IDOLS |
SEPTIMUS |
DERELICTS |
THE USURPER |
WHERE LOVE IS |
THE WHITE DOVE |
SIMON THE JESTER |
A STUDY IN SHADOWS |
THE BELOVÉD VAGABOND |
AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA |
THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE |
THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE |
This is not a story about myself. Like Canning's organ-grinderI have none to tell. It is the story of Paragot, thebelovéd vagabond—please pronounce his name French-fashion—andif I obtrude myself on your notice it is because I was somuch involved in the medley of farce and tragedy which madeup some years of his life, that I don't know how to tell thestory otherwise. To Paragot I owe everything. He is atonce my benefactor, my venerated master, my beloved friend,my creator. Clay in his hands, he moulded me according tohis caprice, and inspired me with the breath of life. Myexistence is drenched with the colour of Paragot. I lay claimto no personality of my own, and any obiter dicta that mayfall from my pen in the course of the ensuing narrative are butreflections of Paragot's philosophy. Men have spoken evil ofhim. He snapped his fingers at calumny, but I winced, neverhaving reached the calm altitudes of scorn wherein his soulhas its habitation. I burned to defend him, and I burn now;and that is why I propose to write his apologia, his justification.
Why he singled me out for adoption from among the unwashedurchins of London I never could conjecture. OnceI asked him.[6]
"Because," said he, "you were ugly, dirty, ricketty, under-sized,underfed and wholly uninteresting. Also because yourmother was the very worst washer-woman that ever breathedgin into a shirt-front."
I did not