From a painting by Sir William Orpen, R.A., in the Manchester Art Gallery. Under the famous picture of Mlle. Gonzales by Manet are seated (left to right) George Moore, P. Wilson Steer, Sir Hugh Lane and Professor Tonks. Standing at the right are D) S. MacColl and Walter Sickert. MEMOIRS BY GEORGE MOORE Carra Edition PRINTED FOR SUBSCRIBERS ONLY BY BONI AND LIVERIGHT, INC., NEW YORK 1923 GLAS 1922 V. IC MEMOIRS OF MY DEAD LIFE (Carra Edition) Copyright, 1906, by Copyright, 1920, by Printed in the United States of America This edition consists of 1000 numbered sets In the sunset of our lives we are dedicating books to each other, and I am fortunate enough to obtain from you a gathering of those delightful literary essays which, for the past two years, have kept me looking forward to the coming of Sunday, making Sunday for me a day of solace and indulgence, when after breakfast I fling myself into my armchair and open the Sunday Times. In obtaining your acceptance of this book I am not less fortunate than I was in your dedication to me of Books on the Table, and I hope that our love of France and of Paris, and the stories of our many French friends which enliven these pages, will make plain to you that no other book that I have written comes to you so naturally, so amiably solicits the protection of your name, as this one. It is not necessary, and it might even seem unbecoming, for me to mention here all the French craftsmen whom we have met and shaken hands with at the parting of the roads, but there is one that it would be disgraceful for me to omit to mention, Mallarmé, our friend of many years, one of the saints of literature, who during his life envied no man, who spoke ill of none, and bore without resentment or querulous words the contempt of many, who knew how to accept poverty without complaining, and the admiration of a small circle as his recompense. And now, whoever knew Mallarmé personally, stands apart among his fellows, very much as Peter and John did after the death of Jesus. I am writing to you from Changis, a village within a mile or less of Valvin, the new Galilee, whither pilgrims come in increasing numbers. Three were conducted by me yesterday through the forest by a paved Roman way to the Seine. We crossed the bridge under whose piers Mallarmé and I were once nearly drowned, a capful of wind having almost upset the boat that he had bought for five hundred francs, the price he received for L'AprèsMidi d'un Faune. Had I not thrown myself violently over on the other side, and Mallarmé not let go the sheet that held the sail, we should have gone over. It was with my hat that the boat was bailed. If I narrate this incident it is for that all things relating to Mallarmé, however trivial, are made precious by his name. I had proof of this as I related our little adventure to the pilgrims, who asked me to point out the exact part of the current in which the accident befell us; and, after hearing all that I could remember of him, we proceeded with grave steps and demeanour to the hamlet in which he once lived amid some pieces of genuine Louis Quinze furniture. His daughter, whom I knew from her earliest childhood, is among the gone, and it is her husband who now takes the pilgrims round the small premises, through the strip of garden where the master sat and talked to his disciples, and up the stairs to the room in which he worked. He was not there last Tuesday, so we could do no more than to walk round the cottage, and it was pleasing to see that the emotion caused by this visit to the master's dwelling prompted a gesture well known to all who remember old Galilee. The pilgrims raised their hands as we turned to leave Valvin; the gesture was instinctive, and I said, "The imposition of hands," not to them, but to myself, for I would not distract their thoughts from the benign master. We returned across the bridge and through the forest |