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_The_ ADVENTURES _of_
A MODEST MAN
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Works of Robert W. Chambers
* * * * *
The Adventures of a Modest Man
Ailsa Paige
The Danger Mark
Special Messenger
The Firing Line
The Younger Set
The Fighting Chance
Some Ladies in Haste
The Tree of Heaven
The Tracer of Lost Persons
A Young Man in a Hurry
Lorraine
Maids of Paradise
Ashes of Empire
The Red Republic
Outsiders
The Green Mouse
Iole
The Reckoning
The Maid-at-Arms
Cardigan
The Haunts of Men
The Mystery of Choice
The Cambric Mask
The Maker of Moons
The King in Yellow
In Search of the Unknown
The Conspirators
A King and a Few Dukes
In the Quarter
* * * * *
For Children
Garden-Land
Forest-Land
River-Land
Mountain-Land
Orchard-Land
Outdoorland
Hide and Seek in Forest-Land
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COPYRIGHT, 1900, 1911, BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
* * * * *
Copyright, 1904, by Harper & Brothers
Copyright, 1904, 1905, 1910, by The Curtis Publishing Company
_The_ ADVENTURES _of_
A MODEST MAN
_By_ ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
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ILLUSTRATED BY
EDMUND FREDERICK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON: MCMXI
[Illustration: "'I realised that I was going to kiss her if she didn't
move.... And--she didn't.'"--[Page 276.]]
TO
MR. AND MRS. C. WHEATON VAUGHAN
This volume packed with bric-à-brac
I offer you with my affection,--
The story halts, the rhymes are slack--
Poor stuff to add to your collection.
Gems you possess from ages back:
It is the modern junk you lack.
We three once moused through marble halls,
Immersed in Art and deep dejection,
Mid golden thrones and choir-stalls
And gems beyond my recollection--
Yet soft!--my memory recalls
Red labels pasted on the walls!
And so, perhaps, _my_ bric-à-brac
May pass the test of your inspection;
Perhaps you will not send it back,
But place it--if you've no objection--
Under some nick-nack laden rack
Where platters dangle on a tack.
So if you'll take this book from me
And hide it in your cupboards laden
Beside some Dresden filigree
And frivolously fetching maiden--
Who knows?--that Dresden maid may see
My book--and read it through pardie!
R. W. C.
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"Senilis stultitia quae deliratio appellari
solet, senum levium est, non omnium."
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. CONCERNING TWO GENTLEMEN FROM LONG ISLAND, DESTINY, AND A
POT OF BLACK PAINT 1
II. A CHAPTER DEPICTING A RATHER GARRULOUS REUNION 14
III. TROUBLE FOR TWO 25
IV. WHEREIN A MODEST MAN IS BULLIED AND A LITERARY MAN
PRACTICES STYLE 42
V. DREAMLAND 58
VI. SOUL AND BODY 74
VII. THE BITER, THE BITTEN, AND THE UN-BITTEN 85
VIII. A MATTER OF PRONUNCIATION 98
IX. FATE 104
X. CHANCE 117
XI. DESTINY 129
XII. IN WHICH A MODEST MAN MAUNDERS 143
XIII. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 154
XIV. A STATE OF MIND 168
XV. FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 181
XVI. THE SIMPLEST SOLUTION OF AN ANCIENT PROBLEM 194
XVII. SHOWING HOW IT IS POSSIBLE FOR ANY MAN TO MAKE OF
HIMSELF A CHUMP 208
XVIII. THE MASTER KNOT OF HUMAN FATE 221
XIX. THE TIME AND THE PLACE 234
XX. DOWN THE SEINE 242
XXI. IN A BELGIAN GARDEN 269
XXII. A YOUTHFUL PATRIOT 287
XXIII. ON THE WALL 292
XXIV. A JOURNEY TO THE MOON 303
XXV. THE ARMY OF PARIS 316
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LIST OF
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
"'I realised that I was going to kiss her if she didn't
move.... And--she didn't'" _Frontispiece_
"'Give up my dead!' she whispered. 'Give up my dead!'" 40
"Christmas Eve she knelt, crying, before the pedestal" 80
"'Only one person in the world can ever matter to me--now'" 140
"Beyond, rocking wildly in a gilded boat, sat two people and a
placid swan" 190
"'I--I don't know,' she stammered; 'my shoe seems tied to yours'" 214
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AN INADVERTENT POEM
_There is a little flow-urr_
_In our yard it does grow_
_Where many a happy hou-urr_
_I watch our rooster crow;_
_While clothes hang on the clothes-line_
_And plowing has began_
--_And the name they call this lit-tul vine_
_Is just "Old Man."_
_Old Man, Old Man_
_A-growing in our yard,_
_Every spring a-coming up_
_While yet the ground is har-rrd;_
_Pottering 'round the chickens' pan,_
_Creeping low and slow,_
_And why they call it Old Man_
_I never asked to know._
_I never want to know._
_Crawling through the chick-weed,_
_Dragging through the quack,_
_Pussly, tansy, tick-weed_
_Almost break his back._
_Catnip, cockle, dock prevent_
_His travelling all they can,_
_But still he goes the ways he's went,_
_Poor Old Man!_
_Old Man, Old Man,_
_What's the use of you?_
_No one wants to see you, like_
_As if you hadn't grew._
_You ain't no good to nothing_
_So far as I can see,_
_Unless some maiden fair will sing_
_These lines I've wrote to thee._
_And sing 'em soft to me._
_Some maiden fa-hair_
_With_ { _ra-haven_ } _hair_
{ _go-holden_ }
_Will si-hing this so-hong_
_To me-hee-ee!_
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CHAPTER I
CONCERNING TWO GENTLEMEN FROM LONG ISLAND, DESTINY, AND A POT OF BLACK
PAINT
"Hello, old man!" he began.
"Gillian," I said, "don't call me 'Old Man.' At twenty, it flattered me;
at thirty, it was all right; at forty, I suspected _double entendre_;
and now I don't like it."
"Of course, if you feel that way," he protested, smiling.
"Well, I do, dammit!"--the last a German phrase. I am rather strong on
languages.
Now another thing that is irritating-- I've got ahead of my story,
partly, perhaps, because I hesitate to come to the point.
For I have a certain delicacy in admitting that my second visit abroad,
after twenty years, was due to a pig. So now that the secret is out--the
pig also--I'll begin properly.
* * * * *
I purchased the porker at a Long Island cattle show; why, I don't know,
except that my neighbor, Gillian Schuyler Van Dieman, put me up to it.
We are an inoffensive community maintaining a hunt club and the
traditions of a by-gone generation. To the latter our children refuse to
subscribe.
Our houses are what are popularly known as "fine old Colonial mansions."
They were built recently. So was the pig. You see, I can never get away
from that pig, although--but the paradox might injure the story. It has
sufficiently injured me--the pig and the story, both.
The architecture of the pig was a kind of degenerate Chippendale,
modified by Louis XVI and traces of Bavarian baroque. And his squeal
resembled the atmospheric preliminaries for a Texas norther.
Van Dieman said I ought to buy him. I bought him. My men built him a
chaste bower to leeward of an edifice dedicated to cows.
Here I sometimes came to contemplate him while my horse was being
saddled.
That particular morning, when Van Dieman saluted me so suspiciously at
the country club, I had been gazing at the pig.
And now, as we settled down to our morning game of chess, I said:
"Van, that pig of mine seems to be in nowise remarkable. Why the devil
do you suppose I bought him?"
"How do I know?"
"You ought to. You suggested that I buy him. Why did you?"
"To see whether you would."
I said rather warmly: "Did you think me weak-minded enough to do
whatever you suggested?"
"The fact remains that you did," he said calmly, pushing the king's
knight to queen's bishop six.
"Did what?" I snapped.
"What you didn't really want to do."
"Buy the pig?"
"Exactly."
I thought a moment, took a pawn with satisfaction, considered.
"Van," I said, "why do you suppose I bought that pig?"
"_Ennui._"
"A man doesn't buy pigs to escape from _ennui_!"
"You can't predict what a man will do to escape it," he said, smiling.
"The trouble with you is that you're been here too long; you're in a
rut; you're gone stale. Year in, year out, you do the same things in the
same way, rise at the same time, retire at the same hour, see the same
people, drive, motor, ride, potter about your lawns and gardens, come
here to the club--and it's enough to petrify anybody's intellect."
"Do you mean to say that _mine_----"
"Partly. Don't get mad. No man who lives year after year in a Long
Island community could escape it. What you need is to go abroad. What
you require is a good dose of Paris."
"For twenty odd years I have avoided Paris," I said, restlessly. "Why
should I go back there?"
"Haven't you been there in twenty years?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Well, for one thing, to avoid meeting the entire United States."
"All right," said Van Dieman, "if you want to become an old uncle
foozle, continue to take root in Long Island." He announced mate in two
moves. After I had silently conceded it, he leaned back in his chair and
lighted a cigarette.
"It's my opinion," he said, "that you've already gone too stale to take
care of your own pig."
Even years of intimacy scarcely justified this.
"When the day comes," said I, "that I find myself no longer competent to
look after my own affairs, I'll take your advice and get out of Long
Island."
He looked up with a smile. "Suppose somebody stole that pig, for
instance."
"They couldn't."
"Suppose they did, under your very nose."
"If anything happens to that pig," I said--"anything untoward, due to
any negligence or stupidity of mine, I'll admit that I need waking
up.... Now get that pig if you can!"
"Will you promise to go to Paris for a jolly little jaunt if anything
does happen to your pig?" he asked.
"Why the devil do _you_ want _me_ to go to Paris?"
"Do you good, intellectually."
Then I got mad.
"Van," I said, "if anybody can get that pig away from me, I'll do
anything you suggest for the next six months."
"_À nous deux, alors!_" he said. He speaks French too fast for me to
translate. It's a foolish way to talk a foreign language. But he has
never yet been able to put it over me.
"_À la guerre comme à la guerre_," I replied carelessly. It's a phrase
one can use in reply to any remark that was ever uttered in French. I
use it constantly.
* * * * *
That afternoon I went and took a good look at my pig. Later, as I was
walking on the main street of Oyster Bay, a man touched his hat and
asked me for a job. Instantly it occurred to me to hire him as night
watchman for the pig. He had excellent references, and his countenance
expressed a capacity for honest and faithful service. That night before
I went to bed, I walked around to the sty. My man was there on duty.
"That," thought I, "will hold Van Dieman for a while."
When my daughters had retired and all the servants were abed, I did a
thing I have not done in years--not since I was a freshman at Harvard: I
sat up with my pipe and an unexpurged translation of Henry James until
nearly eleven o'clock. However, by midnight I was asleep.
It was full starlight when I awoke and jumped softly out of bed.
Somebody was tapping at the front door. I put on a dressing-gown and
slippers and waited; but no servants were aroused by the persistent
rapping.
After a moment I went to the window, raised it gently and looked out. A
farmer with a lantern stood below.
"Say, squire," he said, when he beheld my head, "I guess I'll have to
ask for help. I'm on my way to market and my pig broke loose and I can't
ketch him nohow."
"Hush!" I whispered; "I'll come down."
Very cautiously I unbarred the front door and stepped out into the
lovely April starlight. In the road beyond my hedge stood a farm-wagon
containing an empty crate. Near it moved the farmer, and just beyond his
outstretched hands sported a playful pig. He was a black pig. Mine was
white. Besides I went around to the pen and saw, in the darkness, my
Oyster Bay retainer still on guard. So, it being a genuine case, I
returned to the road.
The farmer's dilemma touched me. What in the world was so utterly
hopeless to pursue, unaided, as a coy pig at midnight.
"If you will just stand there, squire, and sorter spread out your
skirts, I'll git him in a jiffy," said the panting farmer.
I did as I was bidden. The farmer approached; the pig pranced between
his legs.
"By gum!" exclaimed the protected of Ceres.
But, after half an hour, the pig became over-confident, and the tiller
of phosphites seized him and bore him, shrieking, to the wooden crate in
the wagon, there depositing him, fastening the door, and climbing into
his seat with warm thanks to me for my aid.
I told the Brother to the Ox that he was welcome. Then, with heart
serenely warmed by brotherly love and a knowledge of my own
condescension, I retired to sleep soundly until Higgins came to shave me
at eight o'clock next morning.
"Beg pardon, sir," said Higgins, stirring his lather as I returned from
the bath to submit my chin to his razor--"beg pardon, sir, but--but the
pig, sir----"
"What pig?" I asked sharply. Had Higgins beheld me pursuing that
midnight porker? And if he had, was he going to tell about it?
"What pig, sir? Why, THE pig, sir."
"I do not understand you, Higgins," I said coldly.
"Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Alida asked me to tell you, that the pig----"
"WHAT PIG?" I repeated exasperated.
"Why--why--OURS, sir."
I turned to stare at him. "MY pig?" I asked.
"Yes, sir--he's gone, sir----"
"Gone!" I thundered.
"Stolen, sir, out o' the pen last night."
Stunned, I could only stare at Higgins. Stolen? My pig? Last night?
"Some one," said Higgins, "went and opened that lovely fancy sty, sir;
and the pig he bolted. It takes a handy thief to stop and steal a pig,
sir. There must ha' been two on 'em to catch that pig!"
"Where's that miserable ruffian I hired to watch the sty?" I demanded
hotly.
"He has gone back to work for Mr. Van Dieman, sir. His hands was all
over black paint, and I see him a-wipin' of 'em onto your white picket
fence."
The calmness of despair came over me. I saw it, now. I had been called
out of bed to help catch my own pig. For nearly half an hour I had
dodged about there in front of my own house, too stupid to suspect, too
stupid even to recognize my own pig in the disguised and capricious
porker shying and caracolling about in the moonlight. Good heavens! Van
Dieman was right. A man who helps to steal his own pig is fit for
nothing but Paris or a sanitarium.
"Shave me speedily, Higgins," I said. "I am not very well, and it is
difficult for me to preserve sufficient composure to sit still. And,
Higgins, it is not at all necessary for you to refer to that pig
hereafter. You understand? Very well. Go to the telephone and call up
the Cunard office."
Presently I was in communication with Bowling Green.
That morning in the breakfast-room, when I had kissed my daughter Alida,
aged eighteen, and my daughter Dulcima, aged nineteen, the younger said:
"Papa, do you know that our pig has been stolen?"
"Alida," I replied, "I myself disposed of him"--which was the dreadful
truth.
"You sold him?" asked Dulcima in surprise.
"N--not exactly. These grape-fruit are too sour!"
"You gave him away?" inquired Alida.
"Yes--after a fashion. Is this the same coffee we have been using? It
has a peculiar----"
"Who did you give him to?" persisted my younger child.
"A--man."
"What man?"
"Nobody you know, child."
"But----"
"Stop!" said I firmly. "It is a subject too complicated to discuss."
"Oh, pooh!" said Dulcima; "everybody discusses everything in Oyster Bay.
And besides I want to know----"
"About the pig!" broke in Alida.
"And that man to whom you gave the pig----"
"Alida," said I, with misleading mildness, "how would you like to go to
Paris?"
"Oh! papa----"
"And you, Dulcima?"
"Darling papa!"
"When?" cried Alida.
"Wednesday," I replied with false urbanity.
"Oh! The darling!" they cried in rapture, and made toward me.
"Wait!" I said with a hideous smile. "We have not yet left Sandy Hook!
And I solemnly promise you both that if either of you ever again ask me
one question concerning that pig--nay, if you so much as look askance at
me over the breakfast bacon--neither you nor I will ever leave Sandy
Hook alive!"
They have kept their promises--or I should never have trodden the deck
of the _S. S. Cambodia_, the pride of the great Cunard Line, with my
daughter Dulcima on one side and my daughter Alida on the other side of
me, and my old friend Van Dieman waving me adieu from a crowded pier,
where hundreds of handkerchiefs flutter in the breeze.
"_Au revoir et bon voyage!_" he called up to me.
"_Toujours la politesse_," I muttered, nodding sagely.
"That was a funny reply to make, papa," said Dulcima.
"Not at all," I replied, with animation; "to know a language is to know
when to use its idioms." They both looked a little blank, but continued
to wave their handkerchiefs.
"_À bien-tôt!_" called Alida softly, as the towering black sides of the
steamer slipped along the wooden wharf.
Van Dieman raised his hat on the pier below, and answered: "_À bien-tôt?
C'est la mort, jusqu'à bien-tôt! Donc, vîve la vie, Mademoiselle!_"
"There is no necessity in chattering like a Frenchman when you talk
French," I observed to Alida. "Could you make out what Van Dieman said
to you?"
"Y--yes," she admitted, with a slight blush.
I glanced at Dulcima. There was a mischievous light in her blue eyes.
"Pooh!" I thought; "Van Dieman is forty if he's a day."
While the ship slid on past Castle William and poked her nose toward the
forts at the Narrows, I watched the distant pier which we had left. It
was still black with people, moving like ants. And, as I looked, I
muttered ever: "Pooh! Van Dieman's forty. There's nothing in it, nothing
in it, nothing whatever."
Off Fort Hamilton I noticed that Alida had a tear in one of her brown
eyes. "There's nothing in it," I repeated obstinately.
Off Sandy Hook we ran into a sea-storm. In a few minutes many of the
passengers went below; in a few more minutes the remainder of the
passengers went below; and I was on the way below with my daughter Alida
on one arm and my daughter Dulcima on the other.
"There is nothing in it," I reflected, as the ship shuddered, pitched,
and we involuntarily began running down a toboggan slide, taking little
timorous steps. Then the deck flew up and caught the soles of our shoes
before we were ready to put our feet down. "Alida," I said, "do you feel
bored?"
There was no mistaking the tears in her eyes now. "There's nothing in
it. There's nothing in anything," I muttered faintly. And I was right as
far as it concerned the passengers on the pitching _Cambodia_.
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