Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “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.

  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 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 wit
h 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 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 judiciously selected some instances from his stock of experiences whereby John might judge of their animalism. Like us all, John loved to talk sensuality; but it was imperative that the discussion should be carried forward with gravity and reserve. Seated in his high canonical chair, wrapped in his dressing-gown, John would bend forward listening, as if from the Bench or the pulpit, awaking to a more intense interest when some more than usually bitter vial of satire was emptied upon the fair sex. He had once amused Harding very much by his admonishment of a Palais Royal farce.

  “It was not,” he said, “so much the questionableness of the play; what shocked me most was the horrible levity of the audience, the laughter with which every indecent allusion was greeted.”

  The conversation had fallen, and Mike said —

  “So you are going away? Well, we shall all miss you very much. But you don’t intend to bury yourself in the country; you’ll come up to town sometimes.”

  “I feel I must not stay here; the place has grown unbearable.” A look of horror passed over John’s face. “Hall has the rooms opposite. His life is a disgrace; he hurries through his writing, and rushes out to beat up the Strand, as he puts it, for shop-girls. I could not live here any longer.”

  Mike could not but laugh a little; and offended, John rose and continued the packing of his Indian gods. Allusion was made to Byzantine art; and Mike told the story of Frank’s marriage; and John laughed prodigiously at the account he gave of the conversation overheard. Regarding the quarrel John was undecided. He found himself forced to admit that Mike’s conduct deserved rebuke; but at the same time, Frank’s sentimental views were wholly distasteful to him. Then in reply to a question as to where he was going, Mike said he didn’t know. John invited him to come and stay at Thornby Place.

  “It is half-past three now. Do you think you could get your things packed in time to catch the six o’clock?”

  “I think so. I can instruct Southwood; she will forward the rest of my things.”

  “Then be off at once; I have a lot to do. Hall is going to take my furniture off my hands. I have made rather a good bargain with him.”

  Nothing could suit Mike better. He had never stayed in a country house; and now as he hurried down the Temple, remembrances of Mount Rorke Castle rose in his mind — the parade of dresses on the summer lawns, and the picturesqueness of the shooting parties about the long, withering woods.

  CHAPTER VII

  FOR SOME MINUTES longer the men lay resting in the heather, their eyes drinking the colour and varied lights and lines of the vast horizon. The downs rose like cliffs, and the dead level of the weald was freckled with brick towns; every hedgerow was visible as the markings on a chess-board; the distant lands were merged in blue vapour, and the windmill on its little hill seemed like a bit out of a young lady’s sketch-book.

  “How charming it is here! — how delightful! How sorrow seems to vanish, or to hang far away in one’s life like a little cloud! It is only in moments of contemplation like this, when our wretched individuality is lost in the benedictive influences of nature, that true happiness is found. Ah! the wonderful philosophy of the East, the wisdom of the ancient races! Christianity is but a vulgarization of Buddhism, an adaptation, an arrangement for family consumption.”

  They were not a mile from where John had seen Kitty for a last time. Now the mere recollection of her jarred his joy in the evening, for he had long since begun to understand that his love of her had been a kind of accident, even as her death a strange unaccountable divagation of his true nature. He had grown ashamed of his passion, and he now thought that, like Parsifal, instead of yielding, he should have looked down and seen a cross in the sword’s hilt, and the temptation should have passed. That cruel death, never explained, so mysterious and so involved in horror! In what measure was he to blame? In what light was 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 g
reat 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.”