will

Ever Remain Exalted Above,  Every Other Station.

 

It Behoveth Thee To Consecrate Thyself To The Will Of God. Whatsoever Hath

Been Revealed In His Tablets Is But A Reflection Of His Will. So Complete

Must Be Thy Consecration,  That Every Trace Of Worldly Desire Will Be

Washed From Thine Heart. This Is The Meaning Of True Unity.

 

Do Thou Beseech God To Enable Thee To Remain Steadfast In This Path,  And

To Aid Thee To Guide The Peoples Of The World To Him Who Is The Manifest

And Sovereign Ruler,  Who Hath Revealed Himself In A Distinct Attire,  Who

Giveth Utterance To A Divine And Specific Message. This Is The Essence Of

Faith And Certitude. They That Are The Worshipers Of The Idol Which Their

Imaginations Have Carved,  And Who Call It Inner Reality,  Such Men Are In

Truth Accounted Among The Heathen. To This Hath The All-Merciful Borne

Witness In His Tablets. He,  Verily,  Is The All-Knowing,  The All-Wise.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7 Pg 104

 

Clxi: Gird Up The Loins Of Thine Endeavor,  That...

 

 

 

 

Gird Up The Loins Of Thine Endeavor,  That Haply Thou Mayest Guide Thy

Neighbor To The Law Of God,  The Most Merciful. Such An Act,  Verily,

Excelleth All Other Acts In The Sight Of God,  The All-Possessing,  The Most

High. Such Must Be Thy Steadfastness In The Cause Of God,  That No Earthly

Thing Whatsoever Will Have The Power To Deter Thee From Thy Duty. Though

The Powers Of Earth Be Leagued Against Thee,  Though All Men Dispute With

Thee,  Thou Must Remain Unshaken.

 

Be Unrestrained As The Wind,  While Carrying The Message Of Him Who Hath

Caused The Dawn Of Divine Guidance To Break. Consider,  How The Wind,

Faithful To That Which God Hath Ordained,  Bloweth Upon All The Regions Of

The Earth,  Be They Inhabited Or Desolate. Neither The Sight Of Desolation,

Nor The Evidences Of Prosperity,  Can Either Pain Or Please It. It Bloweth

In Every Direction,  As Bidden By Its Creator. So Should Be Every One That

Claimeth To Be A Lover Of The One True God. It Behoveth Him To Fix His

Gaze Upon The Fundamentals Of His Faith,  And To Labor Diligently For Its

Propagation. Wholly For The Sake Of Gonce John Norton's Intention To Build A Monastery.

 

"He Would Have Founded A Monastery Had He Lived Two Centuries Ago,"

Said Harding; "But This Is An Age Of Concessions,  And Instead He Puts

Up A Few Gargoyles. Time Modifies But Does Not Eradicate,  And The

Modern King Cophetua Marries Not The Beggar,  But The Bar-Maid."

 

The Conversation Fell In Silence,  Full Of Consternation; And All

Wondered If The Two Ladies In Front Had Understood,  And They Were

Really Bar-Maids. Be This As It May,  They Maintained Their

Unalterable Reserve; And With Suppressed Laughter,  Mike Persuaded

Dicky,  Who Had Resumed The Ribbons,  To Turn Into The Lodge-Gates.

 

"Who Is This Johnny?" Shouted Muchross. "If He Won't Stand A Drink,

We Don't Want None Of His Blooming Architecture."

 

"And I Wouldn't Touch A Man With A Large Pole Who Didn't Like Women,"

Said Laura. At Which Emphatic But Naïve Expression Of Opinion,  The

Whole Coach Roared;--Even The Bar-Girls Smiled.

 

"Architecture! It Is A Regular Putty Castle," Said Kitty,  As They

Turned Out Of An Avenue Of Elms And Came In View Of The House.

 

Not A Trace Of The Original Italian House Remained. The Loggia Had

Been Replaced By A Couple Of Gothic Towers. Over The Central Hall He

Had Placed A Light Lantern Roof,  And The Billiard-Room Had Been

Converted Into A Chapel. A Cold And Corpse-Like Sky Was Flying; The

Shadows Falling Filled The Autumn Path With Sensations Of Deep

Melancholy. But The Painted Legend Of St. George Overthrowing The

Dragon,  Which John Had Placed In Commemoration Of His Victories Over

Himself,  In The Central Hall,  Glowed Full Of Colour And Story; And In

The Melodious Moan Of The Organ,  And In The Resonant Chord Which

Closes The Awful Warning Of The _Dies Iræ_,  He Realized The Soul Of

His Friend. Castle,  Window,  And Friend Were Now One In His Brain,  And

Seized With Dim,  Undefinable Weariness Of His Companions,  And An

Irritating Longing To See John,  Mike Said--

 

"I Must Go And See Him."

 

"We Can't Wait Here While You Are Paying Visits; Who Doesn't Like

Getting Drunk Or Singing,  'What Cheer,  Ria?' Let's Give Him A Song."

Then The Whole Coach Roared: Even The Bar-Girls Joined In.

 

  "What Cheer,  Ria?

     Ria's On The Job;

   What Cheer,  Ria?

     Speculate A Bob."

 

As Soon As He Could Make Himself Heard,  Mike Said--

Chapter 7 Pg 105

 

"You Need Not Wait For Me. We Are Only Five Minutes From Brighton.

I'll Ride Over In An Hour's Time. Do You Wait For Me At The Ship,

Kitty."

 

"I Don't Think This At All Nice Of You."

 

Mike Waved His Hand; And As He Stood On The Steps Of This Gothic

Mansion,  Listening To The Chant,  Watching The Revellers Disappearing

In The Gray And Yellow Gloom Of The Park,  He Said--

 

"The Man Here Is The One Who Has Seized What Is Best In Life; He

Alone Has Loved. I Should Have Founded With Him A New Religious

Order. I Should Walk With Him At The Head Of The Choir. Bah! Life Is

Too Pitifully Short. I Should Like To Taste Of Every Pleasure--Of

Every Emotion; And What Have I Tasted? Nothing. I Have Done Nothing.

I Have Wheedled A Few Women Who Wanted To Be Wheedled,  That Is All."

 

Chapter 8 Pg 106

 

"And How Are You,  Old Chap? I Am Delighted To See You."

 

"I'm Equally Glad To See You. You Have Made Alterations In The Place

... I Came Down From London With A Lot Of Johnnies And Tarts--Kitty

Carew,  Laura Stanley And Her Sister. I Got Dicky The Driver To Turn

In Here. You Were Playing The _Dies Iræ_. I Never Was More Impressed

In My Life. You Should Have Seen The Coach Beneath The Great Window

... St. George Overcoming The Johnnies ... The Tumult Of The Organ ...

And I Couldn't Stand Singing 'Two Lovely Black Eyes.' I Sickened Of

Them--The Whole Thing--And I Felt I Must See You."

 

"And Are They Outside?"

 

"No; They Have Gone Off."

 

Relieved Of Fear Of Intrusion,  John Laughed Loudly,  And Commented

Humorously On The Spectacle Of The Brighton Coach Filled With

Revellers Drawn Up Beneath His Window. Then,  To Discuss The

Window--The Quality Of The Glass--He Turned Out The Lamps; The Hall

Filled With The Legend,  And Their Hearts Full Of It,  And Delighting

In The Sensation Of Each Other,  They Walked Up And Down The Echoing

Hall. John Remembered A Certain Fugue By Bach,  And Motioning To The

Page To Blow,  He Seated Himself At The Key-Board. The Celestial

Shield And Crest Still Remained In Little Colour. Mike Saw John's

Hands Moving Over The Key-Board,  And His Soul Went Out In Worship Of

That Soul,  Divided From The World's Pleasure,  Self-Sufficing,  Alone;

Seeking God Only In His Home Of Organ Fugue And Legended Pane. He

Understood The Nobleness And Purity Which Was Now About Him--It

Seemed Impossible To Him To Return To Kitty.

 

Swift And Complete Reaction Had Come Upon Him,  And Choked With The

Moral Sulphur Of The Last Twenty-Four Hours,  He Craved The Breath Of

Purity. He Must Talk Of Plato's _Republic_,  Of Wagner's Operas,  Of

Schopenhauer; Even Lily Was Not Now So Imperative As These; And Next

Day,  After Lunch,  When The Question Of His Departure Was Alluded To,

Mike Felt It Was Impossible To Leave John; But Persecuted With

Scruples Of Disloyalty To Kitty,  He Resisted His Friend's Invitation

To Stay. He Urged He Had No Clothes. John Offered To Send The

Coachman Into Brighton For What He Wanted.

 

"But Perhaps You Have No Money," John Said,  Inadvertently,  And A Look

Of Apprehension Passed Into His Face.

 

Chapter 8 Pg 107

"Oh,  I Have Plenty Of Money--'Tisn't That. I Haven't Told You That A

Friend Of Mine,  A Lady,  Has Left Me Nearly Five Thousand A Year. I

Don't Think You Ever Saw Her--Lady Seeley."

 

John Burst Into Uncontrollable Laughter. "That Is The Best Thing I

Ever Heard In All My Life. I Don't Think I Ever Heard Anything That

Amused Me More. The Grotesqueness Of The Whole Thing." Seeing That

Mike Was Annoyed He Hastened To Explain His Mirth. "The

Inexplicableness Of Human Action Always Amuses Me; The Inexplicable

Is Romance,  At Least That Is The Only Way I Can Understand Romance.

When You Reduce Life To A Logical Sequence You Destroy All Poetry,

And,  I Think,  All Reality. We Do Things Constantly,  And No One Can

Say Why We Do Them. Frederick The Great Coming In,  After Reviewing

His Troops,  To Play The Flute,  That To Me Is Intensely Romantic. A

Lady,  Whom You Probably Treated Exceedingly Badly,  Leaving You Her

Property,  That Too Is,  To Me."

 

Admonished By His Conscience,  John's Hilarity Clouded Into A Sort Of

Semi-Humorous Gravity,  And He Advised Mike On The Necessity Of

Reforming His Life.

 

"I Am Very Sorry,  For There Is No One Whose Society Is As Attractive

To Me As Yours; There Is No One In Whom I Find So Many Of My Ideas,

And Yet There Is No One From Whom I Am So Widely Separated; At Times

You Are Sublime,  And Then You Turn Round And Roll In The Nastiest

Dirt You Can Find."

 

Mike Loved A Lecture From John,  And He Exerted Himself To Talk.

 

Looking At Each Other In Admiration,  They Regretted The Other's

Weaknesses. Mike Deplored John's Conscience,  Which Had Forced Him To

Burn His Poems; John Deplored Mike's Unsteady Mind,  Which Veered And

Yielded To Every Passion. And In The Hall They Talked Of The Great

Musician And The Great King,  Or John Played The Beautiful Hymns Of

The Russian Church,  In Whose Pathetic Charm He Declared Chopin Had

Found His Inspiration; They Spoke Of The _Grail_ And The _Romance Of

The Swan_,  Or,  Wandering Into The Library,  They Read Aloud The

Ever-Flowering Eloquence Of De Quincey,  The Marmoreal Loveliness Of

Landor,  The Nurselike Tenderness Of Tennyson.

 

Through All These Æstheticisms Lily Young Shone,  Her Light Waxing To

Fulness Day By Day. Mike Had Written To Frank,  Beseeching Him To

Forward Any Letters That Might Arrive. He Expected An Answer From

Lily Within The Week,  And Not Until Its Close Did He Begin To Grow

Fearful. Then Rapidly His Fear Increased And Unable To Bear With So

Much Desire In The Presence Of John Norton,  He Rushed To London,  And

Thence To Marlow. He Railed Against His Own Weakness In Going To

Marlow,  For If A Letter Had Arrived It Would Have Been Forwarded To

Him.

 

"Why Deceive Myself With False Hopes? If The Letter Had Miscarried It

Would Have Been Returned Through The Post-Office. I Wrote My Address

Plain Enough." Then He Railed Against Lily. "The Little Vixen! She

Will Show That Letter; She Will Pass It Round; Perhaps At This Moment

She Is Laughing At Me! What A Fool I Was To Write It! However,  All's

Well That Ends Well,  And I Am Not Going To Be Married--I Have Escaped

After All."

 

The Train Jogged Like His Thoughts,  And The Landscape Fled In

Fleeting Visions Like His Dreams. He Laid His Face In His Hands,  And

Could Not Disguise The Truth That He Desired Her Above All Things,

For She Was The Sweetest He Had Seen.

 

"There Are," He Said,  Talking To Frank And Lizzie,  "Two Kinds Of

Love--The First Is A Strictly Personal Appetite,  Which Merely Seeks

Its Own Assuagement; The Second Draws You Out Of Yourself,  And Is Far

More Terrible. I Have Found Both These Loves,  But In Different

Women."

 

"Did No Woman Ever Inspire Both Loves In You?" Said Lizzie.

 

Chapter 8 Pg 108

"I Thought One Woman Had."

 

"Oh,  Tell Us About Her."

 

Mike Changed The Conversation,  And He Talked Of The Newspaper Until

It Was Time To Go To The Station. He Was Now Certain That Lily Had

Rejected Him. His Grief Soaked Through Him Like A Wet,  Dreary Day.

Sometimes,  Indeed,  He Seemed To Brighten,  But There Is Often A Deeper

Sadness In A Smile Than In A Flood Of Tears,  And He Was More Than

Ever Sad When He Thought Of The Life He Had Desired,  And Had Lost;

Which He Had Seen Almost Within His Reach,  And Which Had Now

Disappeared For Ever. He Had Thought Of This Life As A Green Isle,

Where There Were Flowers And A Shrine. Isle,  Flowers,  And Shrine Had

For Ever Vanished,  And Nothing Remained But The Round Monotony Of The

Desert Ocean. Then Throwing Off His Grief With A Laugh,  He Eagerly

Anticipated The Impressions Of The Visit He Meditated To Belthorpe

Park,  And His Soul Went Out To Meet This New Adventure. He Thought Of

The Embarrassment Of The Servants Receiving Their New Master; Of The

Attitude Of The Country People Towards Him; And Deciding That He Had

Better Arrive Before Dinner,  Just As If He Were A Visitor,  He Sent A

Telegram Saying That The Groom Was To Meet Him At The Station,  And

That Dinner Was To Be Prepared.

 

Lady Seeley's Solicitors Had Told Him That According To Her

Ladyship's Will,  Belthorpe Was To Be Kept Up Exactly As It Had Been

In Her Life-Time,  And The Servants Had Received Notice,  That In

Pursuance Of Her Ladyship's Expressed Wish,  Mr. Fletcher Would Make

No Changes,  And That They Were Free To Remain On If They Thought

Proper. Mike Approved Of This Arrangement--It Saved Him From A Task

Of Finding New Servants,  A Task Which He Would Have Bungled Sadly,

And Which He Would Have Had To Attempt,  For He Had Decided To Enjoy

All The Pleasures Of A Country Place,  And To Act The Country

Gentleman Until He Wearied Of The Part. Life Is But A Farce,  And The

More Different Parts You Play In That Farce The More You Enjoy. Here

Was A New Farce--He The Bohemian,  Going Down To An Old Ancestral Home

To Play The Part Of The Squire Of The Parish. It Could Not But Prove

Rich In Amusing Situations,  And He Was Determined To Play It. What A

Sell It Would Be For Lily,  For Perhaps She Had Refused Him Because

She Thought He Was Poor. Contemptuous Thoughts About Women Rose In

His Mind,  But They Died In Thronging Sensations Of Vanity--He,  At

Least,  Had Not Found Women Mercenary. Lily Was The First! Then

Putting Thoughts Of Her Utterly Aside,  He Surrendered Himself To The

Happy Consideration Of His Own Good Fortune. "A New Farce! Yes; That

Was The Way To Look Upon It. I Wonder What The Servants Will Think! I

Wonder What They'll Think Of Me! ... Harrison,  The Butler,  Was With

Her In Green Street. Her Maid,  Fairfield,  Was With Her When I Saw Her

Last--Nearly Three Years Ago. Fairfield Knew I Was Her Lover,  And She

Has Told The Others. But What Does It Matter? I Don't Care A Damn

What They Think. Besides,  Servants Are Far More Jealous Of Our Honour

Than We Are Ourselves; They'll Trump Up Some Story About Cousinship,

Or That I Had Saved Her Ladyship's Life--Not A Bad Notion That Last;

I Had Better Stick To It Myself."

 

As He Sought A Plausible Tale,  His Thoughts Detached Themselves,  And

It Struck Him That The Gentleman Sitting Opposite Was His Next-Door

Neighbour. He Imagined His Visit; The Invitation To Dine; The

Inevitable Daughters In The Drawing-Room. How Would He Be Received By

The County Folks?

 

"That Depends," He Thought,  "Entirely On The Number Of Unmarried

Girls There Are In The Neighbourhood. The Morals And Manners Of An

English County Are Determined By Its Female Population. If The Number

Of Females Is Large,  Manners Are Familiar,  And Morals Are Lax; If The

Number Is Small,  Manners Are Reserved,  And Morals Severe."

 

He Was In A Carriage With Two Unmistakably County Squires,  And Their

Conversation--Certain References To A Meet Of The Hounds And A Local

Bazaar--Left No Doubt That They Were His Neighbours. Indeed,  Lady

Seeley Was Once Alluded To,  And Mike Was Agitated With Violent

Desires To Introduce Himself As The Owner Of Belthorpe Park. Several

Times He Opened His Lips,  But Their Talk Suddenly Turned Into Matters

Chapter 8 Pg 109

So Foreign That He Abandoned The Notion Of Revealing His Identity,

And Five Minutes After He Congratulated Himself He Had Not Done So.

 

The Next Station Was Wantage Street; And As He Looked To See That The

Guard Had Put Out His Portmanteau,  A Smart Footman Approached,  And

Touching His Cockaded Hat Said,  "Mr. Fletcher." Mike Thrilled With

Pride. His Servant--His First Servant.

 

"I've Brought The Dog-Cart,  Sir; I Thought It Would Be The Quickest;

It Will Take Us A Good Hour,  The Roads Are Very Heavy,  Sir."

 

Mike Noticed The Coronet Worked In Red Upon The Yellow Horse-Cloth,

For The Lamps Cast A Bright Glow Over The Mare's Quarters; And

Wishing To Exhibit Himself In All His New Fortune Before His

Fellow-Passengers,  Who Were Getting Into A Humbler Conveyance,  He

Took The Reins From The Groom; And When He Turned Into The Wrong

Street,  He Cursed Under His Breath,  Fancying All Had Noticed His

Misadventure. When They Were Clear Of The Town,  Touching The Mare

With The Whip He Said--

 

"Not A Bad Animal,  This."

 

"Beautiful Trotter,  Sir. Her Ladyship Bought Her Only Last Spring;

Gave Seventy Guineas For Her."

 

After A Slight Pause,  Mike Said,  "Very Sad,  Her Ladyship's Death,  And

Quite Unexpected,  I Suppose. She Wasn't Ill Above A Couple Of Days."

 

"Not What You Might Call Ill,  Sir; But Her Ladyship Had Been Ailing

For A Long Time Past. The Doctors Ordered Her Abroad Last Winter,

Sir,  But I Don't Think It Did Her Much Good. She Came Back Looking

Very Poorly."

 

"Now Tell Me Which Is The Way? Do I Turn To The Right Or Left?"

 

"To The Right,  Sir."

 

"How Far Are We From Belthorpe Park Now?"

 

"About Three Miles,  Sir."

 

"You Were Saying That Her Ladyship Looked Very Poorly For Some Time

Before She Died. Tell Me How She Looked. What Do You Think Was The

Matter?"

 

"Well,  Sir,  Her Ladyship Seemed Very Much Depressed. I Heard Miss

Fairfield,  Her Ladyship's Maid,  Say That She Used To Find Her

Ladyship Constantly In Tears; Her Nerves Seemed To Have Given Way."

 

"I Suppose I Broke Her Heart," Thought Mike; "But I'm Not To Blame; I

Couldn't Go On Loving Any Woman For Ever,  Not If She Were Venus

Herself." And Questioning The Groom Regarding The Servants Then At

Belthorpe,  He Learnt With Certain Satisfaction That Fairfield Had

Left Immediately After Her Ladyship's Death. The Groom Had Never

Heard Of Harrison (He Had Only Been A Year And A Half In Her

Ladyship's Service).

 

"This Is Belthorpe Park,  Sir--These Are The Lodge Gates."

 

Mike Was Disappointed In The Lodge. The Park He Could Not

Distinguish. Mist Hung Like A White Fleece. There Were Patches Of

Ferns; Hawthorns Loomed Suddenly Into Sight; High Trees Raised Their

Bare Branches To The Brilliancy Of The Moon.

 

"Not Half Bad," Thought Mike,  "Quite A Gentleman's Place."

 

"Rather Rough Land In Parts--Plenty Of Rabbits," He Remarked To The

Groom; And He Won The Man's Sympathies By Various Questions

Concerning The Best Method Of Getting Hue Terms Of The Project Gutenberg License

    Included With This Ebook Or Online At Http://Www.Gutenberg.Org

 

Chapter 8 Pg 110

1.E.2.

 

 

 

 

If An Individual Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} Electronic Work Is Derived From The

Public Domain (Does Not Contain A Notice Indicating That It Is Posted With

Permission Of The Copyright Holder),  The Work Can Be Copied And

Distributed To Anyone In The United States Without Paying Any Fees Or

Charges. If You Are Redistributing Or Providing Access To A Work With The

Phrase "Project Gutenberg" Associated With Or Appearing On The Work,  You

Must Comply Either With The Requirements Of Paragraphs 1.E.1 Through 1.E.7

Or Obtain Permission For The Use Of The Work And The Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~}

Trademark As Set Forth In Paragraphs 1.E.8 Or 1.E.9.

 

 

 

 

1.E.3.

 

 

 

 

If An Individual Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} Electronic Work Is Posted With The

Permission Of The Copyright Holder,  Your Use And Distribution Must Comply

With Both Paragraphs 1.E.1 Through 1.E.7 And Any Additional Terms Imposed

By The Copyright Holder. Additional Terms Will Be Linked To The Project

Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} License For All Works Posted With The Permission Of The

Copyright Holder Found At The Beginning Of This Work.

 

 

 

 

1.E.4.

 

 

 

 

Do Not Unlink Or Detach Or Remove The Full Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} License

Terms From This Work,  Or Any Files Containing A Part Of This Work Or Any

Other Work Associated With Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~}.

 

 

 

 

1.E.5.

 

 

 

 

Do Not Copy,  Display,  Perform,  Distribute Or Redistribute This Electronic

Work,  Or Any Part Of This Electronic Work,  Without Prominently Displaying

The Sentence Set Forth In Paragraph 1.E.1 With Active Links Or Immediate

Access To The Full Terms Of The Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} License.

 

 

 

 

1.E.6.

 

 

 

 

You May Convert To And Distribute This Work In Any Binary,  Compressed,

Marked Up,  Nonproprietary Or Proprietary Form,  Including Any Word

Processing Or Hypertext Form. However,  If You Provide Access To Or

Distribute Copies Of A Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} Work In A Format Other Than

"Plain Vanilla Ascii" Or Other Format Used In The Official Version Posted

Chapter 8 Pg 111

On The Official Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} Web Site (Http://Www.Gutenberg.Org),

You Must,  At No Additional Cost,  Fee Or Expense To The User,  Provide A

Copy,  A Means Of Exporting A Copy,  Or A Means Of Obtaining A Copy Upon

Request,  Of The Work In Its Original "Plain Vanilla Ascii" Or Other Form.

Any Alternate Format Must Include The Full Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} License As

Specified In Paragraph 1.E.1.

 

 

 

 

1.E.7.

 

 

 

 

Do Not Charge A Fee For Access To,  Viewing,  Displaying,  Performing,

Copying Or Distributing Any Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} Works Unless You Comply

With Paragraph 1.E.8 Or 1.E.9.

 

 

 

 

1.E.8.

 

 

 

 

You May Charge A Reasonable Fee For Copies Of Or Providing Access To Or

Distributing Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} Electronic Works Provided That

 

    - You Pay A Royalty Fee Of 20% Of The Gross Profits You Derive From

      The Use Of Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} Works Calculated Using The Method You

      Already Use To Calculate Your Applicable Taxes. The Fee Is Owed To

      The Owner Of The Project Gutenberg{~Trade Mark Sign~} Trademark,  But He Has Agreed To

      Donate Royalties Under This Paragraph To The Project Gutenberg

      Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty Payments Must Be Paid Within 60

      Days Following Each Date On Which You Prepare (Or Are Legally

      Required To Prepare) Your Periodic Tax Returns. Royalty Payments

      Should Be Clearly Marked As Such And Sent To The Project Gutenberg

      Literary Archive Foundation At The Address Specified In Section 4,

      "Information About Donations To The Project Gutenberg Literary

      Archive Foundation."

 

    - You Provide A Full Refund Of Any Money Paid By A User Who Notifies

      You In Writing (Or By E-Mail) Within 30 Days Of Receipt That S/He

      Does Not Agree To The Terms Of The Full Pr-Mail) Within 30 Days Of Croit Que Les Morts Aimés

Nous Entourent,  Sont Présents,  Écoutent La Parole Qui S'occupe D'eux,

Jouissent Du Souvenir De Leur Mémoire. Il Finit En Disant: «Le Souvenir

Des Morts,  Loin D'être Douloureux,  Est Pour Moi Une Joie.»

 

Je Le Ramène À Lui,  À Ruy-Blas. Il Se Plaint De La Demande,  Qui Lui Est

Faite D'une Nouvelle Pièce De Son Répertoire. La Répétition D'une Pièce,

Ça L'empêche D'en Faire Une Autre,  Et Comme,  Dit-Il,  Il N'a Plus Que

Quatre Ou Cinq Années À Produire,  Il Veut Faire Les Dernières Choses Qu'il

A En Tête. Il Ajoute: «Il Y A Bien Un Moyen Terme,  J'ai Des Amis

Excellents Et Très Dévoués,  Qui Veulent Bien S'occuper De Tout Le Détail,

Mais Tous Les Mécontents,  Tous Les Non Satisfaits De Meurice Et De

Vacquerie,  En Réfèrent À Moi,  Me Dérangent. Au Fond Il Faudrait

S'éloigner.»

 

Puis Il Parle De Sa Famille,  De Sa Généalogie Lorraine,  D'un Hugo,  Grand

Brigand Féodal,  Dont Il A Dessiné Le Château,  Près De Saverne,  D'un Autre

Hugo,  Enterré À Trèves,  Qui A Laissé Un Missel Mystérieux,  Enfoui Sous Une

Roche Appelée «La Table» Près De Saarbourg,  Et Qu'a Fait Enlever Le Roi De

Prusse.

 

Il Raconte Longuement Cette Histoire,  La Semant De Détails Bizarres De

Cette Archéologie Moyenâgeuse,  Qu'il Aime,  Et Dont Il Fait Si Souvent

Emploi Dans Sa Prose Et Dans Sa Poésie.

 

Chapter 8 Pg 112

A Ce Moment,  A Lieu Dans Le Salon Une Irruption De Femmes,  Un Peu

Dépeignées,  Un Peu Allumées Par Le Vin D'un Cru Périgourdin,  Qu'on Vient

De Baptiser: Le _Cru De Victor Hugo_,  Une Véritable Invasion De Bacchantes

Bourgeoises. Je Me Sauve.

 

Hugo Me Rattrape Dans L'antichambre,  Et Me Fait Très Gentiment,  Devant La

Banquette,  Un Petit Cours D'esthétique,  Qui,  Tout En S'adressant À Moi,  Me

Semble L'historique Des Évolutions De Son Esprit. «Vous Êtes,  Me Dit-Il,

Historien,  Romancier,--Je Passe Les Choses Délicatement Flatteuses,  Dont

Il Me Gratifie,--Vous Êtes Un Artiste. Vous Savez Combien Je Le Suis! Je

Passerai Des Journées Devant Un Bas-Relief... Mais Cela Est D'un Âge...

Plus Tard,  Il Faut La Vision Philosophique Des Choses,  C'est La Seconde

Phase... Plus Tard Encore,  Et En Dernier,  Il Faut Entrer Dans La Vie

Mystérieuse Des Choses,  Ce Que Les Anciens Appelaient _Arcana_: Les

Mystères Des Avenirs Des Êtres Et Des Individus.» Et Il Me Serre La Main

En Me Disant: «Réfléchissez À Ce Que Je Vous Dis?»

 

En Descendant L'escalier,  Tout En Étant Touché De La Grâce Et De La

Politesse De Ce Grand Esprit,  Il Y Avait,  Au Fond De Moi,  Une Ironie Pour

Cet Argot Mystique,  Creux Et Sonore,  Avec Lequel Pontifient Des Hommes

Comme Michelet,  Comme Hugo,  Cherchant À S'imposer À Leur Entourage,  Ainsi

Que Des Vaticinateurs Ayant Commerce Avec Les Dieux.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Dimanche De Pâques 1er Avril_.--Au Lit,  Où Je Passe Ma Journée,  Je Pense

Combien Cette Semaine Sainte M'est Mauvaise,  Depuis Des Années,  Combien

Elle Emporte De Ma Vitalité,  À Chaque Renouveau Des Printemps. Je Ne Peux

Traverser Les Tiédeurs Et Les Frigidités De L'air,  Je Ne Peux Vivre Dans

L'aigreur De L'atmosphère Du Printemps,  Sans Être Malade,  Et Malade D'un

Certain Malaise Qui Me Met En Communication Avec La Mort.

 

Cette Semaine Est Pour Moi,  Tant Qu'elle Dure,  Comme Une Entrée En

Chapelle. Avec Cette Idée Persistante De La Mort,  Qui Me Rapproche D'une

Autre Mort,  Avec Le Vague De L'esprit,  Et Cette _En Allée De Soi-Même_ Que

Donne Le Lit,  Toute La Journée,  Je L'ai Passée Avec Mon Frère,  Ainsi Que

Dans La Fréquentation D'un Vivant Avec Une Ombre,  Comme Si,  Ce Jour-Là,  Le

Christ,  Pour L'anniversaire De Sa Résurrection,  Donnait Congé Aux Âmes Des

Morts,  Et Leur Permettait De Vivre Autour Des Vivants,  Invisibles,  Mais

Amoureusement Présents.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Mardi 3 Avril_.--C'est Bien L'homme Le Plus Mal Élevé,  Et Le Plus

Furibondement Comique Qui Soit,  Que Ce Charles Blanc. Aujourd'hui,  À

Propos D'une Assertion Quelconque De Renan,  Il S'est Mis À Vociférer,  Que

Toutes Les Histoires De La Révolution Étaient Des Mensonges,  Que Tous Les

Historiens Étaient Des Imposteurs,--Et Qu'il N'y ARank Without His Wife,  And Lizzie Would Prejudice Him In The Eyes Of

The County People. Then,  As His Thoughts Detached Themselves,  He

Exclaimed Against The Sepulchral Solemnity Of The Library. The House

Was Soundless. At The Window He Heard The Soft Moonlight-Dreaming Of

The Rooks; And When He Threw Open The Window The White Peacock

Roosting There Flew Away And Paraded On The Pale Sward Like A Watteau

Lady.

 

Next Morning,  Rousing In The Indolence Of A Bed Hung With Curtains Of

Indian Pattern,  Mike Said To The Footman Who Brought In His Hot

Water--

 

"Tell The Coachman That I Shall Go Out Riding After Breakfast."

 

"What Horse Will You Ride,  Sir?"

 

"I Don't Know What Horses You Have In The Stable."

 

"Well,  Sir,  You Can Ride Either Her Ladyship's Hunter Or The Mare

That Brought You From The Station In The Dog-Cart."

 

"Very Well. I'll Ride Her Ladyship's Hunter. (My Hunter,  Damn The

Fellow," He Said,  Under His Breath.) "And Tell The Bailiff I Shall

Chapter 8 Pg 113

Want Him; Let Him Come Round On His Horse. I Shall Go Over The Farms

With Him."

 

The Morning Was Chilly. He Stood Before The Fire While The Butler

Brought In Eggs,  Kidneys,  Devilled Legs Of Fowl,  And Coffee. The

Beauty Of The Coffee-Pot Caught His Eye,  And He Admired The Plate

That Made Such Rich Effect On The Old Chippendale Sideboard. The

Peacocks On The Window-Sills,  Knocking With Their Strong Beaks For

Bread,  Pleased Him; They Recalled Evenings Passed With Helen; She Had

Often Spoken Of Her Love For These Birds. He Went To The Window With

Bread For The Peacocks,  And The Landscape Came Into His Eyes: The

Clump Of Leafless Trees On The Left,  Rugged And Untidy With Rooks'

Nests; The Hollow,  Dipping Plain,  Melancholy Of Aspect Now,  Misty,

Gray And Brown Beneath A Lowering Sky,  Dipping And Then Rising In A

Long,  Wide Shape,  And Ringing The Sky With A Brown Line. The Terrace

With Its Straight Walks,  Balustrades,  Urns,  And Closely-Cropped Yews

Was A Romantic Note,  Severe,  Even Harsh.

 

One Day,  Wandering From Room To Room,  He Found Himself In Helen's

Bedroom. "There Is The Bed She Died In,  There Is The Wardrobe." Mike

Opened The Wardrobe. He Turned The Dresses Over,  Seeking For Those He

Knew; But He Had Not Seen Her For Three Years,  And There Were New

Dresses,  And He Had Forgotten The Old. Suddenly He Came Upon One Of

Soft,  Blue Material,  And He Remembered She Wore That Dress The First

Time She Sat On His Knees. Feeling The Need Of An Expressive Action,

He Buried His Face In The Pale Blue Dress,  Seeking In Its Softness

And Odour Commemoration Of Her Who Lay Beneath The Pavement. How

Desolate Was The Room! He Would Not Linger. This Room Must Be Forever

Closed,  Left To The Silence,  The Mildew,  The Dust,  And The Moth. None

Must Enter Here But He,  It Must Be Sacred From Other Feet. Once A

Year,  On Her Anniversary,  He Would Come To Mourn Her,  And Not On The

Anniversary Of Her Death,  But On That Of Their First Kiss. He Had

Forgotten The Exact Day,  And Feared He Had Not Preserved All Her

Letters. Perhaps She Had Preserved His.

 

Moved With Such An Idea He Passed Out Of Her Bedroom,  And Calling For

_His_ Keys,  Went Into Her Boudoir And Opened Her Escritoire,  And Very

Soon He Found His Letters; Almost The First He Read,  Ran As Follows--

 

 

 

 

"My Dear Helen,

 

"I Am Much Obliged To You For Your Kind Invitation. I Should Like

Very Much To Come And Stay With You,  If I May Come As Your Friend.

You Must Not Think From This That I Have Fallen In Love With Some One

Else; I Have Not. I Have Never Seen Any One I Shall Love Better Than

You; I Love You To-Day As Well As Ever I Did; My Feelings Regarding

You Have Changed In Nothing,  Yet I Cannot Come As Your Lover. I Am

Ashamed Of Myself,  I Hate Myself,  But It Is Not My Fault.

 

"I Have Been Your Lover For More Than A Year,  And I Could Not Be Any

One's Lover--No,  Not If She Were Venus Herself--For A Longer Time.

 

"My Heart Is Full Of Regret. I Am Losing The Best And Sweetest

Mistress Ever Man Had. No One Is Able To Appreciate Your Worth Better

Than I. Try To Understand Me; Do Not Throw This Letter Aside In A

Rage. You Are A Clever Woman; You Are,  I Know,  Capable Of

Understanding It. And If You Will Understand,  You Will Not Regret;

That I Swear,  For You Will Gain The Best And Most Loyal Friend. I Am

As Good A Friend As I Am A Worthless Lover. Try To Understand,  Helen,

I Am Not Wholly To Blame.

 

"I Love You--I Esteem You Far More To-Day Than I Did When I First

Knew You. Do Not Let Our Love End Upon A Miserable Quarrel--The

Commonplace Quarrel Of Those Who Do Not Know How To Love."

 

 

 

Chapter 8 Pg 114

He Turned The Letter Over. He Was The Letter; That Letter Was His

Shameful Human Nature; And Worse,  It Was The Human Nature Of The

Whole Wide World. On The Same Point,  Or On Some Other Point,  Every

Human Being Was As Base As He. Such Baseness Is The Inalienable

Birth-Stain Of Human Life. His Poem Was No Pretty Imagining,  But The

Eternal,  Implacable Truth. It Were Better That Human Life Should

Cease. Until This Moment He Had Only Half Understood Its Awful,  Its

Terrifying Truth.... It Were Better That Man Ceased To Pollute The

Earth. His History Is But The Record Of Crime; His Existence Is But A

Disgraceful Episode In The Life Of One Of The Meanest Of The Planets.

 

We Cannot Desire What We Possess,  And So We Progress From Illusion To

Illusion. But When We Cease To Distinguish Between Ourself And

Others,  When Our Thoughts Are No Longer Set On The Consideration Of

Our Own Embarrassed Condition,  When We See Into The Heart Of Things,

Which Is One,  Then Disappointment And Suffering Cease To Have Any

Meaning,  And We Attain That True Serenity And Peace Which We

Sometimes See Reflected In A Seraph's Face By Raphael.

 

As Mike's Thoughts Floated In The Boundless Atmosphere Of

Schopenhauer's Poem,  Of The Denial Of The Will To Live,  He Felt

Creeping Upon Him,  Like Sleep Upon Tired Eyelids,  All The Sweet And

Suasive Fascination Of Death. "How Little," He Thought,  "Does Any Man

Know Of Any Other Man's Soul. Who Among My Friends Would Believe That

I,  In All My Intense Joys And Desire Of Life,  Am Perhaps,  At Heart,

The Saddest Man,  And Perhaps Sigh For Death More Ardently,  And Am

Tempted To Cull The Dark Fruit Which Hangs So Temptingly Over The

Wall Of The Garden Of Life More Ardently Than Any One?"

 

A Few Days After,  His Neighbour,  Lord Spennymoor,  Called,  And His

Visit Was Followed By An Invitation To Dinner. The Invitation Was

Accepted. Mike Was On His Best Behaviour. During Dinner He Displayed

As Much Reserve As His Nature Allowed Him To,  But Afterwards,

Yielding To The Solicitations Of The Women,  He Abandoned Himself,  And

When Twelve O'clock Struck They Were Still Gathered Round Him,

Listening To Him With Rapt Expression,  As If In Hearing Of Delightful

Music. Awaking Suddenly To A Sense Of The Hour And His Indiscretion,

He Bade Lord Spennymoor,  Who Had Sat Talking All Night With His

Brother In A Far Corner,  Good-Night.

 

When The Sound Of The Wheels Of His Trap Died Away,  When The Ladies

Had Retired,  Lord Spennymoor Returned To The Smoking-Room,  And At The

End Of A Long Silence Asked His Brother,  Who Sat Smoking Opposite

Him,  What He Thought Of Fletcher.

 

"He Is One Of Those Men Who Attract Women,  Who Attract Nine People

Out Of Ten.... Call It Magnetism,  Electro-Biology,  Give It What Name

You Will. The Natural Sciences----"

 

"Never Mind The Natural Sciences. Do You Think That Either Of My

Girls Were--Victoria,  For Instance,  Was Attracted By Him? I Don't

Believe For A Moment His Story Of Having Saved Lady Seeley From

Drowning In Italy,  But I'm Bound To Say He Told It Very Well. I Can

See The Girls Sitting Round Him Listening. Poor Mrs. Dickens,  Her

Eyes Were----"

 

"I Shan't Ask Her Here Again.... But Tell Me,  Do You Think He'll

Marry?"

 

"It Would Be Very Hard To Say What Will Become Of Him. He May

Suddenly Weary Of Women And Become A Woman-Hater,  Or Perhaps He May

Develop Into A Sort Of Baron Hulot. He Spoke About His Writings--He

May Become Ambitious,  And Spend His Life Writing Epics.... He May Go

Mad! He Seemed Interested In Politics,  He May Go Into Parliament; I

Fancy He Would Do Very Well In Parliament. A Sudden Loathing Of

Civilization May Come Upon Him And Send Him To Africa Or The Arctic

Regions. A Man's End Is Always Infinitely More In Accordance With His

True Character Than Any Conclusion We Could Invent. No Writer,  Even

If He Have Genius,  Is So Extravagantly Logical As Nature."

 

During The Winter Months Mike Was Extensively Occupied With The

Chapter 8 Pg 115

Construction Of The Mausoleum In Red Granite,  Which He Was Raising In

Memory Of Helen; And This Interest Remained Paramount. He Took Many

Journeys To London On Its Account,  And Studied All The Architecture

On The Subject,  And With Great Books On His Knees,  He Sat In The

Library Making Drawings Or Composing Epitaphs And Memorial Poems.

 

Belthorpe Park Was Often Full Of Visitors,  And When Walking With Them

On The Terraces,  His Thoughts Ran On Mount Rorke Castle,  His Own

Success,  And Frank's Failure; And When He Awoke In The Sweet,

Luxurious Rooms,  In The Houses Where He Was Staying,  His Brain Filled

With Febrile Sensations Of Triumph,  And Fitful Belief That He Was

Above Any Caprice Of Destiny.

 

It Pleased Him To Write Letters With Belthorpe Park Printed On The

Top Of The First Page,  And He Wrote Many For This Reason. Quick With

Affectionate Remembrances,  He Thought Of Friends He Had Not Thought

Of For Years,  And The Sadnesses Of These Separations Touched Him

Deeply; And The Mutability Of Things Moved Him In His Very Entrails,

And He Thought That Perhaps No One Had Felt These Things As He Felt

Them. He Remembered The Women Who Had Passed Out Of His Life,  And

Looking Out On His English Park,  Soaking With Rain And Dim With Mist,

He Remembered Those Whom He Had Loved,  And The Peak Whence He Viewed

The Desert District Of His Amours--Lily Young. She Haunted In His

Life.

 

He Saw Himself A Knight In The Tourney,  And Her Eyes Fixed On Him,

While He Calmed His Fiery Dexter And Tilted For Her; He Saw Her In

The Silk Comfort Of The Brougham,  By His Side,  Their Bodies Rocked

Gently Together; He Saw Her In The South When Reading Mrs. Byril's

Descriptions Of Rocky Coast And Olive Fields.

 

The English Park Lay Deep In Snow,  And The Familiar Word Roses Then

Took Magical Significance,  And The Imagined Southern Air Was Full Of

Lily.

 

"There's A Sweet Girl Here,  And I'm Sure You Would Like Her; She Is

So Slender,  So Blithe And Winsome,  And So Wayward. She Has Been Sent

Abroad For Her Health,  And Is Forbidden To Go Out After Sunset,  But

Will Not Obey. I Am Afraid She Is Dying Of Consumption.... She Has

Taken A Great Fancy To Me. There Is No One In Our Hotel But A Few Old

Maids,  Who Discuss The Peerage,  And She Runs After Me To Talk About

Men. I Fancy She Must Have Carried On Pretty Well With Some One,  For

She Loves Talking About _Him_,  And Is Full Of Mysterious Allusions."

 

The Romance Of The Sudden Introduction Of This Girl Into The

Landscape Took Him By The Throat. He Saw Himself Walking With This

Dying Girl In The Beauty Of Blue Mountains Toppling Into Blue Skies,

And Reflected In Bluer Seas; He Sat With Her Beneath The Palm-Trees;

Palms Spread Their Fan-Like Leaves Upon Sky And Sea,  And In The Rich

Green Of Their Leaves Oranges Grew To Deep,  And Lemons To Paler,

Gold; And He Dreamed That The Knowledge That The Object Of His Love

Was Transitory,  Would Make His Love Perfect And Pure. Now In His

Solitude,  With No Object To Break It,  This Desire For Love In Death

Haunted In His Mind. It Rose Unbidden,  Like A Melody,  Stealing Forth

And Surprising Him In Unexpected Moments. Often He Asked Himself Why

He Did Not Pack Up His Portmanteau And Rush Away; And He Was Only

Deterred By The Apparent Senselessness Of The Thought. "What Slaves

We Are Of Habit! Why More Stupid To Go Than To Remain?"

 

Soon After,  He Received Another Letter From Mrs. Byril. He Glanced

Through It Eagerly For Some Mention Of The Girl. Whatever There Was

Of Sweetness And Goodness In Mike's Nature Was Reflected In His Eyes

(Soft Violet Eyes,  In Which Tenderness Dwelt),  Whatever There Was Of

Evil Was Written In The Lips And Cmmisent_ Où _Hystérisent_ Des Lieux Communs,  Ainsi Que

Celle D'aubryet,  C'est Une Bonne Fortune De Rencontrer Un Causeur À La

Parole Judicieuse,  Relevée D'une Pointe D'ironie Parisienne.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Lundi 10 Juin_.--Je Suis,  Ce Soir,  Au Chemin De Fer,  À Côté D'un Ouvrier

Complètement Saoul,  Qui Répète À Tout Instant: «Non,  Je Ne La Foutrais Pas,

Chapter 8 Pg 116

Quand On Me Donnerait Tout Paris... Oui Tout Paris,  Non Je Ne La Foutrais

Pas!» Et Ce Rabâchage,  Un Peu Bredouillant,  Est Coupé De Petits Rires

Intérieurs,  Et D'imitations De Vagissements D'enfants À La Mamelle. L'on

Pardonne À Cet Alsacien,  Dont La Tendresse De La Saoulerie Va À Son Enfant,

À Sa Petite Fille.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Mardi 11 Juin_.--Un Adorable Mot D'une Vieille Femme Galante,  Devenue

Dévote,  Sur Le Juif Avec Lequel Elle Vit. Elle Disait À Une Amie: «Tu Ne

Sais Pas,  Comme Maintenant Il Est Charmant... Comme Il Est Doux,  Même

Quand Il Est Malade... Et Puis,  Comme Il Est Bon Pour Le Bon Dieu!»

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Mardi 11 Juin_.--Ce Soir,  L'ancien Dîner De Magny,  Réduit Par Le Dîner,

Que Donne Au-Dessous De Nous,  Hugo,  Pour La Centième Représentation De

Ruy-Blas,  Se Relève Et Ressemble Presque À Un De Nos Bons Dîners,  Du Temps

De Sainte-Beuve. On Y Remue Et On Y Agite Les Plus Grosses Questions. On

Parle Des Troglodytes; De Fragments Générateurs De Métaux,  Rapportés Du

Groënland,  Et Qu'expérimente Dans Le Moment Berthelot; De Statues

Égyptiennes Du Troisième Siècle,  Découvertes Dans Une Pyramide,  Et

Démontrant,  Comme Moderne,  L'introduction Du Hiératisme Dans L'art

Égyptien. On Parle De Grandes Civilisations Ayant Une Littérature,  Et

N'ayant Ni Art,  Ni Industrie,  Ainsi Que La Civilisation Brahmane,  Disparue

Sans Laisser De Trace Matérielle. On Parle De L'_Insénescence_ Du Sens

Intime Et Des Trois _Moi_ De Je Ne Sais Quel Savant. On Parle Des Cerveaux

De Sophocle,  De Shakespeare,  De Balzac.

 

On Parle Enfin Du Refroidissement Du Globe,  Dans Quelques Dizaines De

Millions D'années. C'est L'occasion Pour Berthelot,  De Peindre

Pittoresquement La Retraite Dans Les Mines Des Derniers Hommes,  Avec Du

Blanc De Champignons Pour Nourriture,  Avec Le Gaz Des Marais,  Avec Le _Feu

Grisou_ Comme Bon Dieu.

 

«Mais Peut-Être,--Interrompt Tout-À-Coup Renan,  Qui A Écouté Avec Le Plus

Grand Sérieux,--Ces Hommes Là-Dedans,  Auront-Ils Une Très Grande Puissance

Métaphysique!»

 

Et La Sublime Naïveté,  Avec Laquelle Il Dit Cela,  Fait Éclater De Rire,

Toute La Table.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Jeudi 20 Juin_.--Lundi--C'était Presque Le Jour De Sa Mort--A Commencé À

Paraître Dans Le Bien Public,  Notre Gavarni.

 

Tous Ces Jours,  En Parcourant Le Journal,  Ma Pensée Était À L'enragement

De Travail,  Avec Lequel Mon Frère Hâtait La Fin De Ce Livre. Je Le

Revoyais,  Pendant Nos Tristes Séjours D'hiver,  À Trouville,  À

Saint-Gratien,  Rivé Sur Une Chaise,  Dont Je Ne Pouvais L'arracher,  Une

Main Labourant Son Front,  Comme S'il Lui Fallait Douloureusement Extraire

Les Tours De Phrase,  Les Épithètes,  Les Mots Spirituels,  Autrefois Coulant

Si Facilement Dans Le Courant De Son Écriture.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

_Vendredi 21 Juin_.--Je Dîne Ce Soir,  Chez Riche,  Avec Flaubert,  Qui Passe

À Paris Pour Se Rendre À L'inauguration De La Statue De Ronsard,  À Vendôme.

 

Nous Dînons,  Bien Entendu,  Dans Un Cabinet,  Parce Que Flaubert Ne Veut Pas

De Bruit,  Ne Tolère Pas Des Individus À Côté De Lui,  Et Qu'il Lui Plaît,

Pour Manger,  D'ôter Son Habit Et Ses Bottines.

 

Nous Causons De Ronsard,  Puis Tout De Suite,  Lui Se Met À Hurler,  Moi À

Gémir,  Sur La Politique,  La Littérature,  Les Embêtements De La Vie.

 

En Sortant,  Nous Tombons Sur Aubryet,  Qui Nous Apprend Que Saint-Victor

Est De L'inauguration. «Eh Bien,  Je N'irai Pas À Vendôme,  Me Dit Flaubert,

Non Vraiment,  La Sensibilité Est Arrivée Chez Moi À Un État Maladif Tel...

Je Suis Entamé Au Point Que L'idée D'avoir La Figure D'un Monsieur

Chapter 8 Pg 117

Désagréable,  En Chemin De Fer,  Devant Moi... Ça M'Ished With Water-Gourd,  A Seven-Foot Staff,  And A Gigantic Pipe,

Lingered In The Country Railway-Station. This Shepherd's Skin Was

Like Coffee,  And He Wore Hair Hanging Far Over His Shoulders,  And His

Beard Reached To His Waist.

 

Nice! A Town Of Cheap Fashion,  A Town Of Glass And Stucco. The

Pungent Odour Of The Eucalyptus Trees,  The Light Breeze Stirred Not

The Foliage,  Sheared Into Mathematical Lines. It Was Like Yards Of

Baize Dwindling In Perspective; And Between The Tall Trunks Great

Plate-Glass Windows Gleamed,  Filled With _L'article De Londres_.

 

He Drove To The Hotel From Which Mrs. Byril Had Written,  And Learnt

That She Had Left Yesterday,  And That Mrs. And Miss Young Were Not

Staying There. They Had No Such Name On The Books. Looking On The Sea

And Mountains He Wondered Himself What It All Meant.

 

Having Bathed And Changed His Clothes,  He Sallied Forth In A Cab To

Call At Every Hotel In The Town,  And After Three Hours' Fruitless

Search,  Returned In Despair. Never Before Had Life Seemed So Sad;

Never Had Fate Seemed So Cruel--He Had Come A Thousand Miles To

Regenerate His Life,  And An Accident,  The Accident Of A Departure,

Hastened Perhaps Only By A Day,  Had Thrown Him Back On The Past; He

Had Imagined A Beautiful Future Made Of Love,  Goodness,  And Truth,

And He Found Himself Thrown Back Upon The Sterile Shore Of A Past Of

Which He Was Weary,  And Of Whose Fruits He Had Eaten Even To Satiety.

After Much Effort He Had Made Sure That Nothing Mattered But Lily,

Neither Wealth Nor Liberty,  Nor Even His Genius. In Surrendering All

He Would Have Gained All--Peace Of Mind,  Unending Love And Goodness.

Goodness! That Which He Had Never Known,  That Which He Now Knew Was

Worth More Than Gratification Of Flesh And Pride Of Spirit.

 

The Night Was Full Of Tumult And Dreams--Dreams Of Palms,  And Seas,

And Endless Love,  And In The Morning He Walked Into The Realities Of

His Imaginings.

 

Passing Through An Archway,  He Found Himself In The Gaud Of The

Flower-Market. There A Hundred Umbrellas,  Yellow,  Red,  Mauve And

Magenta,  Lemon Yellow,  Cadmium Yellow,  Gold,  A Multi-Coloured Mass

Spread Their Extended Bellies To A Sky Blue As The Blouses.

 

The Brown Fingers Of The Peasant Women Are Tying And Pressing All The

Miraculous Bloom Of The Earth Into The Fair Fingers Of Saxon

Girls--Great Packages Of Roses,  Pink Lilies,  Clematis,  Stephanotis,

And Honeysuckle. A Gentle Breeze Is Blowing,  Rocking The Umbrellas,

Wafting The Odour Of The Roses And Honeysuckle,  Bringing Hither An

Odour Of The Lapping Tide,  Rocking The Immense Umbrellas. One Huge

And Ungainly Sunshade Creaks,  Swaying Its Preposterous Rotundity.

Beneath It The Brown Woman Slices Her Pumpkin. Mike Scanned Every

Thin Face For Lily,  And As He Stood Wedged Against A Flower-Stand,  A

Girl Passed Him. She Turned. It Was Lily.

 

"Lily,  Is It Possible? I Was Looking For You Everywhere."

 

"Looking For Me! When Did You Arrive In Nice? How Did You Know I Was

Here?"

 

"Mrs. Byril Wrote. She Described A Girl,  And I Knew From Her

Description It Must Be You. And I Came On At Once."

 

"You Came On At Once To Find Me?"

 

"Yes; I Love You More Than Ever. I Can Think Only Of You.... But When

I Arrived I Found Mrs. Byril Had Left,  And I Had No Means Of Finding

Your Address."

 

"You Foolish Boy; You Mean To Say You Rushed Away On The Chance That

I Was The Girl Described In Mrs. Byril's Letter! ... A Thousand Miles!

And Never Even Waited To Ask The Name Or The Address! Well,  I Suppose

I Must Believe That You Are In Love. But You Have Not Heard.... They

Say I'm Dying. I Have Only One Lung Left. Do You Think I'm Looking

Chapter 8 Pg 118

Very Ill?"

 

"You Are Looking More Lovely Than Ever. My Love Shall Give You

Health; We Shall Go--Where Shall We Go? To Italy? You Are My Italy.

But I'm Forgetting--Why Did You Not Answer My Letter? It Was Cruel Of

You. Deceive Me No More,  Play With Me No Longer; If You Will Not Have

Me,  Say So,  And I Will End Myself,  For I Cannot Live Without You."

 

"But I Do Not Understand,  I Haven't Had Any Letter; What Letter?"

 

"I Wrote Asking You To Marry Me."

 

They Walked Out Of The Flower Market On To The _Promenade Des

Anglais_,  And Mike Told Her About His Letters,  Concealing Nothing Of

His Struggle. The Sea Lay Quite Blue And Still,  Lapping Gently On The

Spare Beach; The Horizon Floated On The Sea,  Almost Submerged,  And

The Mountains,  Every Edge Razor-Like,  Hard,  And Metallic,  Were Veiled

In A Deep,  Transparent Blue; And The Villas,  Painted White,  Pink And

Green,  With Open Loggias And Balconies,  Completed The Operatic

Aspect.

 

"My Mother Will Not Hear Of It; She Would Sooner See Me Dead Than

Married To You."

 

"Why?"

 

"She Knows You Are An Atheist For One Thing."

 

"But She Does Not Know That I Have Six Thousand A Year."

 

"Six Thousand A Year! And Who Was The Fairy That Threw Such Fortune

Into Your Lap? I Thought You Had Nothing."

 

Vanity Took Him By The Throat,  But He Wrenched Himself Free,  And

Answered Evasively That A Distant Cousin Had Left Him A Large Sum Of

Money,  Including An Estate In Berkshire.

 

"Well,  I'm Very Glad For Your Sake,  But It Will Not Influence

Mother's Opinion Of You."

 

"Then You Will Run Away With Me? Say You Will."

 

"That Is The Best--For I'm Not Strong Enough To Dispute With Mother.

I Dare Say It Is Very Cowardly Of Me,  But I Would Avoid Scenes; I've

Had Enough Of Them.... We'll Go Away Together. Where Shall We Go? To

Italy?"

 

"Yes,  To Italy--My Italy. And Do You Love Me? Have You Forgiven Me My

Conduct The Day When You Came To See Me?"

 

"Yes,  I Love You; I Have Forgiven You."

 

"And When Shall We Go?"

 

"When You Like. I Should Like To Go Over That Sea; I Should Like To

Go,  Mike,  With You,  Far Away! Where,  Mike?--Heaven?"

 

"We Should Find Heaven Dull; But When Shall We Go Across That Sea,  Or

When Shall We Go From Here--Now?"

 

"Now!"

 

"Why Not?"

 

"Because Here Are My People Coming To Meet Me. Now Say Nothing To My

Mother About Marriage,  Or She Will Never Leave My Side. I'm More Ill

Than You Think I Am--I Should Have No Strength To Struggle With Her."

 

Not Again That Day Did Mike Succeed In Speaking Alone With Lily,  And

The Next Day She And Her Mother And Major Downside,  Her Uncle,  Went

To Spend The Day With Some Friends Who Had A Villa In The Environs Of

Chapter 8 Pg 119

The Town. The Day After He Met Mother And Daughter Out Walking In The

Morning. In The Afternoon Lily Was Obliged To Keep Her Room. Should

She Die! Should The Irreparable Happen! Mike Crushed The Instinct,

That Made Him See A Poem In The Death Of His Beloved; And He

Determined To Believe That He Should Possess Her,  Love Her And Only

Her; He Saw Himself A New Mike,  A Perfect And True Husband-Lover.

Never Was Man More Weary Of Vice,  More Desirous Of Reformation.

 

He Had Studied The Train Service Until He Could Not Pretend To

Himself There Remained Any Crumb Of Excuse For Further Consideration

Of It. He Wandered About The Corridors,  A Miserable Man. On Sunday

She Came Down-Stairs And Drove To Church With Her Mother. Mike

Followed,  And Full Of Schemes For Flight,  Holding A Note Ready To

Slip Into Her Hand,  He Wondered If Such Pallor As Hers Were For This

Side Of Life. In The Note It Was Written That He Would Wait All Day

For Her In The Sitting-Room,  And About Five,  As He Sat Holding The

Tattered Newspaper,  His Thoughts Far Away In Naples,  Algiers,  And

Egypt,  He Heard A Voice Calling--

 

"Mike! Mike! Mother Is Lying Down; I Think We Can Get Away Now,  If

There's A Train Before Half-Past Five."

 

Mike Did Not Need To Consult The Time-Table. He Said,  "At Last,

At Last,  Darling,  Come! ... Yes,  There Is A Train For The Italian

Frontier At A Few Minutes Past Five. We Shall Have Just Time To

Catch It. Come!"

 

But In The Gardens They Met The Major,  Who Would Not Hear Of His

Niece Being Out After Sunset,  And Sent Her Back. Mike Overtook Lily

On The Staircase.

 

"I Can Endure This No Longer," He Said; "You Must Come With Me

To-Night When Every One Is In Bed. There Is A Train At Two."

 

"I Cannot; I Have To Pass Through My Mother's Room. She Would Be Sure

To Awake."

 

"Great Scott! What Shall We Do? My Head Is Whirling. You Must Give

Your Mother A Sleeping Potion,  Will You? She Drinks Something Before

She Goes To Bed?"

 

"Yes,  But----"

 

"There Must Be No Buts. It Is A Case Of Life And Death. You Do Not

Want To Die,  As Many Girls Die. To Many A Girl Marriage Is Life. I

Will Get Something Quite Harmless,  And Quite Tasteless."

 

She Waited For Him In The Sitting-Room. He Returned In A Few Minutes

With A Small Bottle,  Which He Pressed Into Her Hand. "And Now,  _Au

Revoir_; In A Few Hours You Will Be Mine For Ever."

 

After Leaving Her He Dined; After Dinner Went To A Gambling Hell,

Where He Lost A Good Deal Of Money,  And Would Have Lost More,  Had The

Necessity Of Keeping At Least £200 For His Wedding-Tour Not Been So

Imperative. He Wandered About The Streets Talking To And Sometimes

Strolling About With The Light Women,  Listening To Their Lamentable

Stories--"Anything," He Thought,  "To Distract My Mind." He Was To

Meet Lily On The Staircase At One O'clock,  And Now It Was Half-Past

Twelve,  And Giving The Poor Creature Whose Chatter Had Beguiled The

Last Half-Hour A Louis,  He Returned Hurriedly To His Hotel.

 

The Lift Had Ceased Working,  And He Ascended The Great Staircase,

Three Steps At A Time. On The Second Floor He Stopped To Reconnoitre.

The _Gardien_ Lay Fast Asleep On A Bench; He Could Not Do Better Than

Sit On The Stairs And Wait; If The Man Awoke He Would Have To Be

Bribed. Lily's Number Was 45,  A Dozen Doors Down The Passage. At One

O'clock The _Gardien_ Awoke. Mike Entered Into Conversation With Him,

Gave Him A Couple Of Francs,  Bade Him Good-Night,  And Went Partly Up

The Next Flight Of Stairs. Listening For Every Sound,  Expecting Every

Moment To Hear A Door Open,  He Waited Till The Clocks Struck The

Half-Hour. Then He Became As If Insane,  And He Deemed It Would Not Be

Chapter 8 Pg 120

Enough If She Were To Disappoint Him To Set The Hotel On Fire And

Throw Himself From The Roof. Something Must Happen,  If He Were To

Remain Sane,  And,  Determined To Dare All,  He Decided He Would Seek

Her In Her Room And Bear Her Away. He Knew He Would Have To Pass

Through Mrs. Young's Room. What Should He Do If She Awoke,  And,

Taking Him For A Robber,  Raised The Alarm?

 

Putting Aside Such Surmises He Turned The Handle Of Her Door As

Quietly As He Could. The Lock Gave Forth Hardly Any Sound,  The Door

Passed Noiselessly Over The Carpet. He Hesitated,  But Only For A

Moment,  And Drawing Off His Shoes He Prepared To Cross The Room. A

Night-Light Was Burning,  And It Revealed The Fat Outline Of A Huge

Body Huddled In The Bed-Clothes. He Would Have To Pass Close To Mrs.

Young. He Glided By,  Passing Swiftly Towards The Further Room,

Praying That The Door Would Open Without A Sound. It Was Ajar,  And

Opened Without A Sound. "What Luck!" He Thought,  And A Moment After

He Stood In Lily's Room. She Lay Upon The Bed,  As If She Had Fallen

There,  Dressed In A Long Travelling-Cloak,  Her Hat Crushed On One

Side.

 

"Lily,  Lily!" He Whispered,  "'Tis I; Awake! Speak,  Tell Me You Are

Not Dead." She Moved A Little Beneath His Touch,  Then Wetting A Towel

In The Water-Jug He Applied It To Her Forehead And Lips,  And Slowly

She Revived.

 

"Where Are We?" She Asked. "Mike,  Darling,  Are We In Italy? ... I Have

Been Ill,  Have I Not? They Say I'm Going To Die,  But I'm Not; I'm

Going To Live For You,  My Darling."

 

Then She Recovered Recollection Of What Had Happened,  And Whispered

That She Had Failed To Give Her Mother The Opiate,  But Had

Nevertheless Determined To Keep Her Promise To Him. She Had Dressed

Herself And Was Just Ready To Go,  But A Sudden Weakness Had Come Over

Her. She Remembered Staggering A Few Steps And Nothing More.

 

"But If You Have Not Given Your Mother The Opiate,  She May Awake At

Any Moment. Are You Strong Enough,  My Darling,  To Come With Me?

Come!"

 

"Yes,  Yes,  I'm Strong Enough. Give Me Some More Water,  And Kiss Me,

Dear."

 

The Lovers Wrapped Themselves In Each Other's Arms. But Hearing Some

One Moving In The Adjoining Room,  The Girl Looked In Horror And

Supplication In Mike's Eyes. Stooping,  He Disappeared Beneath A Small

Table; And Drew His Legs Beneath The Cloth. The Sounds In The Next

Room Continued,  And He Recognized Them As Proceeding From Some One

Searching For Clothes. Then Lily's Door Was Opened And Mrs. Young

Said--

 

"Lily,  There Is Some One In Your Room; I'm Sure Mr. Fletcher Is

Here."

 

"Oh,  Mother,  How Can You Say Such A Thing! Indeed He Is Not."

 

"He Is; I Am Not Mistaken. This Is Disgraceful; He Must Be Under That

Bed."

 

"Mother,  You Can Look."

 

"I Shall Do Nothing Of The Kind. I Shall Fetch Your Uncle."

 

When He Heard Mrs. Young Retreating With Fast Steps,  Mike Emerged

From His Hiding.

 

"What Shall I Do?"

 

"You Can't Leave Without Being Seen. Uncle Sleeps Opposite."

 

"I'll Hide In Your Mother's Room; And While They Are Looking For Me

Here,  I Will Slip Out."

Chapter 8 Pg 121

 

"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.

 

Chapter 9 Pg 122

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

Chapter 9 Pg 123

  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;

Chapter 9 Pg 124

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--

 

Chapter 9 Pg 125

"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

Chapter 9 Pg 126

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 Incomparable Stupidity Could Enable Him To Distinguish Between

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

Chapter 9 Pg 127

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?

 

Chapter 9 Pg 128

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

Chapter 9 Pg 129

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 Said,  'But His Lordship Says

He Is Too Unwell To See Any One To-Day,  Sir; He Is Very Sorry,  But If

You Would Write' ... If I Would Write! Think Of It,  I Who Was Once

His Heir,  And Used The Place As If It Were Mine! Poor Old Burton

Was Quite Overcome. He Tried To Ask Me To Come Into The Dining-Room

And Have Some Lunch. If I Go There Again I Shall Be Asked Into The

Servants' Hall. And At That Moment The Nurse Came,  Wheeling The Baby

In The Perambulator Through The Hall,  Going Out For An Airing. I

Tried Not To Look,  But Couldn't Restrain My Eyes,  And The Nurse

Stopped And Said,  'Now Then,  Dear,  Give Your Hand To The Gentleman,

And Tell Him Your Name.' The Little Thing Looked Up,  Its Blue Eyes

Staring Out Of Its Sallow Face,  And It Held Out The Little Putty-Like

Hand. Poor Old Burton Turned Aside,  He Couldn't Stand It Any Longer,

And Walked Into The Dining-Room."

 

"And How Did You Get Away?" Asked Mike,  Who Saw His Friend's

Misfortune In The Light Of An Exquisite Chapter In A Novel. "How Sad

The Old Place Must Have Seemed To You!"

 

"You Are Thinking How You Could Put It In A Book--How Brutal You

Are!"

 

"I Assure You You Are Wrong. I Can't Help Trying To Realize Your

Sensations,  But That Doesn't Prevent Me From Being Very Sorry For

You,  And I'm Sure I Shall Be Very Pleased To Help You. Do You Want

Any Money? Don't Be Shy About Saying Yes. I Haven't Forgotten How You

Helped Me."

 

"I Really Don't Like To Ask You,  You've Been Very Good As It Is.

However,  If You Could Spare Me A Tenner?"

 

"Of Course I Can. Let's Send These Jarvies Away,  And Come Into My

Hotel,  And I'll Write You A Cheque."

 

The Sum Frank Asked For Revealed To Mike Exactly The Depth To Which

He Had Sunk Since They Had Last Met. Small As It Was,  However,  It

Seemed To Have Had Considerable Effect In Reviving Frank's Spirits,

And He Proceeded Quite Cheerfully Into The Tale Of His Misfortune.

Now It Seemed To Strike Him Too In Quite A Literary Light,  And He

Made Philosophic Comments On Its Various Aspects,  As He Might On The

Hero Of A Book Which He Was Engaged On Or Contemplated Writing.

 

"No," He Said,  "You Were Quite Wrong In Supposing That I Waited To

Look Back On The Old Places. I Got Out Of The Park Through A Wood So

As To Avoid The Gate-Keeper. In Moments Of Great Despair We Don't

Lapse Into Pensive Contemplation." ... He Stopped To Pull At The

Cigar Mike Had Given Him,  And When He Had Got It Well Alight,  He

Said,  "It Was Really Most Dramatic,  It Would Make A Splendid Scene In

A Play; You Might Make Him Murder The Baby."

 

Half An Hour After Mike Bade His Friend Good-Bye,  Glad To Be Rid Of

Him.

 

"He's Going Back To That Beastly Wife Who Lives In Some Dirty

Lodging. How Lucky I Was,  After All,  Not To Marry."

 

Then,  Remembering The Newspaper,  And The Use It Might Be To Him When

In Parliament,  He Rushed After Frank. When The _Pilgrim_ Was

Mentioned Frank's Face Changed Expression,  And He Seemed Stirred With

Deeper Grief Than When He Related The Story Of His Disinheritance. He

Had No Further Connection With The Paper. Thigh Had Worked Him Out Of

It.

 

"I Never Really Despaired," He Said,  "Until I Lost My Paper. Thigh

Has Asked Me To Send Him Paragraphs,  But Of Course I'm Not Going To

Do That."

Chapter 9 Pg 130

"Why Not?"

 

"Well,  Hang It,  After Being The Editor Of A Paper,  You Aren't Going

To Send In Paragraphs On Approval. It Isn't Good Enough. When I Go

Back To London I Shall Try To Get A Sub-Editorship."

 

Mike Pressed Another Tenner Upon Him,  And Returning To The

Smoking-Room,  And Throwing Himself Into An Arm-Chair,  He Lapsed Into

Dreams Of The Bands And The Banners That Awaited Him. When Animal

Spirits Were Ebullient In Him,  He Regarded His Election In The Light

Of A Vulgar Practical Joke; When The Philosophic Mood Was Upon Him He

Turned From All Thought Of It As From The Smell Of A Dirty Kitchen

Coming Through A Grating.

 

 

 

Chapter 10 Pg 131

 

During The First Session Mike Was Hampered And Inconvenienced By The

Forms Of The House; In The Second,  He Began To Weary Of Its Routine.

His Wit And Paradox Attracted Some Attention; He Made One Almost

Successful Speech,  Many That Stirred And Stimulated The Minds Of

Celebrated Listeners; But For All That He Failed. His Failure To

Redeem The Expectations Of His Friends,  Produced In Him Much Stress

And Pain Of Mind,  The More Acute Because He Was Fully Alive To The

Cause. He Ascribed It Rightly To Certain Inherent Flaws In His

Character. "The World Believes In Those Who Believe In It. Such

Belief May Prove A Lack Of Intelligence On The Part Of The Believer,

But It Secures Him Success,  And Success Is After All The Only Thing

That Compensates For The Evil Of Life."

 

Always Impressed By New Ideas,  Rarely Holding To Any Impression Long,

Finding All Hollow And Common Very Soon,  He Had Been Taken With The

Importance Of The National Assembly,  But It Had Hardly Passed Into

Its Third Session When All Illusion Had Vanished,  And Mike Ridiculed

Parliamentary Ambitions In The Various Chambers Of The Barristers He

Frequented.

 

It Was May-Time,  And Never Did The Temple Wear A More Gracious

Aspect. The River Was Full Of Hay-Boats,  The Gardens Were Green With

Summer Hours. Through The Dim Sky,  Above The Conical Roof Of The Dear

Church,  The Pigeons Fled In Rapid Quest,  And In Garden Court,  Beneath

The Plane-Trees,  Old Folk Dozed,  Listening To The Rippling Tune Of

The Fountain And The Shrilling Of The Sparrows. In King's Bench Walk

The Waving Branches Were Full Of Their Little Brown Bodies. Sparrows

Everywhere,  Flying From The Trees To The Eaves,  Hopping On The Golden

Gravel,  Beautifully Carpeted With The Rich Shadows Of The

Trees--Unabashed Little Birds,  Scarcely Deigning To Move Out Of The

Path Of The Young Men As They Passed To And Fro From Their Offices To

The Library. "That Sweet,  Grave Place Where We Weave Our Ropes Of

Sand," So Mike Used To Speak Of It.

 

The Primness Of The Books,  The Little Galleries Guarded By Brass

Railings,  Here And There A Reading-Desk,  The Sweet Silence Of The

Place,  The Young Men Reading At The Polished Oak Tables,  The Colour

Of The Oak And The Folios,  The Rich Turkey Carpets,  Lent To The

Library That Happy Air Of Separation From The Brutalities Of Life

Which Is Almost Sanctity. These,  The Familiar Aspects Of The Temple,

Moved Him With All Their Old Enchantments; He Lingered In The Warm

Summer Mornings When All The Temple Was Astir,  Gossiping With The

Students,  Or Leaning Upon The Balustrades In Pensive Contemplation Of

The Fleet River.

 

But These Moods Of Passive Happiness Were Interrupted More Frequently

Chapter 10 Pg 132

Than They Had Been In Earlier Years By The Old Whispering Voice,  Now

Grown Strangely Distinct,  Which Asked,  But No Longer Through Laughing

Lips,  If It Were Possible To Discern Any Purpose In Life,  And If All

Thoughts And Things Were Not As Vain As A Little Measure Of Sand. The

Dark Fruit That Hangs So Alluringly Over The Wall Of The Garden Of

Life Now Met His Eyes Frequently,  Tempting Him,  And Perforce He Must

Stay To Touch And Consider It. Then,  Resolved To Baffle At All Costs

The Disease Which He Now Knew Pursued Him,  He Plunged In The Crowd Of

Drunkenness And Debauchery Which Swelled The Strand At Night. He Was

Found Where Prize-Fighters Brawled,  And Card-Sharpers Cajoled; Where

Hall Singers Fed On Truffled Dishes,  And Courtesans Laughed And

Called For Champagne. He Was Seen In Lubini's Sprawling Over Luncheon

Tables Till Late In The Afternoon,  And At Nightfall Lingering About

The Corners Of The Streets,  Talking To The Women That Passed. In Such

Low Form Of Vice He Sought Escape. He Turned To Gambling,  Risking

Large Sums,  Sometimes Imperilling His Fortune For The Sake Of The

Assuagement Such Danger Brought Of The Besetting Sin. But Luck Poured

Thousands Into His Hands; And He Applied Himself To The Ruin Of One

Seeking To Bring About His Death.

 

"Before I Kill Myself," He Said,  "I Will Kill Others; I'm Weary Of

Playing At Faust,  Now I'll Play At Mephistopheles."

 

Henceforth All Men Who Had Money,  Or Friends Who Had Money,  Were

Invited To Temple Gardens. You Met There Members Of Both Houses Of

Parliament--The Successors Of Muchross And Snowdown; And Men

Exquisitely Dressed,  With Quick,  Penetrating Eyes,  Assembled There,

Actors And Owners Of Race-Horses Galore,  And Bright-Complexioned

Young Men Of Many Affections. Rising Now From The Piano One Is Heard

To Say Reproachfully,  "You Never Admire Anything I Wear," To A Grave

Friend Who Had Passed Some Criticism On The Flower In The Young Man's

Button-Hole.

 

It Was Still Early In The Evening,  And The Usual Company Had Not Yet

Arrived. Harding Stood On The White Fur Hearthrug,  His Legs Slightly

Apart,  Smoking. Mike Lay In An Easy-Chair. His Eyes Were Upon

Harding,  Whom He Had Not Seen For Some Years,  And The Sight Of Him

Recalled The Years When They Wrote The _Pilgrim_ Together.

 

He Thought How Splendid Were Then His Enthusiasms And How Genuine His

Delight In Life. It Was In This Very Room That He Kissed Lily For The

First Time. That Happy Day. Well Did He Remember How The Sun Shone

Upon The Great River,  How The Hay-Boats Sailed,  How The City Rose

Like A Vision Out Of The Mist. But Lily Lies Asleep,  Far Away In A

Southern Land; She Lies Sleeping,  Facing Italy--That Italy Which They

Should Have Seen And Dreamed Together. At That Moment,  He Brushed

From His Book A Little Green Insect That Had Come Out Of The Night,

And It Disappeared In Faint Dust.

 

It Was In This Room He Had Seen Lady Helen For The Last Time; And He

Remembered How,  When He Returned To Her,  After Having Taken Lily Back

To The Dancing-Room,  He Had Found Her Reading A Letter,  And Almost

The Very Words Of The Conversation It Had Given Rise To Came Back To

Him,  And Her Almost Aggressive Despair. No One Could Say Why She Had

Shot Herself. Who Was The Man That Had Deserted Her? What Was He

Like? Was It Harding? It Was Certainly For A Lover Who Had Tired Of

Her; And Mike Wondered How It Were Possible To Weary Of One So

Beautiful And So Interesting,  And He Believed That If She Had Loved

Him They Both Would Have Found Content.

 

"Do You Remember,  Harding,  That It Was In This Room We Saw Lady Helen

Alive For The Last Time? What A Tragedy That Was! Do You Remember The

Room In The Alexandra Hotel,  The Firelight,  With The Summer Morning

Coming Through The Venetian Blinds? Somehow There Was A Sense Of

Sculpture,  Even Without The Beautiful Body. Seven Years Have Passed.

She Has Enjoyed Seven Years Of Peace And Rest; We Have Endured Seven

Years Of Fret And Worry. Life Of Course Was Never Worth Living,  But

The Common Stupidity Of The Nineteenth Century Renders Existence For

Those Who May See Into The Heart Of Things Almost Unbearable. I

Confess That Every Day Man's Stupidity Seems To Me More And More

Miraculous. Indeed It May Be Said To Be Divine,  So Inherent And So

Chapter 10 Pg 133

Unalterable Is It; And To Understand It We Need Not Stray From The

Question In Hand--Suicide. A Man Is Houseless,  He Is Old,  He Is

Friendless,  He Is Starving,  He Is Assailed In Every Joint By Cruel

Disease; To Save Himself From Years Of Suffering He Lights A Pan Of

Charcoal; And,  After Carefully Considering All The Circumstances,  The

Jury Returns A Verdict Of Suicide While In A State Of Temporary

Insanity. Out Of Years Of Insanity Had Sprung A Supreme Moment Of

Sanity,  And No One Understands It. The Common Stupidity,  I Should Say

The Common Insanity,  Of The World On The Subject Of Suicide Is Quite

Comic. A Man May Destroy His Own Property,  Which Would Certainly Be

Of Use To Some One,  But He May Not Destroy His Own Life,  Which

Possibly Is Of Use To No One; And If Two Men Conspire To Commit

Suicide And One Fails,  The Other Is Tried For Murder And Hanged. Can

The Mind Conceive More Perfect Nonsense?"

 

"I Cannot Say I Agree With You," Said Harding; "Man's Aversion To

Suicide Seems To Me Perfectly Comprehensible."

 

"Does It Really! Well,  I Should Like To Hear You Develop That

Paradox."

 

"Your Contention Is That It Is Inconceivable That In An Already

Over-Crowded Society Men Should Not Look Rather With Admiration Than

With Contempt On Those Who,  Convinced That They Block The Way,

Surrender Their Places To Those Better Able To Fill Them; And It Is

To You Equally Inconceivable That A Man Should Be Allowed To Destroy

His Property And Not His Person. Your Difficulty Seems To Me To Arise

From Your Not Taking Into Consideration The Instinctive Nature Of

Man. The Average Man May Be Said To Be Purely Instinctive. In Popular

Opinion--That Is To Say,  In His Own Opinion--He Is Supposed To Be A

Reasonable Being; But A Short Acquaintance Shows Him To Be Illumined

With No Faintest Ray Of Reason. His Sense Of Right And Wrong Is

Purely Instinctive; Talk To Him About It,  And You Will See That You

Might As Well Ask A Sheep-Dog Why He Herds The Sheep."

 

"Quite So; But I Do Not See How That Explains His Aversion To

Suicide."

 

"I Think It Does. There Are Two Forces In Human Nature--Instinct And

Reason. The First Is The Very Principle Of Life,  And Exists In All We

See--Give It A Philosophic Name,  And Call It The 'Will To Live.' All

Acts,  Therefore,  Proceed From Instinct Or From Reason. Suicide Is

Clearly Not An Instinctive Act,  It Is Therefore A Reasonable Act; And

Being Of All Acts The Least Instinctive,  It Is Of Necessity The Most

Reasonable; Reason And Instinct Are Antagonistic; And The Extreme

Point Of Their Antagonism Must Clearly Be Suicide. One Is The

Assertion Of Life,  The Other Is The Denial Of Life. The World Is

Mainly Instinctive,  And Therefore Very Tolerant To All Assertions Of

The Will To Live; It Is In Other Words Full Of Toleration For Itself;

No One Is Reproved For Bringing A Dozen Children Into The World,

Though He Cannot Support Them,  Because To Reprove Him Would Involve A

Partial Condemnation Of The Will To Live; And The World Will Not

Condemn Itself.

 

"If Suicide Merely Cut The Individual Thread Of Life Our Brothers

Would Rejoice. Nature Is Concerned In The Preservation Of The

Species,  Not In The Preservation Of The Individual; But Suicide Is

More Than The Disappearance Of An Individual Life,  It Is A Protest

Against All Life,  Therefore Man,  In The Interest Of The Life Of The

Race,  Condemns The Suicide. The Struggle For Life Is Lessened By

Every Death,  But The Injury Inflicted On The Desire Of Life Is

Greater; In Other Words,  Suicide Is Such A Stimulant To The Exercise

Of Reason (Which Has Been Proved Antagonistic To Life),  That Man,  In

Defence Of Instinct,  Is Forced To Condemn Suicide.

 

"And It Is Curious To Note That Of All The Manners Of Death Which May

Bring Them Fortune,  Men Like Suicide The Least; A Man Would Prefer To

Inherit A Property Through His Father Falling A Prey To A Disease

That Tortured Him For Months Rather Than He Should Blow His Brains

Out. If He Were To Sound His Conscience,  His Conscience Would Tell

Him That His Preference Resulted From Consideration For His Father's

Chapter 10 Pg 134

Soul. For As Man Acquired Reason,  Which,  As I Have Shown,  Endangers

The Sovereignty Of The Will To Live,  He Developed Notions Of Eternal

Life,  Such Notions Being Necessary To Check And Act As A Drag Upon

The New Force That Had Been Introduced Into His Life. He Says Suicide

Clashes With The Principle Of Eternal Life. So It Does,  So It Does,

He Is Quite Right,  But How Delightful And Miraculously Obtuse. We

Must Not Take Man For A Reasoning Animal; Ants And Bees Are Hardly

More Instinctive And Less Reasonable Than The Majority Of Men.

 

"But Far More Than With Any Ordinary Man Is It Amusing To Discuss

Suicide With A Religionist. The Religionist Does Not Know How To

Defend Himself. If He Is A Roman Catholic He Says The Church Forbids

Suicide,  And That Ends The Matter; But Other Churches Have No Answer

To Make,  For They Find In The Old And New Testament Not A Shred Of

Text To Cover Themselves With. From The First Page Of The Bible To

The Last There Is Not A Word To Say That A Man Does Not Hold His Life

In His Hands,  And May Not End It When He Pleases."

 

"Why Don't You Write An Article On Suicide? It Would Frighten People

Out Of Their Wits!" Said Mike.

 

"I Hope He'll Do Nothing Of The Kind," Said A Man Who Had Been

Listening With Bated Breath. "We Should Have Every One Committing

Suicide All Around Us--The World Would Come To An End."

 

"And Would That Matter Much?" Said Mike,  With A Scornful Laugh. "You

Need Not Be Afraid. No Bit Of Mere Scribbling Will Terminate Life;

The Principle Of Life Is Too Deeply Rooted Ever To Be Uprooted;

Reason Will Ever Remain Powerless To Harm It. Very Seldom,  If Ever,

Has A Man Committed Suicide For Purely Intellectual Reasons. It

Nearly Always Takes The Form Of A Sudden Paroxysm Of Mind. The Will

To Live Is An Almost Unassailable Fortress,  And It Will Remain

Impregnable Everlastingly."

 

The Entrance Of Some Men,  Talking Loudly Of Betting And Women,

Stopped The Conversation. The Servants Brought Forth The Card-Tables.

Mike Played Several Games Of Écarté,  Cheating Openly,  Braving

Detection. He Did Not Care What Happened,  And Almost Desired The

Violent Scene That Would Ensue On His Being Accused Of Packing The

Cards. But Nothing Happened,  And About One O'clock,  Having Bade The

Last Guest Good-Night,  He Returned To The Dining-Room. The Room In

Its Disorder Of Fruit And Champagne Looked Like A Human Being--Mike

Thought It Looked Like Himself. He Drank A Tumbler Of Champagne And

Returned To The Drawing-Room,  His Pockets Full Of The Money He Had

Swindled From A Young Man. He Threw Himself On A Sofa By The Open

Window And Listened To The Solitude,  Terribly Punctuated By The

Clanging Of The Clocks. All The Roofs Were Defined On The Blue Night,

And He Could Hear The Sound Of Water Falling. The Trees Rose In Vague

Masses Indistinguishable,  And Beyond Was The Immense Brickwork Which

Hugs The Shores. In The River There Were Strange Reflections,  And

Above The River There Were Blood-Red Lamps.

 

"If I Were To Fling Myself From This Window! ... I Shouldn't Feel

Anything; But I Should Be A Shocking Sight On The Pavement.... Great

Scott! This Silence Is Awful,  And Those Whispering Trees,  And Those

Damned Clocks--Another Half-Hour Of Life Gone. I Shall Go Mad If

Something Doesn't Happen."

 

There Came A Knock. Who Could It Be? It Did Not Matter,  Anything Was

Better Than Silence. He Threw Open The Door,  And A Pretty Girl,

Almost A Child,  Bounded Into The Room,  Making It Ring With Her

Laughter.

 

"Oh,  Mike! Darling Mike,  I Have Left Home; I Couldn't Live Without

You; ... Aren't You Glad To See Me?"

 

"Of Course I'm Glad To See You."

 

"Then Why Don't You Kiss Me?" She Said,  Jumping On His Knees And

Throwing Her Arms About His Neck.

 

Chapter 10 Pg 135

"What A Wicked Little Girl You Are!"

 

"Wicked! It Is You Who Make Me Wicked,  My Own Darling Mike. I Ran

Away From Home For You,  All For You; I Should Have Done It For Nobody

Else.... I Ran Away The Day--The Day Before Yesterday. My Aunt Was

Annoying Me For Going Out In The Lane With Some Young Fellows. I Said

Nothing For A Long Time. At Last I Jumps Up,  And I Says That I Would

Stand It No Longer; I Told Her Straight; I Says You'll Never See Me

Again,  Never No More; I'll Go Away To London To Some One Who Is

Awfully Nice. And Of Course I Meant You,  My Own Darling Mike." And

The Room Rang With Girlish Laughter.

 

"But Where Are You Staying?" Said Mike,  Seriously Alarmed.

 

"Where Am I Staying? I'm Staying With A Young Lady Friend Of Mine Who

Lives In Drury Lane,  So I'm Not Far From You. You Can Come And See

Me," She Said,  And Her Face Lit With Laughter. "We Are Rather Hard

Up. If You Could Lend Me A Sovereign I Should Be So Much Obliged."

 

"Yes,  I'll Lend You A Sovereign,  Ten If You Like; But I Hope You'll

Go Back To Your Aunt. I Know The World Better Than You,  My Dear

Little Flossy,  And I Tell You That Drury Lane Is No Place For You."

 

"I Couldn't Go Back To Aunt; She Wouldn't Take Me Back; Besides,  I

Want To Remain In London For The Present."

 

Before She Left Mike Filled The Astonished Child's Hands With Money,

And As She Paused Beneath His Window He Threw Some Flowers Towards

Her,  And Listened To Her Laughter Ringing Through The Pale Morning.

Now The Night Was A Fading Thing,  And The Town And Thames Lay In The

Faint Blue Glamour Of The Dawn. Another Day Had Begun,  And The Rattle

Of A Morning Cart Was Heard. Mike Shut The Window,  Hesitating Between

Throwing Himself Out Of It,  And Going To Bed.

 

"As Long As I Can Remember,  I Have Had These Fits Of Depression,  But

Now They Never Leave Me; I Seem More Than Ever Incapable Of Shaking

Them Off."

 

Then He Thought Of The Wickedness He Had Done,  Not Of The Wickedness

Of His Life--That Seemed To Him Unlimited,--But Of The Wickedness

Accomplished Within The Last Few Hours,  And He Wondered If He Had

Done Worse In Cheating The Young Man At Cards Or Giving The Money He

Had Won To Flossy. "Having Tasted Of Money,  She Will Do Anything To

Obtain More. I Suppose She Is Hopelessly Lost,  And Will Go From Bad

To Worse. But Really I Don't See That I Am Wholly Responsible. I

Advised Her To Go Home,  I Could Do No More. But I Will Get Her Aunt's

Address And Write To Her. Or I Will Inform Some Of The Philanthropic

People."

 

A Few Days After,  He Came In Contact With Some. Their Fervour

Awakened Some Faint Interest In Him,  And Now,  As Weary Of Playing At

Mephistopheles As He Was Of Playing At Faust,  He Followed The

Occupation Of His New Friends. But His Attempts At Reformation Were

Vain,  They Wore Out The Soul,  And Left It Only More Hopeless Than

Before; And He Remembered John Norton's Words,  That Faith Is A Gift

From God Which We Must Cherish,  Or He Will Take It From Us Utterly;

And Sighing,  Mike Recognized The Great Truth Underlying A Primitive

Mode Of Expression. He Had Drifted Too Far Into The Salt Sea Of

Unfaith And Cynicism,  Ever To Gain Again The Fair If Illusive Shores

Of Aspiration--Maybe Illusive,  But No More Illusive Than The Cruel

Sea That Swung Him Like A Wreck In Its Current,  Feeding Upon Him As

The Sea Feeds. Nor Could He Make Surrender Of His Passion Of Life,

Saying--

 

"I See Into The Heart Of Things,  I Know The Truth,  And In The Calm

Possession Of Knowledge Am Able To Divest Myself Of My Wretched

Individuality,  And So Free Myself Of All Evils,  Seeking In

Absorption,  Rather Than By Violent Ends,  To Rid Myself Of

Consciousness."

 

But This,  The Religion Of The Truly Wise,  Born In The Sublime East,

Chapter 10 Pg 136

Could Find No Roothold In Mike Fletcher--That Type And Epitome Of

Western Grossness And Lust Of Life. Religions Being A Synthesis Of

Moral Aspirations,  Developed Through Centuries,  Are Mischievous And

Untrue Except In The Circumstances And Climates In Which They Have

Grown Up,  And Native Races Are Decimated Equally By The Importation

Of A Religion Or A Disease. True It Is That Christianity Was A

Product Of The East,  But It Was An Accidental And Inferior Offshoot

From The Original Religion Of The Race,  Not Adapted To Their Needs,

And Fitted Only For Exportation. And Now,  Tainted And Poisoned By A

Thousand Years Of Habitation In The West,  Christianity Returns To The

East,  Virulent And Baneful As Small-Pox,  A Distinctly Demoralizing

Influence,  Having Power Only To Change Excellent Buddhists Into

Prostitutes And Thieves. And In Such A Way,  According To The Same

Laws,  Mike Had Observed,  Since He Had Adopted Pessimism,  Certain

Unmistakable Signs In Himself Of Moral Degeneracy.

 

He Had Now Exhausted All Nature's Remedies,  Save One--Drink,  And He

Could Not Drink. Drink Has Often Rescued Men,  In Straits Of Mental

Prostration,  From The Charcoal-Pan,  The Pistol,  And The River. But

Mike Could Not Drink,  And Nature Sought In Vain To Re-Adjust Again,

And Balance Anew,  Forces Which Seemed Now Irretrievably Disarranged.

All The Old Agencies Were Exhausted,  And The New Force,  Which Chance,

Co-Operating With Natural Disposition,  Had Introduced,  Was Dominant

In Him. Against It Women Were Now Powerless,  And He Turned Aside From

Offered Love.

 

It Is Probable That The Indirect Influences To Which We Have Been

Subjected Before Birth Outweigh The Few Direct Influences Received By

Contagion With Present Life. But The Direct Influences,  Slight As

They May Be,  Are Worth Considering,  They Being The Only Ones Of Which

We Have Any Exact Knowledge,  Even If In So Doing We Exaggerate Them;

And In Striving To Arrive At A Just Estimation Of The Forces That Had

Brought About His Present Mind,  Mike Was In The Habit Of Giving

Prominence To The Thought Of The Demoralizing Influence Of The

Introduction Of Eastern Pessimism Into A Distinctly Western Nature.

He Remembered Very Well Indeed The Shock He Had Received When He Had

Heard John Say For The First Time That It Was Better That Human Life

Should Cease.

 

"For Man's History,  What Is It But The History Of Crime? Man's Life,

What Is It But A Disgraceful Episode In The Life Of One Of The

Meanest Of The Planets? Let Us Be Thankful That Time Shall Obliterate

The Abominable,  And That Once Again The World Shall Roll Pure Through

The Silence Of The Universe."

 

So John Had Once Spoken,  Creating Consternation In Mike's Soul,

Casting Poison Upon It. But John Had Buried Himself In Catholicism

For Refuge From This Awful Creed,  Leaving Mike To Perish In It. Then

Mike Wondered If He Should Have Lived And Died A Simple,  Honourable,

God-Fearing Man,  If He Had Not Been Taken Out Of The Life He Was Born

In,  If He Had Married In Ireland,  For Instance,  And Driven Cattle To

Market,  As Did His Ancestors.

 

One Day Hearing The Organ Singing A Sweet Anthem,  He Stayed To

Listen. It Being Midsummer,  The Doors Of The Church Were Open,  The

Window Was In His View,  And The Congregation Came Streaming Out Into

The Sunshine Of The Courts,  Some Straying Hither And Thither,  Taking

Note Of The Various Monuments. In Such Occupation He Spoke To One

Whom He Recognized At Once As A Respectable Shop-Girl. He Took Her

Out To Dinner,  Dazzled And Delighted Her With A Present Of Jewelry,

Enchanted Her With Assurances Of His Love. But When Her Manner

Insinuated An Inclination To Yield,  He Lost Interest,  And Wrote

Saying He Was Forced To Leave Town. Soon After,  He Wrote To A Certain

Actress Proposing To Write A Play For Her. The Proposal Was Not Made

With A View To Deceiving Her,  But Rather In The Intention Of Securing

Their Liaison Against Caprice,  By Involving In It Various Mutual

Advantages. For Three Weeks They Saw Each Other Frequently; He

Wondered If He Loved Her,  He Dreamed Of Investing His Talents In Her

Interest,  And So Rebuilding The Falling Edifice Of His Life.

 

"I Could Crush An Affection Out Of My Heart As Easily As I Could Kill

Chapter 10 Pg 137

A Fly," She Said.

 

"Ah!" He Said,  "My Heart Is As Empty As A Desert,  And No Affection

Shall Enter There Again."

 

An Appointment Was Made To Go Out To Supper,  But He Wrote Saying He

Was Leaving Town To Be Married. Nor Was His Letter A Lie. After Long

Hesitations He Had Decided On This Step,  And It Seemed To Him Clear

That No One Would Suit Him So Well As Mrs. Byril. By Marrying An Old

Mistress,  He Would Save Himself From All The Boredom Of A Honeymoon.

And Sitting In The Drawing-Room,  In The Various Pauses Between

Numerous Licentious Stories,  They Discussed Their Matrimonial

Project.

 

Dear Emily,  Who Said She Suffered From Loneliness And Fear Of The

Future As Acutely As He,  Was Anxious To Force The Matter Forward. But

Her Eagerness Begot Reluctance In Mike,  And At The End Of A Week,  He

Felt That He Would Sooner Take His Razor And Slice His Head Off,  Than

Live Under The Same Roof With Her.

 

In Regent Street One Evening He Met Frank Escott. After A Few

Preliminary Observations Mike Asked Him If He Had Heard Lately From

Lord Mount Rorke. Frank Said That He Had Not Seen Him. All Was Over

Between Them,  But His Uncle Had,  However,  Arranged To Allow Him Two

Hundred A Year. He Was Living At Mortlake,  "A Nice Little House; Our

Neighbour On The Left Is A City Clerk At A Salary Of Seventy Pounds A

Year,  On The Right Is A Chemist's Shop; A Very Nice Woman Is The

Chemist's Wife; My Wife And The Chemist's Wife Are Fast Friends. We

Go Over And Have Tea With Them,  And They Come And Have Tea With Us.

The Chemist And I Smoke Our Pipes Over The Garden Wall. All This

Appears Very Dreadful To You,  But I Assure You I Have More Real

Pleasure,  And Take More Interest In My Life,  Than Ever I Did Before.

My Only Trouble Is The Insurance Policy--I Must Keep That Paid Up,

For The Two Hundred A Year's Only An Annuity. It Makes A Dreadful

Hole In Our Income. You Might Come Down And See Us."

 

"And Be Introduced To The Chemist's Wife!"

 

"There's No Use In Trying To Come It Over Me; I Know Who You Are. I

Have Seen You Many Times About The Roads In A Tattered Jacket. You

Mustn't Think That Because All The Good Luck Went Your Way,  And All

The Bad Luck My Way,  That I'm Any Less A Gentleman,  Or You Any Less A

----"

 

"My Dear Frank,  I'm Really Very Sorry For What I Said; I Forgot. I

Assure You I Didn't Mean To Sneer. I Give You My Word Of Honour."

 

They Walked Around Piccadilly Circus,  Edging Their Way Through The

Women,  That The Sultry Night Had Brought Out In White Dresses. It Was

A Midnight Of White Dresses And Fine Dust; The Street Was As Clean As

A Ball-Room; Like A Pure Dream The Moon Soared Through The Azure

Infinities,  Whitening The Roadway; The Cabmen Loitered,  Following

Those Who Showed Disposition To Pair; Groups Gathered Round The

Lamp-Posts,  And Were Dispersed By Stalwart Policemen. "Move On,  Move

On,  If You Please,  Gentlemen!"

 

Frank Told Mike About The Children. He Had Now A Boy Five Years Old,

"Such A Handsome Fellow,  And He Can Read As Well As You Or I Can.

He's Down At The Sea-Side Now With His Mother. He Wrote Me Such A

Clever Letter,  Telling Me He Had Just Finished _Robinson Crusoe_,  And

Was Going To Make A Start On _Gulliver's Travels_. I'm Crazy About My

Boy. Talk Of Being Tired Of Living,  My Trouble Is That I Shall Have

To Leave Him One Day."

 

Mike Thought Frank's Love Of His Son Charming,  And He Regretted He

Could Find In His Own Heart No Such Simple Sentiments! Every Now And

Then He Turned To Look After A Girl,  And Pulling His Moustache,

Muttered--

 

"Not Bad!"

 

Chapter 10 Pg 138

"Well,  Don't Let's Say Anything More About It. When Will You Come And

See Us?"

 

"What Day Will Suit You--Some Day Next Week?"

 

"Yes,  I'm Always In In The Evening; Will You Come To Dinner?"

 

Mike Replied Evasively,  Anxious Not To Commit Himself To A Promise

For Any Day. Then Seeing That Frank Thought He Did Not Care To Dine

With Him,  He Said--

 

"Very Well,  Let Us Say Wednesday."

 

He Bade His Friend Good-Night,  And Stood On The Edge Of The Pavement

Watching Him Make His Way Across The Street To Catch The Last

Omnibus. Mike's Mind Filled With Memories Of Frank. They Came From

Afar,  Surging Over The Shores Of Youth,  Thundering Along The Cliffs

Of Manhood. Out Of The Remote Regions Of Boyhood They Came,  White

Crests Uplifted,  Merging And Mingling In The Waters Of Life. It

Seemed To Mike That,  Like Sea-Weed,  He And Frank Had Been Washed

Together,  And They Then Had Been Washed Apart. That Was Life,  And

That Was The Result Of Life,  That And Nothing More. And Of Every

Adventure Frank Was The Most Distinctly Realizable; All Else,  Even

Lily,  Was A Little Shadow That Had Come And Gone. John Had Lost

Himself In Religion,  Frank Had Lost Himself In His Wife And Child. To

Lose Yourself,  That Is The End To Strive For; Absorption In Religion

Or In The Family. They Had Attained It,  He Had Failed. All The Love

And All The Wealth Fortune Had Poured Upon Him Had Not Enabled Him To

Stir From Or Change That Entity Which He Knew As Mike Fletcher. Ten

Years Ago He Had Not A Shilling To His Credit,  To-Day He Had Several

Thousands,  But The Irreparable Had Not Altered--He Was Still Mike

Fletcher. He Had Wandered Over The World; He Had Lain In The Arms Of

A Hundred Women,  And Nothing Remained Of It All But Mike Fletcher.

There Was Apparently No Escape; He Was Lashed To Himself Like The

Convict To The Oar. For Him There Was Nothing But This Oar,  And All

The Jewelry That Had Been Expended Upon It Had Not Made It Anything

But An Oar. There Was A Curse Upon It All.

 

He Saw Frank's Home--The Little Parlour With Its Bits Of Furniture,

Scraggy And Vulgar,  But Sweet With The Presence Of The Wife And Her

Homely Occupations; Then The Children--The Chicks--Cooing And

Chattering,  Creating Such Hope And Fond Anxiety! Why Then Did He Not

Have Wife And Children? Of All Worldly Possessions They Are The

Easiest To Obtain. Because He Had Created A Soul That Irreparably

Separated Him From These,  The Real And Durable Prizes Of Life; They

Lay Beneath His Hands,  But His Soul Said No; He Desired,  And Was

Powerless To Take What He Desired.

 

For A Moment He Stood,  In Puzzled Curiosity,  Listening To The Fate

That His Thoughts Were Prophesying; Then,  As If In Answer Antiphonal,

Terrible As The Announcing Of The Chorus,  Came A Quick Thought,  Quick

And Sharp As A Sword,  Fatal As A Sword Set Against The Heart. He

Strove To Turn Its Point Aside,  He Attempted To Pass It By,  But On

Every Side He Met Its Point,  Though He Reasoned In Jocular And

Serious Mood. Then His Courage Falling Through Him Like A Stone

Dropped Into A Well,  He Crossed The Street,  Seeking The Place Flossy

Had Told Him Of,  And Soon After Saw Her Walking A Little In Front Of

Him With Another Girl. She Beckoned Him,  Leading The Way Through

Numerous By-Streets. Something In The Sound Of Certain Footsteps Told

Him He Was Being Followed; His Reason Warned Him Away,  Yet He Could

Not But Follow. And In The Shop Below And On The Stairs Of The Low

Eating-House Where They Had Led Him,  Loud Voices Were Heard And

Tramping Of Feet. Instantly He Guessed The Truth,  And Drew The

Furniture Across The Doorway. The Window Was Over Twenty Feet From

The Ground,  But He Might Reach The Water-Butt. He Jumped From The

Window-Sill,  Falling Into The Water,  Out Of Which He Succeeded In

Drawing Himself; Hence He Crawled Along The Wall,  Dropped Into The

Lane,  Hearing His Pursuers Shouting To Him From The Window. There

Were Only A Few Children In The Lane; He Sped Quickly Past,  Gained A

Main Street,  Hailed A Cab,  And Was Driven Safely To The Temple.

 

Chapter 10 Pg 139

He Flung Off His Shoes,  Which Were Full Of Water; His Trousers Were

Soaking,  And Having Rid Himself Of Them,  He Wrapped Himself In A

Dressing-Gown,  And Went Into The Sitting-Room In His Slippers. It Was

The Same As When It Was Frank's Room. There Was The Grand Piano And

The Slender Brass Lamps; He Had Lit None,  But Stood Uncertain,  His

Bed-Room Candle In His Hand. And Listening,  He Could Hear London

Along The Embankment--All Occasional Cry,  The Rattle Of A Cab,  The

Hollow Whistle Of A Train About To Cross The Bridge At Blackfriars,

The Shrill Whistle Of A Train Far Away In The Night. He Had Escaped

From His Pursuers,  But Not From Himself.

 

"How Horribly Lonely It Is Here," He Muttered. Then He Thought Of How

Narrowly He Had Escaped Disgraceful Exposure Of His Infamy. "If Those

Fellows Had Got Hold Of My Name It Would Have Been In The Papers The

Day After To-Morrow. What A Fool I Am! Why Do I Risk So Much? And For

What?" He Turned From The Memory As From Sight Of Some Disgustful

Deformity Or Disease. Going To The Mirror He Studied His Face For

Some Reflection Of The Soul; But Unable To Master His Feelings,  In

Which There Was At Once Loathing And Despair,  He Threw Open The

Window And Walked Out Of The Suffocating Room Into The Sultry

Balcony.

 

It Was Hardly Night; The Transparent Obscurity Of The Summer Midnight

Was Dissolving; The Slight Film Of Darkness Which Had Wrapped The

World Was Evanescent. "Is It Day Or Night?" He Asked. "Oh,  It Is Day!

Another Day Has Begun; I Escaped From My Mortal Enemies,  But Not From

The Immortal Day. Like A Gray Beast It Comes On Soft Velvet Paws To

Devour. Stay! Oh,  Bland And Beautiful Night,  Thou That Dost So

Charitably Hide Our Misfortunes,  Stay!

 

"I Shudder When I Think Of The New Evils And Abominations That This

Day Will Bring. The World Is Still At Rest,  Lying In The Partial

Purity Of Sleep. But As A Cruel Gray Beast The Day Comes On Soundless

Velvet Paws. Light And Desire Are One; Light And Desire Are The Claws

That The Gray Beast Unsheathes; A Few Hours' Oblivion And The World's

Torment Begins Again!" Then Looking Down The Great Height,  He Thought

How He Might Spring From Consciousness Into Oblivion--The Town And

The River Were Now Distinct In Ghastly Pallor--"I Should Feel

Nothing. But What A Mess I Should Make; What A Horrible Little Mess!"

 

After Breakfast He Sat Looking Into Space,  Wondering What He Might

Do. He Hoped For A Visitor,  And Yet He Could Not Think Of One That He

Desired To See. A Woman! The Very Thought Was Distasteful. He Rose

And Went To The Window. London Implacable Lay Before Him,  A Morose

Mass Of Brick,  Fitting Sign And Symbol Of Life. And The Few Hours

That Lay Between Breakfast And Dinner Were Narrow And Brick-Coloured;

And Longing For The Vast Green Hours Of The Country,  He Went To

Belthorpe Park. But In A Few Weeks The Downs And Lanes Fevered And

Exasperated Him,  And Perforce He Must Seek Some New Distraction.

Henceforth He Hurried From House To House,  Tiring Of Each Last Abode

More Rapidly Than The One That Had Preceded It. He Read No Books,  And

He Only Bought Newspapers To Read The Accounts Of Suicides; And His

Friends Had Begun To Notice The Strange Interest With Which He Spoke

Of Those Who Had Done Away With Themselves,  And The Persistency With

Which He Sought To Deduce Their Motives From The Evidence; And He

Seemed To Be Animated By A Wish To Depreciate All Worldly Reasons,

And To Rely Upon Weariness Of Life As Sufficient Motive For Their

Action.

 

The Account Of Two Young People Engaged To Be Married,  Who Had Taken

Tickets For Some Short Journey And Shot Themselves In The Railway

Carriage. "Here," He Said,  "Was A Case Of Absolute Sanity,  A Quality

Almost Undiscoverable In Human Nature. Two Young People Resolve To

Rid Themselves Of The Burden; But They Are More Than Utilitarians,

They Are Poets,  And Of A High Order; For,  Not Only Do They Make Most

Public And Emphatic Denial Of Life,  But They Add To It A Measure Of

Aristophanesque Satire--They Engage Themselves To Marry. Now Marriage

Is Man's Approval And Confirmation Of His Belief In Human

Existence--They Engage Themselves To Marry,  But Instead Of Putting

Their Threat Into Execution,  They Enter A Railway Carriage And Blow

Out Their Brains,  Proving Thereby That They Had Brains To Blow Out."

Chapter 10 Pg 140

 

When,  However,  It Transpired That Letters Were Found In The Pockets

Of The Suicides To The Effect That They Had Hoped To Gain Such

Notoriety As The Daily Press Can Give By Their Very Flagrant

Leave-Taking Of This World,  Mike Professed Much Regret,  And Gravely

Assured His Astonished Listeners That,  In The Face Of These Letters

Which Had Unhappily Come To Light,  He Withdrew His Praise Of The

Quality Of The Brains Blown Out. In Truth He Secretly Rejoiced That

Proof Of The Imperfect Sanity Of The Suicides Had Come To Light And

Assured Himself That When He Did Away With Mike Fletcher,  That He

Would Revenge Himself On Society By Leaving Behind Him A Document

Which Would Forbid The Usual Idiotic Verdict,  "Suicide While In A

State Of Temporary Insanity," And Leave No Loophole Through Which It

Might Be Said That He Was Impelled To Seek Death For Any Extraneous

Reasons Whatever. He Would Go To Death In The Midst Of The Most

Perfect Worldly Prosperity The Mind Could Conceive,  Desiring Nothing

But Rest,  Profoundly Convinced Of The Futility Of All Else,  And The

Perfect Folly Of Human Effort.

 

In Such Perverse And Morbid Mind Mike Returned To London. It Was In

The Beginning Of August,  And The Temple Weltered In Sultry Days And

Calm Nights. The River Flowed Sluggishly Through Its Bridges; The

Lights Along Its Banks Gleamed Fiercely In The Lucent Stillness Of A

Sulphur-Hued Horizon. Like A Nightmare The Silence Of The Apartment

Lay Upon His Chest; And There Was A Frightened Look In His Eyes As He

Walked To And Fro. The Moon Lay Like A Creole Amid The Blue Curtains

Of The Night; The Murmur Of London Hushed In Stray Cries,  And Only

The Tread Of The Policeman Was Heard Distinctly. About The River The

Night Was Deepest,  And Out Of The Shadows Falling From The Bridges

The Lamps Gleamed With Strange Intensity,  Some Flickering Sadly In

The Water. Mike Walked Into The Dining-Room. He Could See The Sward

In The Darkness That The Trees Spread,  And The Lilies Reeked In The

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.

Chapter 10 Pg 141

 

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

Chapter 10 Pg 142

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.

Chapter 10 Pg 143

 

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,  And This Idea Governs Them And Leads

Them To A Certain And Predestined End; And All Struggles With It Are

Delusions. A Life Idea In The Higher Classes Of Mind,  A Life Instinct

In The Lower. It Were Almost Idle To Differentiate Between Them,  Both

May Be Included Under The Generic Title Of The Soul,  And The Drama

Involved In Such Conflict Is Always Of The Highest Interest,  For If

We Do Not Read The Story Of Our Own Soul,  We Read In Each The Story

Of A Soul That Might Have Been Ours,  And That Passed Very Near To Us;

And Who Reading Of Mike's Torment Is Fortunate Enough To Say,  "I Know

Nothing Of What Is Written There."

 

His Steps Echoed Hollow On The Old Pavement. Full Of Shadow The Roofs

Of The Square Church Swept Across The Sky; The Triple Lancet Windows

Caught A Little Light From The Gaslight On The Buildings; And He

Wondered What Was The Meaning Of The Little Gold Lamb Standing Over

One Doorway,  And Then Remembered That In Various Forms The Same

Symbolic Lamb Is Repeated Through The Temple. He Passed Under The

Dining-Hall By The Tunnel,  And Roamed Through The Spaces Beneath The

Plane-Trees Of King's Bench Walk. "My Friends Think My Life Was A

Perfect Gift,  But A Burning Cinder Was Placed In My Breast,  And Time

Has Blown It Into Flame."

 

In The Soporific Scent Of The Lilies And The Stocks,  The Night

Drowsed In The Darkness Of The Garden; Mike Unlocked The Gate And

Passed Into The Shadows,  And Hypnotized By The Heavenly Spaces,  In

Which There Were A Few Stars; By The Earth And The Many Emanations Of

The Earth; By The Darkness Which Covered All Things,  Hiding The

Little Miseries Of Human Existence,  He Threw Himself Upon The Sward

Crying,  "Oh,  Take Me,  Mother,  Hide Me In Thy Infinite Bosom,  Give Me

Forgetfulness Of The Day. Take And Hide Me Away. We Leave Behind A

Corpse That Men Will Touch. Sooner Would I Give Myself To The Filthy

Beaks Of Vultures,  Than To Their More Defiling Sympathies. Why Were

We Born? Why Are We Taught To Love Our Parents? It Is They Whom We

Should Hate,  For It Was They Who,  Careless Of Our Sufferings,

Inflicted Upon Us The Evil Of Life. We Are Taught To Love Them

Because The World Is Mad; There Is Nothing But Madness In The World.

Night,  Do Not Leave Me; I Cannot Bear With The Day. Ah,  The Day Will

Come; Nothing Can Retard The Coming Of The Day,  And I Can Bear No

Longer With The Day."

 

Hearing Footsteps,  He Sprang To His Feet,  And Walking In The

Direction Whence The Sound Came,  He Found Himself Face To Face With

The Policeman.

 

"Not Able To Get To Sleep Sir?"

 

"No,  I Couldn't Sleep,  The Night Is So Hot; I Shall Sleep Presently

Though."

 

They Had Not Walked Far Before The Officer,  Pointing To One Of The

Gables Of The Temple Gardens,  Said--

 

"That's Where Mr. Williamson Threw Himself Over,  Sir; He Got Out On

The Roof,  On To The Highest Point He Could Reach."

 

"He Wanted," Said Mike,  "To Do The Job Effectually."

 

"He Did So; He Made A Hole Two Feet Deep."

 

"They Put Him Into A Deeper One."

 

The Officer Laughed; And They Walked Round The Gardens,  Passing By

The Embankment To King's Bench Walk. Opening The Gate There,  The

Policeman Asked Mike If He Were Coming Out,  But He Said He Would

Return Across The Gardens,  And Let Himself Out By The Opposite Gate.

He Walked,  Thinking Of What He And The Policeman Had Been Saying--The

Proposed Reduction In The Rents Of The Chambers,  The Late Innovation

Chapter 10 Pg 144

Of Throwing Open The Gardens To The Poor Children Of The

Neighbourhood,  And It Was Not Until He Stooped To Unlock The Gate

That He Remembered That He Was Alive.

 

Then The Voice That Had Been Counselling Him So Long,  Drew Strangely

Near,  And Said "Die." The Voice Sounded Strangely Clear In The Void

Of A Great Brain Silence. Earth Ties Seemed Severed,  And Then Quite

Naturally,  Without Any Effort Of Mind,  He Went Up-Stairs To Shoot

Himself. No Effort Of Mind Was Needed,  It Seemed The Natural And

Inevitable Course For Him To Take,  And He Was Only Conscious Of A

Certain Faint Surprise That He Had So Long Delayed. There Was No

Trace Of Fear Or Doubt In Him; He Walked Up The Long Staircase

Without Embarrassment,  And In A Heavenly Calm Of Mind Hastened To Put

His Project Into Execution,  Dreading The Passing Of The Happiness Of

His Present Mood,  And The Return Of The Fever Of Living. He Stopped

For A Moment To See Himself In The Glass,  And Looking Into The Depths

Of His Eyes,  He Strove To Read There The Story Of His Triumph Over

Life. Then Seeing The Disorder Of His Dress,  And The Untidy

Appearance Of His Unshaven Chin,  He Smiled,  Conceiving In That Moment

That It Would Be Consistent To Make As Careful A Toilette To Meet

Death,  As He Had Often Done To Meet A Love.

 

He Was Anxious For The World To Know That It Was Not After A Drunken

Bout He Had Shot Himself,  But After Philosophic Deliberation And

Judicious Reflection. And He Could Far Better Affirm His State Of

Mind By His Dress,  Than By Any Written Words. Lying On The Bed,

Cleanly Shaved,  Wearing Evening Clothes,  Silk Socks,  Patent Leather

Shoes And White Gloves? No,  That Would Be Vulgar,  And All Taint Of

Vulgarity Must Be Avoided. He Must Represent,  Even In A State Of

Symbol,  The Young Man,  Who Having Drunk Of Life To Repletion,  And

Finding That He Can But Repeat The Same Love Draughts,  Says: "It Is

Far Too Great A Bore,  I Will Go," And He Goes Out Of Life Just As

If He Were Leaving A Fashionable _Soirée_ In Piccadilly. That Was

Exactly The Impression He Wished To Convey. Yes,  He Would Have Out

His Opera Hat And Light Overcoat. He Was A Little Uncertain Whether

He Should Die In The Night,  Or Wait For The Day,  And Considering The

Question,  He Lathered His Face. "Curious It Is," He Thought,  "I Never

Was So Happy,  So Joyous In Life Before.... These Walls,  All That I

See,  Will In A Few Minutes Disappear; It Is This I,  This Ego,  Which

Creates Them; In Destroying Myself I Destroy The World.... How Hard

This Beard Is! I Never Can Shave Properly Without Hot Water!"

 

As He Pulled On A Pair Of Silk Socks And Tied His White Necktie He

Thought Of Lady Helen. Going To Bed Was Not A Bad Notion--Particularly

For A Woman,  And A Woman In Love,  But It Would Be Ridiculous For A

Man. He Looked At Himself Again In The Long Glass In The Door Of His

Carved Mahogany Wardrobe,  And Was Pleased To See That,  Although A

Little Jaded And Worn,  He Was Still Handsome. Having Brushed His Hair

Carefully,  He Looked Out The Revolver; He Did Not Remember Exactly

Where He Had Put It,  And In Turning Out His Drawers He Came Upon A

Bundle Of Old Letters. They Were Mostly From Frank And Lizzie,  And In

Recalling Old Times They Reminded Him That If He Died Without Making

A Will,  His Property Would Go To The Crown. It Displeased Him To

Think That His Property Should Pass Away In So Impersonal A Manner.

But His Mind Was Now Full Of Death; Like A Gourmet He Longed To Taste

Of The Dark Fruit Of Oblivion; And The Delay Involved In Making Out

A Will Exasperated Him,  And It Was With Difficulty That He Conquered

His Selfishness And Sat Down To Write. Fretful He Threw Aside The

Pen; This Little Delay Had Destroyed All His Happiness. To Dispose Of

His Property In Money And Land Would Take Some Time; The Day Would

Surprise Him Still In The World. After A Few Moments' Reflection He

Decided That He Would Leave Belthorpe Park To Frank Escott.

 

"I Dare Say I'm Doing Him An Injury ... But No,  There's No Time For

Paradoxes--I'll Leave Belthorpe Park To Frank Escott. The Aristocrat

Shall Not Return To The People. But To Whom Shall I Leave All My

Money In The Funds? To A Hospital? No. To A Woman? I Must Leave It To

A Woman; I Hardly Know Any One But Women; But To Whom? Suppose I Were

To Leave It To Be Divided Among Those Who Could Advance Irrefutable

Proof That They Had Loved Me! What A Throwing Over Of Reputation

There Would Be." Then A Sudden Memory Of The Girl By Whom He Had Had

Chapter 10 Pg 145

A Child Sprang Upon Him Like Something Out Of The Dark. He Wondered

For A Moment What The Child Was Like,  And Then He Wrote Leaving The

Interest Of His Money To Her,  Until His Son,  The Child Born In Such

A Year--He Had Some Difficulty In Fixing The Date--Came Of Age. She

Should Retain The Use Of The Interest Of Twelve Thousand Pounds,  And

At Her Death That Sum Should Revert To The Said Child Born In ----,

And If The Said Child Were Not Living,  His Mother Should Become

Possessor Of The Entire Monies Now Invested In Funds,  To Do With As

She Pleased.

 

"That Will Do," He Thought; "I Dare Say It Isn't Very Legal,  But It

Is Common Sense And Will Be Difficult To Upset. Yes,  And I Will Leave

All My Books And Furniture In Temple Gardens To Frank; I Don't Care

Much About The Fellow,  But I Had Better Leave It To Him. And Now,

What About Witnesses? The Policemen Will Do."

 

He Found One In King's Bench Walk,  Another He Met A Little Further

On,  Talking To A Belated Harlot,  Whom He Willingly Relinquished On

Being Invited To Drink. Mike Led The Way At A Run Up The High Steps,

The Burly Officers Followed More Leisurely.

 

"Come In," He Cried,  And They Advanced Into The Room,  Their Helmets

In Their Hands. "What Will You Take,  Whiskey Or Brandy?"

 

After Some Indecision Both Decided,  As Mike Knew They Would,  For The

Former Beverage. He Offered Them Soda-Water; But They Preferred A

Little Plain Water,  And Drank To His Very Good Health. They Were,  As

Before,  Garrulous To Excess. Mike Listened For Some Few Minutes,  So

As To Avoid Suspicion,  And Then Said--

 

"Oh,  By The Way,  I Wrote Out My Will A Night Or Two Ago--Not That I

Want To Die Yet,  But One Never Knows. Would You Mind Witnessing It?"

 

The Policemen Saw No Objection; In A Few Moments The Thing Was Done,

And They Retired Bowing,  And The Door Closed On Solitude And Death.

 

Mike Lay Back In His Chair Reading The Document. The Fumes Of The

Whiskey He Had Drunk Obscured His Sense Of Purpose,  And He Allowed

His Thoughts To Wander; His Eyes Closed And He Dozed,  His Head Leaned

A Little On One Side. He Dreamed,  Or Rather He Thought,  For It Was

Hardly Sleep,  Of The Dear Good Women Who Had Loved Him; And He Mused

Over His Folly In Not Taking One To Wife And Accepting Life In Its

Plain Naturalness.

 

Then As Sleep Deepened The Dream Changed,  Becoming Hyperbolical And

Fantastic,  Until He Saw Himself Descending Into Hell. The Numerous

Women He Had Betrayed Awaited Him And Pursued Him With Blazing Lamps

Of Intense And Blinding Electric Fire. And He Fled From The Light,

Seeking Darkness Like Some Nocturnal Animal. His Head Was Leaned

Slightly On One Side,  The Thin,  Weary Face Lying In The Shadow Of The

Chair,  And The Hair That Fell Thickly On The Moist Forehead. As He

Dreamed The Sky Grew Ghastly As The Dead. The Night Crouched As If In

Terror Along The Edges Of The River,  Beneath The Bridges And Among

The Masonry And The Barges Aground,  And In The Ebbing Water A Lurid

Reflection Trailed Ominously. And As The Day Ascended,  The Lamps

Dwindled From Red To White,  And Beyond The Dark Night Of The River,

Spires Appeared Upon Faint Roseate Gray.

 

Then,  As The Sparrows Commenced Their Shrilling In The Garden,

Another Veil Was Lifted,  And Angles And Shapes On The Warehouses

Appeared,  And Boats Laden With Newly-Cut Planks; Then The Lights That

Seemed To Lead Along The River Turned Short Over The Iron Girders,

And In White Whiffs A Train Sped Across The Bridge. The Clouds Lifted

And Cleared Away,  Changing From Dark Gray To Undecided Purple,  And In

The Blank Silver Of The East,  The Spaces Flushed,  And The Dawn

Appeared In Her First Veil Of Rose. And As If The Light Had

Penetrated And Moved The Brain,  The Lips Murmured--

 

"False Fascination In Which We Are Blinded. Night! Shelter And Save

Me From The Day,  And In Thy Opiate Arms Bear Me Across The World."

 

Chapter 10 Pg 146

He Turned Uneasily As If He Were About To Awake,  And Then His Eyes

Opened And He Gazed On The Spectral Pallor Of The Dawn In The

Windows,  His Brain Rousing From Dreams Slowly Into Comprehension Of

The Change That Had Come. Then Collecting His Thoughts He Rose And

Stood Facing The Dawn. He Stood For A Moment Like One In Combat,  And

Then Like One Overwhelmed Retreated Through The Folding Doors,

Seeking His Pistol.

 

"Another Day Begun! Twelve More Hours Of Consciousness And Horror! I

Must Go!"

 

  *        *        *        *        *        *

 

None Had Heard The Report Of The Pistol,  And While The Pomp Of Gold

And Crimson Faded,  And The Sun Rose Into The Blueness Of Morning,

Mike Lay Still Grasping The Revolver,  The Blood Flowing Down His

Face,  Where He Had Fallen Across The Low Bed,  Raised Upon Lions'

Claws And Hung With Heavy Curtains. Receiving No Answer,  The Servant

Had Opened The Door. A Look Of Horror Passed Over Her Face; She

Lifted His Hand,  Let It Fall,  And Burst Into Tears.

 

And All The While The Sun Rose,  Bringing Work And Sorrow To Every

Living Thing--Filling The Fields With Labourers,  Filling The Streets

With Clerks And Journalists,  Authors And Actors. And It Was In The

Morning Hubbub Of The Strand That Lizzie Escott Stopped To Speak To

Lottie,  Who Was Going To Rehearsal.

 

"How Exactly Like His Father He Is Growing," She Said,  Speaking Of

The Little Boy By The Actress's Side. "Frank Saw Mike In Piccadilly

About A Month Ago; He Promised To Come And See Us,  But He Never Did."

 

"Swine.... He Never Could Keep A Promise. I Hope Willy Won't Grow Up

Like Him."

 

"Who Are You Talking Of,  Mother? Of Father?"

 

The Women Exchanged Glances.

 

"He's As Sharp As A Needle. And To Think That That Beast Never Gave

Me But One Hundred Pounds,  And It Was Only An Accident I Got That--We

Happened To Meet In The Underground Railway. He Took A Ticket For

Me--You Know He Could Always Be Very Nice If He Liked; He Told Me A

Lady Had Left Him Five Thousand A Year,  And If I Wanted Any Money I

Had Only To Ask Him For It. I Asked Him If He Wouldn't Like To See

The Child,  And He Said I Mustn't Be Beastly; I Never Quite Knew What

He Meant; But I Know He Thought It Funny,  For He Laughed A Great

Deal,  And I Got Into Such A Rage. I Said I Didn't Want His Dirty

Money,  And Got Out At The Next Station. He Sent Me A Hundred Pounds

Next Day. I Haven't Heard Of Him Since,  And Don't Want To."

 

"Suicide Of A Poet In The Temple!" Shouted A Little Boy.

 

"I Wonder Who That Is," Said Lizzie.

 

"Mike Used To Live In The Temple," Said Lottie.

 

The Women Read The Reporter's Account Of The Event,  And Then Lottie

Said--

 

"Isn't It Awful! I Wonder What He Has Done With His Money?"

 

"You May Be Sure He Hasn't Thought Of Us. He Ought To Have Thought Of

Frank. Frank Was Very Good To Him In Old Times."

 

"Well,  I Don't Care What He Has Done With His Money. I Never Cared

For Any Man But Him. I Could Have Forgiven Him Everything If He Had

Only Thought Of The Child. I Hope He Has Left Him Something."

 

"Now I'm Sure You Are Talking Of Father."

 

 

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.05.2014

Alle Rechte vorbehalten