by George Moore
“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 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 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; t
he 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 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 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!”
“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 singu
larly 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.”
