E-text prepared by Andrew Sly
MIKE FLETCHER
A Novel
by
GEORGE MOORE
Author of
"A Mummer's Wife," "Confessions of a Young Man," Etc.
1889
TO
MY BROTHER AUGUSTUS,
IN MEMORY OF MANY YEARS OF
MUTUAL ASPIRATION AND LABOUR
CHAPTER I
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
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
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.
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."
"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.