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123 pages

English

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As the result of a run-in with the law, struggling American writer William Sydney Porter chose to make a dash for the border in 1896. During the several months he spent in Honduras, Porter had enough time on his hands to begin exploring his talent for writing, which up until then had been merely a hobby. The result was the group of stories that are collected in Cabbages and Kings. Though most of these pieces were written before Porter assumed the pseudonym O. Henry, they all bear the author's genius for characterization and clever plot twists.

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Short story

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775456742
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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CABBAGES AND KINGS
* * *
O. HENRY

*
Cabbages and Kings First published in 1904 ISBN 978-1-77545-674-2 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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The Proemby the Carpenter I - "Fox-In-The-Morning" II - The Lotus and the Bottle III - Smith IV - Caught V - Cupid's Exile Number Two VI - The Phonograph and the Graft VII - Money Maze VIII - The Admiral IX - The Flag Paramount X - The Shamrock and the Palm XI - The Remnants of the Code XII - Shoes XIII - Ships XIV - Masters of Arts XV - Dicky XVI - Rouge et Noir XVII - Two Recalls XVIII - The Vitagraphoscope
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"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things; Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax, And cabbages and kings."
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
The Proemby the Carpenter
*
They will tell you in Anchuria, that President Miraflores, of thatvolatile republic, died by his own hand in the coast town of Coralio;that he had reached thus far in flight from the inconveniences ofan imminent revolution; and that one hundred thousand dollars,government funds, which he carried with him in an American leathervalise as a souvenir of his tempestuous administration, was neverafterward recovered.
For a real , a boy will show you his grave. It is back of the townnear a little bridge that spans a mangrove swamp. A plain slab ofwood stands at its head. Some one has burned upon the headstone witha hot iron this inscription:
RAMON ANGEL DE LAS CRUZES
Y MIRAFLORES
PRESIDENTE DE LA REPUBLICA
DE ANCHURIA
QUE SEA SU JUEZ DIOS
It is characteristic of this buoyant people that they pursue no manbeyond the grave. "Let God be his judge!"—Even with the hundredthousand unfound, though greatly coveted, the hue and cry went nofurther than that.
To the stranger or the guest the people of Coralio will relate thestory of the tragic end of their former president; how he strove toescape from the country with the public funds and also with DoñaIsabel Guilbert, the young American opera singer; and how, beingapprehended by members of the opposing political party in Coralio,he shot himself through the head rather than give up the funds, and,in consequence, the Señorita Guilbert. They will relate furtherthat Doña Isabel, her adventurous bark of fortune shoaled by thesimultaneous loss of her distinguished admirer and the souvenirhundred thousand, dropped anchor on this stagnant coast, awaiting arising tide.
They say, in Coralio, that she found a prompt and prosperous tidein the form of Frank Goodwin, an American resident of the town, aninvestor who had grown wealthy by dealing in the products of thecountry—a banana king, a rubber prince, a sarsaparilla, indigo, andmahogany baron. The Señorita Guilbert, you will be told, marriedSeñor Goodwin one month after the president's death, thus, in thevery moment when Fortune had ceased to smile, wresting from her agift greater than the prize withdrawn.
Of the American, Don Frank Goodwin, and of his wife the natives havenothing but good to say. Don Frank has lived among them for years,and has compelled their respect. His lady is easily queen of whatsocial life the sober coast affords. The wife of the governor of thedistrict, herself, who was of the proud Castilian family of Monteleony Dolorosa de los Santos y Mendez, feels honoured to unfold hernapkin with olive-hued, ringed hands at the table of Señora Goodwin.Were you to refer (with your northern prejudices) to the vivaciouspast of Mrs. Goodwin when her audacious and gleeful abandon in lightopera captured the mature president's fancy, or to her share in thatstatesman's downfall and malfeasance, the Latin shrug of the shoulderwould be your only answer and rebuttal. What prejudices there werein Coralio concerning Señora Goodwin seemed now to be in her favour,whatever they had been in the past.
It would seem that the story is ended, instead of begun; that theclose of a tragedy and the climax of a romance have covered the groundof interest; but, to the more curious reader it shall be some slightinstruction to trace the close threads that underlie the ingenuousweb of circumstances.
The headpiece bearing the name of President Miraflores is dailyscrubbed with soap-bark and sand. An old half-breed Indian tends thegrave with fidelity and the dawdling minuteness of inherited sloth.He chops down the weeds and ever-springing grass with his machete, heplucks ants and scorpions and beetles from it with his horny fingers,and sprinkles its turf with water from the plaza fountain. There isno grave anywhere so well kept and ordered.
Only by following out the underlying threads will it be made clearwhy the old Indian, Galvez, is secretly paid to keep green thegrave of President Miraflores by one who never saw that unfortunatestatesman in life or in death, and why that one was wont to walk inthe twilight, casting from a distance looks of gentle sadness uponthat unhonoured mound.
Elsewhere than at Coralio one learns of the impetuous careerof Isabel Guilbert. New Orleans gave her birth and the mingledFrench and Spanish creole nature that tinctured her life with suchturbulence and warmth. She had little education, but a knowledge ofmen and motives that seemed to have come by instinct. Far beyond thecommon woman was she endowed with intrepid rashness, with a love forthe pursuit of adventure to the brink of danger, and with desire forthe pleasures of life. Her spirit was one to chafe under any curb;she was Eve after the fall, but before the bitterness of it was felt.She wore life as a rose in her bosom.
Of the legion of men who had been at her feet it was said that butone was so fortunate as to engage her fancy. To President Miraflores,the brilliant but unstable ruler of Anchuria, she yielded the key toher resolute heart. How, then, do we find her (as the Coralians wouldhave told you) the wife of Frank Goodwin, and happily living a lifeof dull and dreamy inaction?
The underlying threads reach far, stretching across the sea.Following them out it will be made plain why "Shorty" O'Day, of theColumbia Detective Agency, resigned his position. And, for a lighterpastime, it shall be a duty and a pleasing sport to wander with Momusbeneath the tropic stars where Melpomene once stalked austere. Now tocause laughter to echo from those lavish jungles and frowning cragswhere formerly rang the cries of pirates' victims; to lay aside pikeand cutlass and attack with quip and jollity; to draw one savingtitter of mirth from the rusty casque of Romance—this were pleasantto do in the shade of the lemon-trees on that coast that is curvedlike lips set for smiling.
For there are yet tales of the Spanish Main. That segment ofcontinent washed by the tempestuous Caribbean, and presenting to thesea a formidable border of tropical jungle topped by the overweeningCordilleras, is still begirt by mystery and romance. In past timesbuccaneers and revolutionists roused the echoes of its cliffs, andthe condor wheeled perpetually above where, in the green groves,they made food for him with their matchlocks and toledos. Taken andretaken by sea rovers, by adverse powers and by sudden uprising ofrebellious factions, the historic 300 miles of adventurous coast hasscarcely known for hundreds of years whom rightly to call its master.Pizarro, Balboa, Sir Francis Drake, and Bolivar did what they couldto make it a part of Christendom. Sir John Morgan, Lafitte and othereminent swash-bucklers bombarded and pounded it in the name ofAbaddon.
The game still goes on. The guns of the rovers are silenced; but thetintype man, the enlarged photograph brigand, the kodaking touristand the scouts of the gentle brigade of fakirs have found it out, andcarry on the work. The hucksters of Germany, France, and Sicily nowbag its small change across their counters. Gentleman adventurersthrong the waiting-rooms of its rulers with proposals for railwaysand concessions. The little opéra-bouffe nations play at governmentand intrigue until some day a big, silent gunboat glides into theoffing and warns them not to break their toys. And with these changescomes also the small adventurer, with empty pockets to fill, light ofheart, busy-brained—the modern fairy prince, bearing an alarm clockwith which, more surely than by the sentimental kiss, to awaken thebeautiful tropics from their centuries' sleep. Generally he wears ashamrock, which he matches pridefully against the extravagant palms;and it is he who has driven Melpomene to the wings, and set Comedy todancing before the footlights of the Southern Cross.
So, there is a little tale to tell of many things. Perhaps to thepromiscuous ear of the Walrus it shall come with most avail; for init there are indeed shoes and ships and sealing-wax and cabbage-palmsand presidents instead of kings.
Add to these a little love and counterplotting, and scattereverywhere throughout the maze a trail of tropical dollars—dollarswarmed no more by the torrid sun than by the hot palms of the scoutsof Fortune—and, after all, here seems to be Life, itself, with talkenough to weary the most garrulous of Walruses.
I - "Fox-In-The-Morning"
*
Coralio reclined, in the mid-day heat, like some vacuous beautylounging in a guarded harem. The town lay at the sea's edge on astrip of alluvial coast. It was set like a little pearl in an emeraldband. Behind it, and seeming almost to topple, imminent, above it,rose the sea-following range of the Cordilleras. In front the seawas spread, a smiling