A Modern Lover

George Moore

Description

A Modern Lover (1883) is a novel by George Moore. His debut novel marked a turning point in Moore’s early career, characterized to that point by poorly written French poetry and a failed attempt at becoming a painter. Although less acclaimed than such novels as Esther Waters (1894), A Modern Lover is credited with being the first English novel to employ the experimental methods of Moore’s French contemporaries. Like much of Moore’s work, A Modern Lover shows the influence of French naturalist writer Émile Zola, who sought to portray the influence of heredity and social environment on the lives of his characters without shying away from poverty, sex, disease, and suffering. Lewis Seymour is a young artist who moves to London in search of fame and achievement. Although he shows promise, he quickly falls into a pattern of social climbing rather than focusing on honing his craft. As he uses one wealthy, well-connected woman after the next in a tireless journey upward, he begins to lose sight of his artistic dreams. Eventually, he settles on three women whose affection and support allow him to make a name for himself—Gwinnie, a shopgirl; Mrs. Bethan, a middle-class divorcee; and Lady Helen, a powerful aristocrat. A Modern Lover is a story of sexuality and ambition from a pioneering figure in the formation of the modern English novel. With a beautifully designed cover and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of George Moore’s A Modern Lover is a classic of Irish literature reimagined for modern readers.

Sujets

• Classiques
• Tous les classiques
• Literary
• 19th century
• Irish literature
• Ireland
• Impressionism
• Stephen Ireland
• Paris
• Fiction
• London

Informations

• Publié par: Mint Editions
• Date de parution: 16 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781513293868
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A Modern Lover
George Moore
A Modern Lover was first published in 1883.
This edition published by Mint Editions 2021.
ISBN 9781513291017 | E-ISBN 9781513293868
Published by Mint Editions®

minteditionbooks.com
Publishing Director: Jennifer Newens
Design & Production: Rachel Lopez Metzger
Project Manager: Micaela Clark
Typesetting: Westchester Publishing Services
C ONTENTS
I . A P ICTURE C OLLECTOR
II . P AINTING FROM I MAGINATION
III . P AINTING A V ENUS
IV . A P ICTURE D EALER
V . M R. V ICOME
VI . D ESERTION
VII . L EWIS S EYMOUR’S E ARLY L IFE
VIII . I N THE C OUNTRY
IX . T HE D ECORATIONS
X . A N I NTERLUDE
XI . A T ENNIS P ARTY
XII . L OVE AND A RT
XIII . E NFIN
XIV . A H OLIDAY
XV . J EALOUSY
XVI . S CANDAL
XVII . W ORK
XVIII . M OTHER AND M ISTRESS
XIX . S UCCESS
XX . A L ONDON B ALL R OOM IN ’78
XXI . F AREWELLS
XXII . E NGAGED
XXIII . D IFFICULTIES O VERCOME
XXIV . T HE B RIDAL D RESS
XXV . I N C HURCH
XXVI . T HE H ONEYMOON
XXVII . T HE H ONEYMOON C ONTINUED
XXVIII . P ASSING A P AGE
XXIX . M ARRIED L IFE
XXX . A P RIVATE V IEW
XXXI . L OOKING B ACK
XXXII . B ILLS
XXXIII . M ORE T REACHERY
XXXIV . F RIEND OR W IFE
XXXV . V EILS F ALL FROM T HEIR E YES
XXXVI . C ONCLUSION
I
A P ICTURE C OLLECTOR
“I’ll let you have it for fifteen shillings.”
“I dare say you will, but I don’t intend to buy anymore water-colours of you.”
“I am very hard up; give me ten shillings.”
“No, I really can’t; I have at least a hundred and odd drawings by you, and half of them aren’t even numbered: it will take me a week to get through them.”
“I’m nearly starving.”
“So you have often said before.”
The last speaker was an old, wizened little creature, with a grizzled white beard; the other was a young man of exquisite beauty, his feminine grace seemed like a relic of ancient Greece, saved by some miracle through the wreck and ruin of ages. He leaned against an oak bureau, placed under a high, narrow window, and the pose defined his too developed hips, always, in a man, the sign of a weak and lascivious nature. His companion looked nervously through a pile of drawings, holding them up for a moment to the light, then instantly throwing them back into the heap which lay before him. He was evidently not examining them with a view to ascertaining their relative value, nor was he searching for any particular one; he was obviously pretending to be busy, so that he might get rid of his visitor.
The day died gloomily, and the lateral lines of the houses faded into a dun-coloured sky; but against the window the profiles of both men came out sharply, like the silhouettes of fifty years ago.
Pictures of all sizes and kinds covered and were piled against the walls; screens had been put up to hang them on, but even then the space did not suffice.
Pictures had gradually thrust almost everything else in the way of furniture out of the room; the sofas and chairs had been taken away to make place for them. The curtains had been pulled down to gain more light, only the heavy gold cornices remained, and the richness of these precluded the idea that the place was the shop of a vendor of cheap lodging-house art. Besides, the work, although as bad, was not of that kind. It was rather the lumber of studios, heads done after the model posing for a class, landscapes painted for some particular bit, regardless of composition. And what confusion! Next to an admirable landscape you would find a Virgin in red and blue draperies, of the crudest description; then came a horrible fruit piece, placed over an interesting attempt to reproduce the art of the fourteenth century; and this was followed by a whole line of racing sketches, of the very vulgarest kind. Yet in the midst of this heterogeneous collection there was a series of pictures whose curious originality could not fail to attract the eye.
Before them the Philistine might shake with laughter, but the connoisseur would pause puzzled, for he would see that they were the work of a new school that had broken with the traditions of all time and country, and was striving to formulate a new art. Bar girls, railway trains, and tennis players flared in the gayest colours, and, in the hope of interesting the old man, Lewis examined and rapturously praised a flight of ballet girls which hung on the opposite wall. The ruse was so far successful that Mr. Bendish joined eagerly in the conversation, and explained that if the new school who called themselves “The moderns” ever succeeded in gaining the public taste, the Fitzroy Square collection would excite the envy of the dilettante of Europe. As he spoke, his little wizen face lightened up, and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
Lewis looked at him and wondered. Here was a man who talked of a new artistic movement, and at the same time bought every conceivable kind of rubbish that was brought to him, provided the seller came down to his price. London is a strange fashioner of tastes, and Bendish was a curious example of what she had done in this respect. Being utterly ignorant, not knowing a Millet from a Corot , a Raphael from a Rubens, he bought pictures as an old clothes man buys second-hand pocket-handkerchiefs. He spoke volubly, and predicted the millenium in art, when the traditions, of which he knew nothing, would be overthrown, and Mr. Bendish would possess the finest collection in the world. Lewis listened, patiently awaiting an occasion of getting back to the subject of his water-colour drawings. At last his chance came: in the course of conversation, the old man asked him why he had deserted the new school? This, Lewis explained, was not so; and to prove his case he referred to his drawings. But immediately Mr. Bendish relapsed into silence, and showed that he took no further interest in the question. He evidently was determined not to buy anything more that day. His fancies were as varying as the wind; and there were times when he would look at nothing, and would turn away from the most tempting bait like a sulky trout.
This was one of his worst humours; and even Lewis, with his soft, winning ways, could not get him to give fifteen shillings for a pretty water-colour.
From Lewis’s hesitating manner, it was clear that he saw that there was not much hope of getting anything out of the old man. But his necessities were so pressing—he had only a shilling in the world—that they forced him to try again.
“I am very hard up; I don’t know how I shall get through next week; give me a few shillings for it, say five!—three!”
“I really can’t,” returned the old man, peevishly. “I have over a hundred of your water-colours, half of which are not framed, the rest not even numbered. I sha’n’t buy anymore at present; call another day.”
A look of fear and helplessness passed over the young man’s face; he said nothing, but took up his drawings, and, leaving the old man still fumbling through his portfolios in the failing light, he walked down the bleak stone staircase into Fitzroy Square.
A slight rain was falling. The wet dripped from the tall trees slowly; occasionally a leaf fluttered down into the dirty gutter. The air was quite still; a soft smell of mud hung over the windless streets; and in the night, which grew darker, Lewis thought he saw an image of the fatality which pursued him.
“I can bear it no longer,” he muttered; “anything is preferable to this bitter struggle for life, for bread, yes, for mere bread! for at the best I cannot hope to make more, with my wretched little drawings that no one cares about, not even old Bendish.”
For two days he had not left his miserable room, but had sat working at the drawings that Bendish now refused to buy at any price. He had lived on a few crusts and a little tea, afraid to spend his last shilling. And now, as he walked wearily, he took it out of his pocket and looked at it: it was all that remained between him and starvation. But black as were his prospects, he shuddered when he thought of the past, and he remembered that death was preferable to such a life, even if he could continue it. But his resources were exhausted, his clothes were pawned, and he did not know who would lend him a sixpence; all his acquaintance were wearied of him.
As he approached the Strand, the passersby grew more frequent, but he only saw them as phantoms, their voices sounded in his ears like a murmur of distant waters, and out of his soul there rose from time to time a mute protestation against Providence and God.
He walked on like one in a desert until he came to Drury Lane; then the light, which the flaring windows of half-a-dozen public-houses threw over the wet pavement, awoke him from the torpor into which he had fallen, and he realised again, and more bitterly, that he was lost, without a hope to guide. Like a torn flag in a battle, portions of his past life floated through his mind. He remembered how he had come only two years ago to London, expecting pleasure and fame, and he had found, what? Despair, stifled cries, and vanishing dreams. He remembered how the very first night he had wandered through the self-same Strand, and how exultingly he had thought of the great city that extended around him. The crowds that passed him, men and women, the shop windows, rich with a million treasures, carriages, monuments, the turmoil, feasts, beautiful dresses, acclamations, triumphs, all had turned in his head—a golden nightmare, that had tempted and tortured him for a while. But now all was over; he had neither courage nor desire for anything. It astonished him to see people pressing onwards, all having apparently some end in view. To him the world seemed to have come to an end. He was like a corpse over whose grave the city that had robbed and ravished him was holding a revelling carnival.
As he turned into the Strand, he was caught in a crowd that poured through the entrance of a fashionable theatre, and the clear voices of two young m