Cape of Storms: A Novel

by Percival Pollard

Thence he swung back to Italy. Then through Switzerland. Everywhere he roved through the corners that his fancy led him to; nowhere did he merely echo the footsteps of the millions of tourists. Sometimes he walked for whole days at a time. Sometimes he went to a petty inn and astonished the host by staying all day in his room and working. Whenever he found his purse suffering unduly through the vagaries of his nomadic fancies, he posted some sketches to such of the Paris or London papers as had been most clamorous for them.

It was, perhaps, just because he cared so little for it all, that this luck was come to him. In the old days he had chafed against misfortunes, against limitations of all sorts; he had declared that great successes were no longer possible, that everything worth doing had been done long ago. Now, when he cared not at all, fortune kissed him. Which also amused him.

Another man would have laid plans for the furtherment of this fame, would have counted the ways and means of plucking the fruit of success at it's ripest, would have plotted against the erasure—by caprice, of the world, or loss of his own skill, of his own name from the list of the world's favorites. Dick Lancaster did none of these things. He merely accepted the gifts of the moment, and continued recklessly in alternate disappearances and bursts of splendid achievement. There was nothing, he argued bitterly, for which he needed all the fame; so why should he care to be Fame's courtier? If fame chose to pursue him, that was another matter, and beyond his heed.

So, carelessly, recklessly eager for novelties and excitements, this young man adventured over the continent of Europe, gaining everywhere a reputation for devil-may-care-dom and bitterness.

And over many of these things he was thinking, as he sat in the garden of the "Kapuziner." He thought, too, with something of amused wistfulness of the Dick Lancaster that had once been himself,—the boy that had suffered twinges of conscience at the thought of giving up a Sunday to enjoyment, and had felt forever stained because of things that now caused him little save ennui. Was it possible that he had once been like that? Oh, yes, all things were possible; he had found that out plainly enough. Indeed, he reflected, if it should happen to him that the End came tomorrow, he would have the satisfaction of having lived his life, completely, fully, even to satisfy, in half the time that most men take for that task. Since that night, after a certain girl had told him to "forget," he had spared himself in nothing that promised entertainment. With the old restraints completely cast to the winds, with nothing but studied recklessness as his Mentor, he had followed all the promptings of that epicureanism that he now feigned to consider the only philosophy.

In all things he was fickle. Just as the artistic side of him tired quickly of one place, one set of types, so his animal nature was essentially of the dilettante rather than the enthusiast. Wherever he saw a will-o'-the-wisp he followed; but it was no sooner caught than he was repentant of his success. The taste of pleasure was of the briefest to him; it turned to bitterness in a moment.

And yet, he mused, with all his varied experiences, with the feeling of satiety that sometimes overcame him from sheer excess of sensations, the fascination of the town was still upon him. It was surely in his blood, he speculated. He remembered with what passionate eagerness, after the final shaking off of all the old consciences—all those moral skins that he had shed, and left to rot, over there, in America—he had come to the realization of the varied facets of that bewildering jewel, the town.

He shut his eyes to escape the glare of the noon-day, and evolve, behind his closed lids, the aspect of the town after lamps are lit. The constant current of humanity, of the swishing of the women's gowns as they walked, the rattle of the cabs over the stones,—it all filled him with a passion of pleasure. His young blood went more quickly at each sight of that surging sea. The crowds going to the theatres and music-halls; the shadows that flitted hawk-like about the corners; the colors of the occasional uniforms; he drank in the picture thirstily. Both the artist and the man were joined, too, in a passionate eagerness for beauty; he had been known, in his folly as men may call it, to walk a mile so that he might the more often meet an attractive face again. The vision of a beautiful female figure, of a well-fitting gown, gave him an almost painful joy; he felt that charm of mere feminity most acutely and covetously.

And yet, with all, he had been a lonely creature. His pleasures were evanescent and he was ever constrained to browse upon fresh pastures. From this novel experience, that colorful scene, and that delightful companion he extracted the essence all too soon; and the dregs he ever avoided. In his mind there was a gallery of places, faces and voices—all loves of a moment.

It was a cheerless train of thought that he found himself in. But, as he sipped the pale Mai-trank, the glad reflection occurred that the world was very large and that he had seen very little of it so far; there were still plenty of things left that were new to him. Surprise would not die for him just yet.