Recollections of my life after death

Author: George Moore (England)
Publisher:
Publication Date: 2001-04-01
Features: This book recalls the author George Moore's life experiences with several women of different personalities, their loves or desires that were either sorrowful or joyful but lacked romantic passion, yet were filled with a touch of decadence. It also reflects on the rivalries and intrigues within the Parisian social circle, the pretentiousness of beautiful women, the listless lives of those with hearts like, the eccentricities of Parisian artists, the indifference among people, and various thoughts on reality and illusion. Not only can one see the spiritual pursuit of an outstanding artist, but more importantly, one can understand the spirit of an era.
Excerpt: Chapter X, The Sentimental Seeker
For a time, my dream was not literature but painting. I remember an American who once taught me painting; I also remember the details of sitting on a high stool in the Luxembourg Gardens painting the beach scene: the waving arms, the rugged rocks, the beautiful feet walking towards the waves—all of it fascinated and bewildered me. But why do I recall these things? Only because some interesting memories are connected to them. One day, after working all morning, I left the exhibition hall. I was quite satisfied with my morning's painting but feared that winged demons might await me after lunch. At that time, I was poor, though relatively wealthy in that area, as it was mainly inhabited by students of the arts. They often had breakfast and met in a strange little tavern. I now entered their midst, and this meal cost me about a shilling. When I left the tavern, it was almost 12 o'clock—my breakfast that morning had been very early—and I suddenly felt a sense of emptiness and wandered through the park. Watching the birds sing, watching the sunlight, they seemed perfectly synchronized. Sitting on a bench, I began to think of nothing that could be more comfortable than sitting on a neatly trimmed limestone path, smoking, and thinking about Paris and myself. Everyone, or almost everyone (perhaps excepting the upper class), knew the main avenues of Paris—Peace Avenue, Champs-élysées, and so on. Everyone knew the Luxembourg Gardens. Looking at the warm April sunlight and hearing the sound of water flowing from a bottle in a statue's hand at the end of the path, I recalled a mansion that is now a museum but is rarely visited. A week ago, I had gone there with Millie Dred and found that she had never heard of Madame de Sévigné and was not interested in which mansion she had lived in. I told her about Villeroy Square, telling her that it was once a place where French nobles gathered. As I spoke, the colors of it appeared before my eyes: yellow or brown bricks revealing a beautiful style, railings made of wrought iron, tall roofs, tall chimneys—all vividly before me. I tried to recall if there were any porticoes there, but in vain. From this, I thought that the formation of a national idea is like the formation of rock, requiring a series of slow accumulations, or perhaps hundreds of years of accumulation, to form something unique like Villeroy Square. When admiring it, one cannot help but—least of all I—think of the great monarchical period, and the vivid and distinctive names I had learned from Balzac's novels and French history. But here, I do not wish to dwell on these names, as I believe the serious matter is to find out who lived in Villeroy, but such a search would likely be long, tedious, and perhaps unnecessary; for even if none of the people I mentioned lived there, there must have been other equally noble people who did. "Its exterior, Millie Dred, is almost the same as in the 17th century, but now it is inhabited by small merchants in this district. The last great figure to live there was Victor Hugo, and his house has now been turned into a museum. The interesting remains of this great poet are preserved there." My enthusiasm interested her, and she agreed to visit Villeroy Square with me. For a sentimental seeker like me, she was not an ideal companion, but I could not refuse her company that day. After visiting it, we also visited "Our Ladies," the docks, and some old streets, but Millie Dred seemed to lack a sense of history, as when we walked back in the afterglow of the setting sun and the famous Seine River revealed its beautiful appearance, I heard her say after much contemplation: "As an old city, Paris is quite good." When I saw the lush green of the April sunlight on the path, I recalled this somewhat vulgar remark, and a faint smile played on my lips. In the Luxembourg Gardens, watching the April spring scenery where "the flowers are so dense that they almost blind the eyes," my thoughts wandered. The beauty around me captivated me, and everything in Paris held me spellbound. In a hazy state, I seemed to be walking along a cobblestone path towards a solitary fairy. "I thought you were painting in the museum," a pleasant voice interrupted my thoughts, "but you are here." The voice continued, "You will tell us in the evening that you were busy working all day." "Are you here for a stroll?" I replied, thinking she might be interested in the park, or perhaps the people in it. We should go see the man who taught sparrows to peck from his lips, but Millie Dred seemed uninterested in the small birds running around her feet, so I led her to where the falconer often went. If lucky, we might even encounter Robin Hood, as there was often a man dressed as a fugitive walking around the park, carrying a bow and arrows, and it was said he had killed many sparrows with them. We might even see a man dressed in a beautiful 13th-century chain mail sitting on a bench having lunch, with his helmet placed beside him. On the day I walked with Millie Dred in the Luxembourg Gardens, we did not encounter any of these famous figures, but as we descended a flight of stairs, we saw an elderly couple playing football with each other. They were an elderly couple, nearly seventy years old. Watching them play in the beautiful April sunlight was truly a delightful sight. I asked Millie Dred to look closely at them and told her that three elderly women were about to dance at the other end of the park; in a way, they could also be considered famous figures in the park. But seeing that Millie Dred was completely uninterested, I had to talk about something else. She was more interested in the lives of the residents in this district, the romantic escapades of students and young women. I saw her staring at a student who walked past us, with a long coat buttoned tightly to his slender body. Her behavior at that moment was like how she had been interested in every man on the boat a week ago when we took a ferry from Folkestone to Boulogne.