The Make-Believe Man E-Book

Richard Harding Davis

• Herausgeber: DigiCat
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In "The Make-Believe Man," Richard Harding Davis masterfully weaves a narrative that blends elements of realism and romanticism, exploring the complexities of identity and social expectation in early 20th-century America. Davis's prose is characterized by its vivid imagery and sharp dialogue, delving into the lives of its characters with both compassion and critique. The novel situates itself within the literary context of the Gilded Age, addressing themes of authenticity, illusion, and the human condition, while reflecting societal shifts in attitudes toward masculinity and ambition. Richard Harding Davis was an acclaimed journalist and author whose experiences in War and Society heavily influenced his writing. Known for his charismatic personality and keen observational skills, Davis often drew on his interactions with diverse cultural contexts, which imbued his characters with depth and realism. His background in theater also shines through in this work, as he artfully crafts a story that is both visually evocative and emotionally resonant, inviting readers to contemplate the masks people wear in pursuit of acceptance and success. I highly recommend "The Make-Believe Man" to readers who appreciate rich character studies and profound social commentary. Davis's ability to illuminate the nuances of human experience ensures that this novel will resonate with anyone grappling with the dichotomy between appearance and reality, making it a timeless exploration of the self.

Leseprobe

Richard Harding Davis

The Make-Believe Man

 

EAN 8596547307655

DigiCat, 2022 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

I

II

I

Table of Contents

I had made up my mind that when my vacation came I would spend it seeking adventures. I have always wished for adventures, but, though I am old enough—I was twenty-five last October—and have always gone half-way to meet them, adventures avoid me. Kinney says it is my fault. He holds that if you want adventures you must go after them.

Kinney sits next to me at Joyce & Carboy’s, the woollen manufacturers, where I am a stenographer, and Kinney is a clerk, and we both have rooms at Mrs. Shaw’s boarding-house. Kinney is only a year older than myself, but he is always meeting with adventures. At night, when I have sat up late reading law, so that I may fit myself for court reporting, and in the hope that some day I may become a member of the bar, he will knock at my door and tell me some surprising thing that has just happened to him. Sometimes he has followed a fire-engine and helped people from a fire-escape, or he has pulled the shield off a policeman, or at the bar of the Hotel Knickerbocker has made friends with a stranger, who turns out to be no less than a nobleman or an actor. And women, especially beautiful women, are always pursuing Kinney in taxicabs and calling upon him for assistance. Just to look at Kinney, without knowing how clever he is at getting people out of their difficulties, he does not appear to be a man to whom you would turn in time of trouble. You would think women in distress would appeal to some one bigger and stronger; would sooner ask a policeman. But, on the contrary, it is to Kinney that women always run, especially, as I have said, beautiful women. Nothing of the sort ever happens to me. I suppose, as Kinney says, it is because he was born and brought up in New York City and looks and acts like a New York man, while I, until a year ago, have always lived at Fairport. Fairport is a very pretty harbor, but it does not train one for adventures. We arranged to take our vacation at the same time, and together. At least Kinney so arranged it. I see a good deal of him, and in looking forward to my vacation, not the least pleasant feature of it was that everything connected with Joyce & Carboy and Mrs. Shaw’s boarding-house would be left behind me. But when Kinney proposed we should go together, I could not see how, without being rude, I could refuse his company, and when he pointed out that for an expedition in search of adventure I could not select a better guide, I felt that he was right.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I can see you don’t believe that half the things I tell you have happened to me, really have happened. Now, isn’t that so?”

To find the answer that would not hurt his feelings I hesitated, but he did not wait for my answer. He seldom does.

“Well, on this trip,” he went on, “you will see Kinney on the job. You won’t have to take my word for it. You will see adventures walk up and eat out of my hand.”

Our vacation came on the first of September, but we began to plan for it in April, and up to the night before we left New York we never ceased planning. Our difficulty was that having been brought up at Fairport, which is on the Sound, north of New London, I was homesick for a smell of salt marshes and for the sight of water and ships. Though they were only schooners carrying cement, I wanted to sit in the sun on the string-piece of a wharf and watch them. I wanted to beat about the harbor in a catboat, and feel the tug and pull of the tiller. Kinney protested that that was no way to spend a vacation or to invite adventure. His face was set against Fairport. The conversation of clam-diggers, he said, did not appeal to him; and he complained that at Fairport our only chance of adventure would be my capsizing the catboat or robbing a lobster-pot. He insisted we should go to the mountains, where we would meet what he always calls “our best people.” In September, he explained, everybody goes to the mountains to recuperate after the enervating atmosphere of the sea-shore. To this I objected that the little sea air we had inhaled at Mrs. Shaw’s basement dining-room and in the subway need cause us no anxiety. And so, along these lines, throughout the sleepless, sultry nights of June, July, and August, we fought it out. There was not a summer resort within five hundred miles of New York City we did not consider. From the information bureaus and passenger agents of every railroad leaving New York, Kinney procured a library of timetables, maps, folders, and pamphlets, illustrated with the most attractive pictures of summer hotels, golf links, tennis courts, and boat-houses. For two months he carried on a correspondence with the proprietors of these hotels; and in comparing the different prices they asked him for suites of rooms and sun parlors derived constant satisfaction.

“The Outlook House,” he would announce, “wants twenty-four dollars a day for bedroom, parlor, and private bath. While for the same accommodations the Carteret Arms asks only twenty. But the Carteret has no tennis court; and then again, the Outlook has no garage, nor are dogs allowed in the bedrooms.”

As Kinney could not play lawn tennis, and as neither of us owned an automobile or a dog, or twenty-four dollars, these details to me seemed superfluous, but there was no health in pointing that out to Kinney. Because, as he himself says, he has so vivid an imagination that what he lacks he can “make believe” he has, and the pleasure of possession is his.

Kinney gives a great deal of thought to his clothes, and the question of what he should wear on his vacation was upon his mind. When I said I thought it was nothing to worry about, he snorted indignantly. “YOU wouldn’t!” he said. “If I’D been brought up in a catboat, and had a tan like a red Indian, and hair like a Broadway blonde, I wouldn’t worry either. Mrs. Shaw says you look exactly like a British peer in disguise.” I had never seen a British peer, with or without his disguise, and I admit I was interested.

“Why are the girls in this house,” demanded Kinney, “always running to your room to borrow matches? Because they admire your CLOTHES? If they’re crazy about clothes, why don’t they come to ME for matches?”

“You are always out at night,” I said.

“You know that’s not the answer,” he protested. “Why do the type-writer girls at the office always go to YOU to sharpen their pencils and tell them how to spell the hard words? Why do the girls in the lunch-rooms serve you first? Because they’re hypnotized by your clothes? Is THAT it?”

“Do they?” I asked; “I hadn’t noticed.”

Kinney snorted and tossed up his arms. “He hadn’t noticed!” he kept repeating. “He hadn’t noticed!” For his vacation Kinney bought a second-hand suit-case. It was covered with labels of hotels in France and Switzerland.

“Joe,” I said, “if you carry that bag you will be a walking falsehood.”

Kinney’s name is Joseph Forbes Kinney; he dropped the Joseph because he said it did not appear often enough in the Social Register, and could be found only in the Old Testament, and he has asked me to call him Forbes. Having first known him as “Joe,” I occasionally forget.

“My name is NOT Joe,” he said sternly, “and I have as much right to carry a second-hand bag as a new one. The bag says IT has been to Europe. It does not say that I have been there.”