The Venturers

by O. Henry

Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the _Non Sequitur_Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observationcar "_Raison d'tre_" for one moment. It is for no longer than toconsider a brief essay on the subject--let us call it: "What's Aroundthe Corner."_Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est_--men who wear rubbers and paypoll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no morecontinents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date andthe poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will beparalleling the canals of Mars with radium railways.Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in thedictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is aprize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurkin the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant andalluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance isthe beautiful countenance--perfect because vague and dream-born--that wesee in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops andtoast.The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and waysidegroves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is thedifference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruitwas the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that ithappened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either isdisturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed andcity-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the childrenand the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the flickeringgas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of two modernfollowers of Chance."Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?" askedBillinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetratethe interior of the Powhatan Club."Doubtless," said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room.Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again longbefore this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of theair (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insultedand would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to goaway from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,must have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some oneelse. (I had written that "somebody"; but an A. D. T. boy who once tooka telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using thecompound word. This is a vice versa case.)Forster's favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower ofChance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth, traditionand the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had denied himfull privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled thoroughfares andmany of the side roads that are supposed to relieve the tedium of life.But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew what was to be foundat the end of every street. He knew from experience and logic almostprecisely to what end each digression from routine must lead. He found adepressing monotony in all the variations that the music of his spherehad grafted upon the tune of life. He had not learned that, although theworld was made round, the circle has been squared, and that it's trueinterest is to be in "What's Around the Corner."Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to taxeither his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. Hewould have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had nohope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in theGreater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedanchair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,uptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her.At the end of an hour's stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,smooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque oldhotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew thathe must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of hisfavorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the service andso delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger that must beappeased by the "dead perfection" of the place's cuisine. Even the musicthere seemed to be always playing _da capo_.Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,restaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from allcountries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorousAmerican. Something might happen there out of the routine--he might comeupon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a questionwithout an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life'ssalt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business suitthat would not be questioned even where the waiters served the spaghettiin their shirt sleeves.So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; becausethe more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of thethirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he exploredcarefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of fivefigures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but--Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was reallyregarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man ofthirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one waitingfor a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So hisproximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of thenature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker after"What's Around the Corner," instead of manifesting resentment he onlyturned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other's grin of amusement."All in?" asked the intruder, drawing nearer."Seems so," said Forster. "Now, I thought there was a dollar in--""Oh, I know," said the other man, with a laugh. "But there wasn't. I'vejust been through the same process myself, as I was coming around thecorner. I found in an upper vest pocket--I don't know how they gotthere--exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly twopennies will buy!""You haven't dined, then?" asked Forster."I have not. But I would like to. Now, I'll make you a proposition.You look like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat andrespectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutinyof a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dinetogether. We will choose from the menu like millionaires--or, if youprefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantlyfor once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies tosee which of us will stand the brunt of the house's displeasure andvengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same stationof life--before our money took wings.""You're on," said Forster, joyfully.Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious countryof Chance--anyhow, it promised something better than the staleinfestivity of a table d'hte.The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.Ives chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster."Match for which of us gives the order," he said.Forster lost.Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with theabsorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born. Forster,listening, gave his admiring approval of the order."I am a man," said Ives, during the oysters, "Who has made a lifetimesearch after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the ordinaryadventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like a gamblerwho knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake. What I wantis to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion.It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its blindestmanifestations. The world has come to run so much by rote andgravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance inwhich you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expectat its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who alwayscomplained bitterly when any one came in to ask information. 'He wantedto _know_, you know!' was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks. Well,I don't want to know, I don't want to reason, I don't want to guess--Iwant to bet my hand without seeing it.""I understand," said Forster delightedly. "I've often wanted the way Ifeel put into words. You've done it. I want to take chances on what'scoming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course.""Agreed," said Ives. "I'm glad you catch my idea. It will increase theanimosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, wewill pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true venturer--onewho does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.But, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficultit is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee. Inthe Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers fromdoors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle ofa wall and 'get away with it.' Nowadays, if you speak disrespectfully toa policeman, all that is left to the most romantic fancy is toconjecture in what particular police station he will land you.""I know--I know," said Forster, nodding approval."I returned to New York to-day," continued Ives, "from a three years'ramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad than they areat home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The onlything that interests me greatly is a premise. I've tried shooting biggame in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many yards;and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I enjoy itabout as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a sum inlong division on the blackboard.""I know--I know," said Forster."There might be something in aeroplanes," went on Ives, reflectively."I've tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried affairof wind and ballast.""Women," suggested Forster, with a smile."Three months ago," said Ives. "I was pottering around in one of thebazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but witha pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some amber andpearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an attendant--a bigNubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant drew nearer to meby degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand. I looked at itwhen I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in pencil: 'The archedgate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.' Does that appear toyou to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?""I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was theproperty of an old Turk--a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Ofcourse I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The sameNubian attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside andsat on a bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had quitean extended chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who waswriting up the Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said shenoticed the New York cut of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered ifI couldn't work something into the metropolitan papers about it.""I see," said Forster. "I see.""I've canoed through Canada," said Ives, "down many rapids and over manyfalls. But I didn't seem to get what I wanted out of it because I knewthere were only two possible outcomes--I would either go to the bottomor arrive at the sea level. I've played all games at cards; but themathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the percentages.I've made acquaintances on trains, I've answered advertisements, I'verung strange door-bells, I've taken every chance that presented itself;but there has always been the conventional ending--the logicalconclusion to the premise.""I know," repeated Forster. "I've felt it all. But I've had fewchances to take my chance at chances. Is there any life so devoid ofimpossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad ofopportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousandfails to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways andstreet cars disappointed one as seldom.""The sun has risen," said Ives, "on the Arabian nights. There areno more caliphs. The fisherman's vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,warranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours.Life moves by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no moreopportunities such as Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster had.The only certain thing is that there is nothing uncertain.""Well," said Forster, "my experience has been the limited one of a cityman. I haven't seen the world as you have; but it seems that we viewit with the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even thislittle venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There maybe at least one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner ispresented. Perhaps, after all, the pilgrims who traveled without scripor purse found a keener taste to life than did the knights of the RoundTable who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur's certified checksin the lining of their helmets. And now, if you've finished your coffee,suppose we match one of your insufficient coins for the impending blowof Fate. What have I up?""Heads," called Ives."Heads it is," said Forster, lifting his hand. "I lose. We forgot toagree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when thewaiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I willhold the fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hatand be off. I thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives,and wish we might have others.""If my memory is not at fault," said Ives, laughing, "the nearest policestation is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too, let meassure you."Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotiveeffort that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism,glided to the table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser'scup. Forster took it up and added the figures with deliberate care. Ivesleaned back comfortably in his chair."Excuse me," said Forster; "but I thought you were going to ring Grimesabout that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten aboutit?""Oh," said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, "I can do that lateron. Get me a glass of water, waiter.""Want to be in at the death, do you?" asked Forster."I hope you don't object," said Ives, pleadingly. "Never in my life haveI seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling it outof a dinner.""All right," said Forster, calmly. "You are entitled to see a Christiandie in the arena as your _pousse-caf_."Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengagedair of an inexorable collector.Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from hispocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed andtook it away."The fact is," said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, "I doubtwhether I'm what they call a 'game sport,' which means the same as a'soldier of Fortune.' I'll have to make a confession. I've been diningat this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I alwayssign my checks." And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice: "Itwas first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you knew Ihad no money, and that you might be scooped in, too.""I guess I'll confess, too," said Ives, with a grin. "I own the hotel.I don't run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floorfor my use when I happen to stray into town."He called a waiter and said: "Is Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? Allright. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms madeready and aired.""Another venture cut short by the inevitable," said Forster. "Is therea conundrum without an answer in the next number? But let's hold to oursubject just for a minute or two, if you will. It isn't often that Imeet a man who understands the flaws I pick in existence. I am engagedto be married a month from to-day.""I reserve comment," said Ives."Right; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond ofthe lady; but I can't decide whether to show up at the church ormake a sneak for Alaska. It's the same idea, you know, that we werediscussing--it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.Everybody knows the routine--you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon teaafter breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress fordinner--theatre twice a week--bills--moping around most evenings tryingto make conversation--a little quarrel occasionally--maybe sometimes abig one, and a separation--or else a settling down into a middle-agedcontentment, which is worst of all.""I know," said Ives, nodding wisely."It's the dead certainty of the thing," went on Forster, "that keeps mein doubt. There'll nevermore be anything around the corner.""Nothing after the 'Little Church,'" said Ives. "I know.""Understand," said Forster, "that I am in no doubt as to my feelingstoward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But thereis something in the current that runs through my veins that cries outagainst any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but Iknow that I want it. I'm talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I'm sureof what I mean.""I understand you," said Ives, with a slow smile. "Well, I think I willbe going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one eveningsoon, Mr. Forster, I'd be glad.""Thursday?" suggested Forster."At seven, if it's convenient," answered Ives."Seven goes," assented Forster.At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in oneof the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the receptionroom of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of Fortune, Chanceand Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistleretchings, the steel engravings by Oh-what's-his-name?, the still-lifepaintings of the grapes and garden truck with the watermelon seedsspilled on the table as natural as life, and the Greuze head. It wasa household. There was even brass andirons. On a table was an album,half-morocco, with oxidized-silver protections on the corners of thelids. A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, with a warning click at fiveminutes to nine. Ives looked at it curiously, remembering a time-piecein his grandmother's home that gave such a warning.And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She wastwenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say thismuch--youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violeteyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand withthe sweet cordiality of an old friendship."You can't think what a pleasure it is," she said, "to have you drop inonce every three years or so."For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat theconversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library. Whenthat part of it was over, Mary said:"And did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?""What I wanted?" said Ives."Yes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn't playmarbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in waterwhere you didn't know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. Andwhen you grew up you were just the same. We've often talked about yourpeculiar ways.""I suppose I am an incorrigible," said Ives. "I am opposed to thedoctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation, taxation,and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me something likea serial story would be if they printed above each instalment a synopsisof _succeeding_ chapters."Mary laughed merrily."Bob Ames told us once," she said, "of a funny thing you did. It waswhen you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a townwhere you hadn't intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up asign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it.""I remember," said Ives. "That 'next station' has been the thing I'vealways tried to get away from.""I know it," said Mary. "And you've been very foolish. I hope you didn'tfind what you wanted not to find, or get off at the station where therewasn't any, or whatever it was you expected wouldn't happen to youduring the three years you've been away.""There was something I wanted before I went away," said Ives.Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweetsmile."There was," she said. "You wanted me. And you could have had me, as youvery well know."Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. Therehad been no change in it since last he had been in it, three yearsbefore. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind then.The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the everlastinghills. No change would ever come there except the inevitable oneswrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album would occupy thatcorner of that table, those pictures would hang on the walls, thosechairs be found in their same places every morn and noon and night whilethe household hung together. The brass andirons were monuments to orderand stability. Here and there were relics of a hundred years ago whichwere still living mementos and would be for many years to come. Onegoing from and coming back to that house would never need to forecast ordoubt. He would find what he left, and leave what he found. The veiledlady, Chance, would never lift her hand to the knocker on the outerdoor.And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweetand unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should passhis life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, hewould never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her,and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as thehouse itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was theknowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thushis thoughts ran."I am going to be married soon," said Mary.On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive's hotel."Old man," said he, "we'll have to put that dinner off for a year or so;I'm going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk wehad the other night, and it decided me. I'm going to knock around theworld and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both you andme--the terrible dread of knowing what's going to happen. I've done onething that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it's best for bothof us. I've written to the lady to whom I was engaged and explainedeverything--told her plainly why I was leaving--that the monotony ofmatrimony would never do for me. Don't you think I was right?""It is not for me to say," answered Ives. "Go ahead and shoot elephantsif you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We'vegot to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,Forster, I've found the way. I've found out the biggest hazard in theworld--a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may endin the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edgeuntil the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know--notuntil his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage withouta rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch,every day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have foundthe VENTURE. Don't bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster.I married her yesterday at noon."

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