diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:51 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:51 -0700 |
| commit | f2e4fa1d340fcc9fc51b932c038b094d33a60119 (patch) | |
| tree | 17086bb78f40f2547c229ae6ee1f73e5f5a72397 /805-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '805-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 805-h/805-h.htm | 14505 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 805-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 275125 bytes |
2 files changed, 14505 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/805-h/805-h.htm b/805-h/805-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3a39009 --- /dev/null +++ b/805-h/805-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14505 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + p { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: This Side of Paradise + +Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald + +Release Date: August 6, 2008 [EBook #805] +Last Updated: February 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIS SIDE OF PARADISE *** + + + + +Produced by David Reed, Ken Reeder, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class="fig" style="width:40%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover" /> +</div> + + <h1> + THIS SIDE OF PARADISE + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By F. Scott Fitzgerald + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... Well this side of Paradise!... + There’s little comfort in the wise. + —Rupert Brooke. + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Experience is the name so many people + give to their mistakes. + —Oscar Wilde. + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To SIGOURNEY FAY + </pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BOOK ONE—The Romantic Egotist</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER 1. Amory, Son of Beatrice </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER 3. The Egotist Considers </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER 4. Narcissus Off Duty </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> INTERLUDE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> <b>BOOK TWO—The Education of a Personage</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER 1. The Debutante </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER 2. Experiments in Convalescence </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER 3. Young Irony </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER 4. The Supercilious Sacrifice </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER 5. The Egotist Becomes a Personage </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + BOOK ONE—The Romantic Egotist + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 1. Amory, Son of Beatrice + </h2> + <p> + Amory Blaine inherited from his mother every trait, except the stray + inexpressible few, that made him worth while. His father, an ineffectual, + inarticulate man with a taste for Byron and a habit of drowsing over the + Encyclopedia Britannica, grew wealthy at thirty through the death of two + elder brothers, successful Chicago brokers, and in the first flush of + feeling that the world was his, went to Bar Harbor and met Beatrice + O’Hara. In consequence, Stephen Blaine handed down to posterity his height + of just under six feet and his tendency to waver at crucial moments, these + two abstractions appearing in his son Amory. For many years he hovered in + the background of his family’s life, an unassertive figure with a face + half-obliterated by lifeless, silky hair, continually occupied in “taking + care” of his wife, continually harassed by the idea that he didn’t and + couldn’t understand her. + </p> + <p> + But Beatrice Blaine! There was a woman! Early pictures taken on her + father’s estate at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, or in Rome at the Sacred Heart + Convent—an educational extravagance that in her youth was only for + the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy—showed the exquisite + delicacy of her features, the consummate art and simplicity of her + clothes. A brilliant education she had—her youth passed in + renaissance glory, she was versed in the latest gossip of the Older Roman + Families; known by name as a fabulously wealthy American girl to Cardinal + Vitori and Queen Margherita and more subtle celebrities that one must have + had some culture even to have heard of. She learned in England to prefer + whiskey and soda to wine, and her small talk was broadened in two senses + during a winter in Vienna. All in all Beatrice O’Hara absorbed the sort of + education that will be quite impossible ever again; a tutelage measured by + the number of things and people one could be contemptuous of and charming + about; a culture rich in all arts and traditions, barren of all ideas, in + the last of those days when the great gardener clipped the inferior roses + to produce one perfect bud. + </p> + <p> + In her less important moments she returned to America, met Stephen Blaine + and married him—this almost entirely because she was a little bit + weary, a little bit sad. Her only child was carried through a tiresome + season and brought into the world on a spring day in ninety-six. + </p> + <p> + When Amory was five he was already a delightful companion for her. He was + an auburn-haired boy, with great, handsome eyes which he would grow up to + in time, a facile imaginative mind and a taste for fancy dress. From his + fourth to his tenth year he did the country with his mother in her + father’s private car, from Coronado, where his mother became so bored that + she had a nervous breakdown in a fashionable hotel, down to Mexico City, + where she took a mild, almost epidemic consumption. This trouble pleased + her, and later she made use of it as an intrinsic part of her atmosphere—especially + after several astounding bracers. + </p> + <p> + So, while more or less fortunate little rich boys were defying governesses + on the beach at Newport, or being spanked or tutored or read to from “Do + and Dare,” or “Frank on the Mississippi,” Amory was biting acquiescent + bell-boys in the Waldorf, outgrowing a natural repugnance to chamber music + and symphonies, and deriving a highly specialized education from his + mother. + </p> + <p> + “Amory.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Beatrice.” (Such a quaint name for his mother; she encouraged it.) + </p> + <p> + “Dear, don’t <i>think</i> of getting out of bed yet. I’ve always suspected + that early rising in early life makes one nervous. Clothilde is having + your breakfast brought up.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + “I am feeling very old to-day, Amory,” she would sigh, her face a rare + cameo of pathos, her voice exquisitely modulated, her hands as facile as + Bernhardt’s. “My nerves are on edge—on edge. We must leave this + terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sunshine.” + </p> + <p> + Amory’s penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled hair at his + mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her. + </p> + <p> + “Amory.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>yes</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to take a red-hot bath as hot as you can bear it, and just + relax your nerves. You can read in the tub if you wish.” + </p> + <p> + She fed him sections of the “Fetes Galantes” before he was ten; at eleven + he could talk glibly, if rather reminiscently, of Brahms and Mozart and + Beethoven. One afternoon, when left alone in the hotel at Hot Springs, he + sampled his mother’s apricot cordial, and as the taste pleased him, he + became quite tipsy. This was fun for a while, but he essayed a cigarette + in his exaltation, and succumbed to a vulgar, plebeian reaction. Though + this incident horrified Beatrice, it also secretly amused her and became + part of what in a later generation would have been termed her “line.” + </p> + <p> + “This son of mine,” he heard her tell a room full of awestruck, admiring + women one day, “is entirely sophisticated and quite charming—but + delicate—we’re all delicate; <i>here</i>, you know.” Her hand was + radiantly outlined against her beautiful bosom; then sinking her voice to + a whisper, she told them of the apricot cordial. They rejoiced, for she + was a brave raconteuse, but many were the keys turned in sideboard locks + that night against the possible defection of little Bobby or Barbara.... + </p> + <p> + These domestic pilgrimages were invariably in state; two maids, the + private car, or Mr. Blaine when available, and very often a physician. + When Amory had the whooping-cough four disgusted specialists glared at + each other hunched around his bed; when he took scarlet fever the number + of attendants, including physicians and nurses, totalled fourteen. + However, blood being thicker than broth, he was pulled through. + </p> + <p> + The Blaines were attached to no city. They were the Blaines of Lake + Geneva; they had quite enough relatives to serve in place of friends, and + an enviable standing from Pasadena to Cape Cod. But Beatrice grew more and + more prone to like only new acquaintances, as there were certain stories, + such as the history of her constitution and its many amendments, memories + of her years abroad, that it was necessary for her to repeat at regular + intervals. Like Freudian dreams, they must be thrown off, else they would + sweep in and lay siege to her nerves. But Beatrice was critical about + American women, especially the floating population of ex-Westerners. + </p> + <p> + “They have accents, my dear,” she told Amory, “not Southern accents or + Boston accents, not an accent attached to any locality, just an accent”—she + became dreamy. “They pick up old, moth-eaten London accents that are down + on their luck and have to be used by some one. They talk as an English + butler might after several years in a Chicago grand-opera company.” She + became almost incoherent—“Suppose—time in every Western + woman’s life—she feels her husband is prosperous enough for her to + have—accent—they try to impress <i>me</i>, my dear—” + </p> + <p> + Though she thought of her body as a mass of frailties, she considered her + soul quite as ill, and therefore important in her life. She had once been + a Catholic, but discovering that priests were infinitely more attentive + when she was in process of losing or regaining faith in Mother Church, she + maintained an enchantingly wavering attitude. Often she deplored the + bourgeois quality of the American Catholic clergy, and was quite sure that + had she lived in the shadow of the great Continental cathedrals her soul + would still be a thin flame on the mighty altar of Rome. Still, next to + doctors, priests were her favorite sport. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Bishop Wiston,” she would declare, “I do not want to talk of myself. + I can imagine the stream of hysterical women fluttering at your doors, + beseeching you to be simpatico”—then after an interlude filled by + the clergyman—“but my mood—is—oddly dissimilar.” + </p> + <p> + Only to bishops and above did she divulge her clerical romance. When she + had first returned to her country there had been a pagan, Swinburnian + young man in Asheville, for whose passionate kisses and unsentimental + conversations she had taken a decided penchant—they had discussed + the matter pro and con with an intellectual romancing quite devoid of + sappiness. Eventually she had decided to marry for background, and the + young pagan from Asheville had gone through a spiritual crisis, joined the + Catholic Church, and was now—Monsignor Darcy. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company—quite the + cardinal’s right-hand man.” + </p> + <p> + “Amory will go to him one day, I know,” breathed the beautiful lady, “and + Monsignor Darcy will understand him as he understood me.” + </p> + <p> + Amory became thirteen, rather tall and slender, and more than ever on to + his Celtic mother. He had tutored occasionally—the idea being that + he was to “keep up,” at each place “taking up the work where he left off,” + yet as no tutor ever found the place he left off, his mind was still in + very good shape. What a few more years of this life would have made of him + is problematical. However, four hours out from land, Italy bound, with + Beatrice, his appendix burst, probably from too many meals in bed, and + after a series of frantic telegrams to Europe and America, to the + amazement of the passengers the great ship slowly wheeled around and + returned to New York to deposit Amory at the pier. You will admit that if + it was not life it was magnificent. + </p> + <p> + After the operation Beatrice had a nervous breakdown that bore a + suspicious resemblance to delirium tremens, and Amory was left in + Minneapolis, destined to spend the ensuing two years with his aunt and + uncle. There the crude, vulgar air of Western civilization first catches + him—in his underwear, so to speak. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A KISS FOR AMORY + </p> + <p> + His lip curled when he read it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am going to have a bobbing party,” it said, “on Thursday, + December the seventeenth, at five o’clock, and I would like it + very much if you could come. + + Yours truly, + + R.S.V.P. Myra St. Claire. +</pre> + <p> + He had been two months in Minneapolis, and his chief struggle had been the + concealing from “the other guys at school” how particularly superior he + felt himself to be, yet this conviction was built upon shifting sands. He + had shown off one day in French class (he was in senior French class) to + the utter confusion of Mr. Reardon, whose accent Amory damned + contemptuously, and to the delight of the class. Mr. Reardon, who had + spent several weeks in Paris ten years before, took his revenge on the + verbs, whenever he had his book open. But another time Amory showed off in + history class, with quite disastrous results, for the boys there were his + own age, and they shrilled innuendoes at each other all the following + week: + </p> + <p> + “Aw—I b’lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was <i>lawgely</i> + an affair of the middul <i>clawses</i>,” or + </p> + <p> + “Washington came of very good blood—aw, quite good—I b’lieve.” + </p> + <p> + Amory ingeniously tried to retrieve himself by blundering on purpose. Two + years before he had commenced a history of the United States which, though + it only got as far as the Colonial Wars, had been pronounced by his mother + completely enchanting. + </p> + <p> + His chief disadvantage lay in athletics, but as soon as he discovered that + it was the touchstone of power and popularity at school, he began to make + furious, persistent efforts to excel in the winter sports, and with his + ankles aching and bending in spite of his efforts, he skated valiantly + around the Lorelie rink every afternoon, wondering how soon he would be + able to carry a hockey-stick without getting it inexplicably tangled in + his skates. + </p> + <p> + The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire’s bobbing party spent the morning + in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty + piece of peanut brittle. During the afternoon he brought it to light with + a sigh, and after some consideration and a preliminary draft in the back + of Collar and Daniel’s “First-Year Latin,” composed an answer: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My dear Miss St. Claire: + Your truly charming envitation for the evening of next Thursday + evening was truly delightful to receive this morning. I will be + charm and inchanted indeed to present my compliments on next + Thursday evening. + Faithfully, + + Amory Blaine. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + On Thursday, therefore, he walked pensively along the slippery, + shovel-scraped sidewalks, and came in sight of Myra’s house, on the + half-hour after five, a lateness which he fancied his mother would have + favored. He waited on the door-step with his eyes nonchalantly + half-closed, and planned his entrance with precision. He would cross the + floor, not too hastily, to Mrs. St. Claire, and say with exactly the + correct modulation: + </p> + <p> + “My <i>dear</i> Mrs. St. Claire, I’m <i>frightfully</i> sorry to be late, + but my maid”—he paused there and realized he would be quoting—“but + my uncle and I had to see a fella—Yes, I’ve met your enchanting + daughter at dancing-school.” + </p> + <p> + Then he would shake hands, using that slight, half-foreign bow, with all + the starchy little females, and nod to the fellas who would be standing + ’round, paralyzed into rigid groups for mutual protection. + </p> + <p> + A butler (one of the three in Minneapolis) swung open the door. Amory + stepped inside and divested himself of cap and coat. He was mildly + surprised not to hear the shrill squawk of conversation from the next + room, and he decided it must be quite formal. He approved of that—as + he approved of the butler. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Myra,” he said. + </p> + <p> + To his surprise the butler grinned horribly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yeah,” he declared, “she’s here.” He was unaware that his failure to + be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly. + </p> + <p> + “But,” continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, “she’s the + only one what <i>is</i> here. The party’s gone.” + </p> + <p> + Amory gasped in sudden horror. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s been waitin’ for Amory Blaine. That’s you, ain’t it? Her mother + says that if you showed up by five-thirty you two was to go after ’em in + the Packard.” + </p> + <p> + Amory’s despair was crystallized by the appearance of Myra herself, + bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her face plainly sulky, her voice + pleasant only with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “’Lo, Amory.” + </p> + <p> + “’Lo, Myra.” He had described the state of his vitality. + </p> + <p> + “Well—you <i>got</i> here, <i>any</i>ways.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I’ll tell you. I guess you don’t know about the auto + accident,” he romanced. + </p> + <p> + Myra’s eyes opened wide. + </p> + <p> + “Who was it to?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he continued desperately, “uncle ’n aunt ’n I.” + </p> + <p> + “Was any one <i>killed?</i>” + </p> + <p> + Amory paused and then nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle?”—alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no just a horse—a sorta gray horse.” + </p> + <p> + At this point the Erse butler snickered. + </p> + <p> + “Probably killed the engine,” he suggested. Amory would have put him on + the rack without a scruple. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll go now,” said Myra coolly. “You see, Amory, the bobs were ordered + for five and everybody was here, so we couldn’t wait—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I couldn’t help it, could I?” + </p> + <p> + “So mama said for me to wait till ha’past five. We’ll catch the bobs + before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory.” + </p> + <p> + Amory’s shredded poise dropped from him. He pictured the happy party + jingling along snowy streets, the appearance of the limousine, the + horrible public descent of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes, his + apology—a real one this time. He sighed aloud. + </p> + <p> + “What?” inquired Myra. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to <i>surely</i> catch up with + ’em before they get there?” He was encouraging a faint hope that they + might slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be found in + blasé seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sure Mike, we’ll catch ’em all right—let’s hurry.” + </p> + <p> + He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped into the machine he + hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather box-like plan he + had conceived. It was based upon some “trade-lasts” gleaned at + dancing-school, to the effect that he was “awful good-looking and <i>English</i>, + sort of.” + </p> + <p> + “Myra,” he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words carefully, “I + beg a thousand pardons. Can you ever forgive me?” She regarded him + gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that to her thirteen-year-old, + arrow-collar taste was the quintessence of romance. Yes, Myra could + forgive him very easily. + </p> + <p> + “Why—yes—sure.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes. + </p> + <p> + “I’m awful,” he said sadly. “I’m diff’runt. I don’t know why I make faux + pas. ’Cause I don’t care, I s’pose.” Then, recklessly: “I been smoking too + much. I’ve got t’bacca heart.” + </p> + <p> + Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling + from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>Amory</i>, don’t smoke. You’ll stunt your <i>growth!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care,” he persisted gloomily. “I gotta. I got the habit. I’ve + done a lot of things that if my fambly knew”—he hesitated, giving + her imagination time to picture dark horrors—“I went to the + burlesque show last week.” + </p> + <p> + Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes on her again. “You’re + the only girl in town I like much,” he exclaimed in a rush of sentiment. + “You’re simpatico.” + </p> + <p> + Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely + improper. + </p> + <p> + Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden turn + she was jolted against him; their hands touched. + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn’t smoke, Amory,” she whispered. “Don’t you know that?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody cares.” + </p> + <p> + Myra hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> care.” + </p> + <p> + Something stirred within Amory. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody + knows that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven’t,” very slowly. + </p> + <p> + A silence, while Amory thrilled. There was something fascinating about + Myra, shut away here cosily from the dim, chill air. Myra, a little bundle + of clothes, with strands of yellow hair curling out from under her skating + cap. + </p> + <p> + “Because I’ve got a crush, too—” He paused, for he heard in the + distance the sound of young laughter, and, peering through the frosted + glass along the lamp-lit street, he made out the dark outline of the + bobbing party. He must act quickly. He reached over with a violent, jerky + effort, and clutched Myra’s hand—her thumb, to be exact. + </p> + <p> + “Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight,” he whispered. “I wanta talk to + you—I <i>got</i> to talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her mother, and + then—alas for convention—glanced into the eyes beside. “Turn + down this side street, Richard, and drive straight to the Minnehaha Club!” + she cried through the speaking tube. Amory sank back against the cushions + with a sigh of relief. + </p> + <p> + “I can kiss her,” he thought. “I’ll bet I can. I’ll <i>bet</i> I can!” + </p> + <p> + Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, and the night around + was chill and vibrant with rich tension. From the Country Club steps the + roads stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge heaps of + snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant moles. They lingered for a + moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon. + </p> + <p> + “Pale moons like that one”—Amory made a vague gesture—“make + people mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off and her + hair sorta mussed”—her hands clutched at her hair—“Oh, leave + it, it looks <i>good</i>.” + </p> + <p> + They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little den of his + dreams, where a cosy fire was burning before a big sink-down couch. A few + years later this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for many an + emotional crisis. Now they talked for a moment about bobbing parties. + </p> + <p> + “There’s always a bunch of shy fellas,” he commented, “sitting at the tail + of the bob, sorta lurkin’ an’ whisperin’ an’ pushin’ each other off. Then + there’s always some crazy cross-eyed girl”—he gave a terrifying + imitation—“she’s always talkin’ <i>hard</i>, sorta, to the + chaperon.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re such a funny boy,” puzzled Myra. + </p> + <p> + “How d’y’ mean?” Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at + last. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—always talking about crazy things. Why don’t you come ski-ing + with Marylyn and I to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like girls in the daytime,” he said shortly, and then, thinking + this a bit abrupt, he added: “But I like you.” He cleared his throat. “I + like you first and second and third.” + </p> + <p> + Myra’s eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell Marylyn! + Here on the couch with this <i>wonderful</i>-looking boy—the little + fire—the sense that they were alone in the great building— + </p> + <p> + Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate. + </p> + <p> + “I like you the first twenty-five,” she confessed, her voice trembling, + “and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth.” + </p> + <p> + Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had not even + noticed it. + </p> + <p> + But Amory, being on the spot, leaned over quickly and kissed Myra’s cheek. + He had never kissed a girl before, and he tasted his lips curiously, as if + he had munched some new fruit. Then their lips brushed like young wild + flowers in the wind. + </p> + <p> + “We’re awful,” rejoiced Myra gently. She slipped her hand into his, her + head drooped against his shoulder. Sudden revulsion seized Amory, disgust, + loathing for the whole incident. He desired frantically to be away, never + to see Myra again, never to kiss any one; he became conscious of his face + and hers, of their clinging hands, and he wanted to creep out of his body + and hide somewhere safe out of sight, up in the corner of his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Kiss me again.” Her voice came out of a great void. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to,” he heard himself saying. There was another pause. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to!” he repeated passionately. + </p> + <p> + Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great bow on the + back of her head trembling sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + “I hate you!” she cried. “Don’t you ever dare to speak to me again!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” stammered Amory. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell mama you kissed me! I will too! I will too! I’ll tell mama, and + she won’t let me play with you!” + </p> + <p> + Amory rose and stared at her helplessly, as though she were a new animal + of whose presence on the earth he had not heretofore been aware. + </p> + <p> + The door opened suddenly, and Myra’s mother appeared on the threshold, + fumbling with her lorgnette. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she began, adjusting it benignantly, “the man at the desk told me + you two children were up here—How do you do, Amory.” + </p> + <p> + Amory watched Myra and waited for the crash—but none came. The pout + faded, the high pink subsided, and Myra’s voice was placid as a summer + lake when she answered her mother. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well—” + </p> + <p> + He heard from below the shrieks of laughter, and smelled the vapid odor of + hot chocolate and tea-cakes as he silently followed mother and daughter + down-stairs. The sound of the graphophone mingled with the voices of many + girls humming the air, and a faint glow was born and spread over him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Casey-Jones—mounted to the cab-un + Casey-Jones—’th his orders in his hand. + Casey-Jones—mounted to the cab-un + Took his farewell journey to the prom-ised land.” + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + </p> + <p> + Amory spent nearly two years in Minneapolis. The first winter he wore + moccasins that were born yellow, but after many applications of oil and + dirt assumed their mature color, a dirty, greenish brown; he wore a gray + plaid mackinaw coat, and a red toboggan cap. His dog, Count Del Monte, ate + the red cap, so his uncle gave him a gray one that pulled down over his + face. The trouble with this one was that you breathed into it and your + breath froze; one day the darn thing froze his cheek. He rubbed snow on + his cheek, but it turned bluish-black just the same. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The Count Del Monte ate a box of bluing once, but it didn’t hurt him. + Later, however, he lost his mind and ran madly up the street, bumping into + fences, rolling in gutters, and pursuing his eccentric course out of + Amory’s life. Amory cried on his bed. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little Count,” he cried. “Oh, <i>poor</i> little <i>Count!</i>” + </p> + <p> + After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of emotional + acting. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in literature + occurred in Act III of “Arsene Lupin.” + </p> + <p> + They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees. The line + was: + </p> + <p> + “If one can’t be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best thing is + to be a great criminal.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Marylyn and Sallee, + Those are the girls for me. + Marylyn stands above + Sallee in that sweet, deep love.” + </pre> + <p> + He was interested in whether McGovern of Minnesota would make the first or + second All-American, how to do the card-pass, how to do the coin-pass, + chameleon ties, how babies were born, and whether Three-fingered Brown was + really a better pitcher than Christie Mathewson. + </p> + <p> + Among other things he read: “For the Honor of the School,” “Little Women” + (twice), “The Common Law,” “Sapho,” “Dangerous Dan McGrew,” “The Broad + Highway” (three times), “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “Three Weeks,” + “Mary Ware, the Little Colonel’s Chum,” “Gunga Din,” The Police Gazette, + and Jim-Jam Jems. + </p> + <p> + He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly fond of the + cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard authors. His + masters considered him idle, unreliable and superficially clever. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + He collected locks of hair from many girls. He wore the rings of several. + Finally he could borrow no more rings, owing to his nervous habit of + chewing them out of shape. This, it seemed, usually aroused the jealous + suspicions of the next borrower. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + All through the summer months Amory and Frog Parker went each week to the + Stock Company. Afterward they would stroll home in the balmy air of August + night, dreaming along Hennepin and Nicollet Avenues, through the gay + crowd. Amory wondered how people could fail to notice that he was a boy + marked for glory, and when faces of the throng turned toward him and + ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of + expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of + fourteen. + </p> + <p> + Always, after he was in bed, there were voices—indefinite, fading, + enchanting—just outside his window, and before he fell asleep he + would dream one of his favorite waking dreams, the one about becoming a + great half-back, or the one about the Japanese invasion, when he was + rewarded by being made the youngest general in the world. It was always + the becoming he dreamed of, never the being. This, too, was quite + characteristic of Amory. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + </p> + <p> + Before he was summoned back to Lake Geneva, he had appeared, shy but + inwardly glowing, in his first long trousers, set off by a purple + accordion tie and a “Belmont” collar with the edges unassailably meeting, + purple socks, and handkerchief with a purple border peeping from his + breast pocket. But more than that, he had formulated his first philosophy, + a code to live by, which, as near as it can be named, was a sort of + aristocratic egotism. + </p> + <p> + He had realized that his best interests were bound up with those of a + certain variant, changing person, whose label, in order that his past + might always be identified with him, was Amory Blaine. Amory marked + himself a fortunate youth, capable of infinite expansion for good or evil. + He did not consider himself a “strong char’c’ter,” but relied on his + facility (learn things sorta quick) and his superior mentality (read a + lotta deep books). He was proud of the fact that he could never become a + mechanical or scientific genius. From no other heights was he debarred. + </p> + <p> + Physically.—Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He was. + He fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple dancer. + </p> + <p> + Socially.—Here his condition was, perhaps, most dangerous. He + granted himself personality, charm, magnetism, poise, the power of + dominating all contemporary males, the gift of fascinating all women. + </p> + <p> + Mentally.—Complete, unquestioned superiority. + </p> + <p> + Now a confession will have to be made. Amory had rather a Puritan + conscience. Not that he yielded to it—later in life he almost + completely slew it—but at fifteen it made him consider himself a + great deal worse than other boys... unscrupulousness... the desire to + influence people in almost every way, even for evil... a certain coldness + and lack of affection, amounting sometimes to cruelty... a shifting sense + of honor... an unholy selfishness... a puzzled, furtive interest in + everything concerning sex. + </p> + <p> + There was, also, a curious strain of weakness running crosswise through + his make-up... a harsh phrase from the lips of an older boy (older boys + usually detested him) was liable to sweep him off his poise into surly + sensitiveness, or timid stupidity... he was a slave to his own moods and + he felt that though he was capable of recklessness and audacity, he + possessed neither courage, perseverance, nor self-respect. + </p> + <p> + Vanity, tempered with self-suspicion if not self-knowledge, a sense of + people as automatons to his will, a desire to “pass” as many boys as + possible and get to a vague top of the world... with this background did + Amory drift into adolescence. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE + </p> + <p> + The train slowed up with midsummer languor at Lake Geneva, and Amory + caught sight of his mother waiting in her electric on the gravelled + station drive. It was an ancient electric, one of the early types, and + painted gray. The sight of her sitting there, slenderly erect, and of her + face, where beauty and dignity combined, melting to a dreamy recollected + smile, filled him with a sudden great pride of her. As they kissed coolly + and he stepped into the electric, he felt a quick fear lest he had lost + the requisite charm to measure up to her. + </p> + <p> + “Dear boy—you’re <i>so</i> tall... look behind and see if there’s + anything coming...” + </p> + <p> + She looked left and right, she slipped cautiously into a speed of two + miles an hour, beseeching Amory to act as sentinel; and at one busy + crossing she made him get out and run ahead to signal her forward like a + traffic policeman. Beatrice was what might be termed a careful driver. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>are</i> tall—but you’re still very handsome—you’ve + skipped the awkward age, or is that sixteen; perhaps it’s fourteen or + fifteen; I can never remember; but you’ve skipped it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t embarrass me,” murmured Amory. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a <i>set</i>—don’t + they? Is your underwear purple, too?” + </p> + <p> + Amory grunted impolitely. + </p> + <p> + “You must go to Brooks’ and get some really nice suits. Oh, we’ll have a + talk to-night or perhaps to-morrow night. I want to tell you about your + heart—you’ve probably been neglecting your heart—and you don’t + <i>know</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Amory thought how superficial was the recent overlay of his own + generation. Aside from a minute shyness, he felt that the old cynical + kinship with his mother had not been one bit broken. Yet for the first few + days he wandered about the gardens and along the shore in a state of + superloneliness, finding a lethargic content in smoking “Bull” at the + garage with one of the chauffeurs. + </p> + <p> + The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and new summer houses + and many fountains and white benches that came suddenly into sight from + foliage-hung hiding-places; there was a great and constantly increasing + family of white cats that prowled the many flower-beds and were + silhouetted suddenly at night against the darkening trees. It was on one + of the shadowy paths that Beatrice at last captured Amory, after Mr. + Blaine had, as usual, retired for the evening to his private library. + After reproving him for avoiding her, she took him for a long tete-a-tete + in the moonlight. He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, that was + mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of a + fortunate woman of thirty. + </p> + <p> + “Amory, dear,” she crooned softly, “I had such a strange, weird time after + I left you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you, Beatrice?” + </p> + <p> + “When I had my last breakdown”—she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant + feat. + </p> + <p> + “The doctors told me”—her voice sang on a confidential note—“that + if any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would + have been physically <i>shattered</i>, my dear, and in his <i>grave</i>—long + in his grave.” + </p> + <p> + Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” continued Beatrice tragically, “I had dreams—wonderful + visions.” She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. “I saw bronze + rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air, + parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and the + flare of barbaric trumpets—what?” + </p> + <p> + Amory had snickered. + </p> + <p> + “What, Amory?” + </p> + <p> + “I said go on, Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + “That was all—it merely recurred and recurred—gardens that + flaunted coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that + whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest + moons—” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite well now, Beatrice?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite well—as well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory. I + know that can’t express it to you, Amory, but—I am not understood.” + </p> + <p> + Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his head + gently against her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Beatrice—poor Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about <i>you</i>, Amory. Did you have two <i>horrible</i> years?” + </p> + <p> + Amory considered lying, and then decided against it. + </p> + <p> + “No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself to the bourgeoisie. I + became conventional.” He surprised himself by saying that, and he pictured + how Froggy would have gaped. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice,” he said suddenly, “I want to go away to school. Everybody in + Minneapolis is going to go away to school.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice showed some alarm. + </p> + <p> + “But you’re only fifteen.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I <i>want</i> to, + Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + On Beatrice’s suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the walk, + but a week later she delighted him by saying: + </p> + <p> + “Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, you + can go to school.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “To St. Regis’s in Connecticut.” + </p> + <p> + Amory felt a quick excitement. + </p> + <p> + “It’s being arranged,” continued Beatrice. “It’s better that you should go + away. I’d have preferred you to have gone to Eton, and then to Christ + Church, Oxford, but it seems impracticable now—and for the present + we’ll let the university question take care of itself.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do, Beatrice?” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away my years in this country. Not + for a second do I regret being American—indeed, I think that a + regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel sure we are the great + coming nation—yet”—and she sighed—“I feel my life should + have drowsed away close to an older, mellower civilization, a land of + greens and autumnal browns—” + </p> + <p> + Amory did not answer, so his mother continued: + </p> + <p> + “My regret is that you haven’t been abroad, but still, as you are a man, + it’s better that you should grow up here under the snarling eagle—is + that the right term?” + </p> + <p> + Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the Japanese + invasion. + </p> + <p> + “When do I go to school?” + </p> + <p> + “Next month. You’ll have to start East a little early to take your + examinations. After that you’ll have a free week, so I want you to go up + the Hudson and pay a visit.” + </p> + <p> + “To who?” + </p> + <p> + “To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see you. He went to Harrow and + then to Yale—became a Catholic. I want him to talk to you—I + feel he can be such a help—” She stroked his auburn hair gently. + “Dear Amory, dear Amory—” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Beatrice—” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + So early in September Amory, provided with “six suits summer underwear, + six suits winter underwear, one sweater or T shirt, one jersey, one + overcoat, winter, etc.,” set out for New England, the land of schools. + </p> + <p> + There were Andover and Exeter with their memories of New England dead—large, + college-like democracies; St. Mark’s, Groton, St. Regis’—recruited + from Boston and the Knickerbocker families of New York; St. Paul’s, with + its great rinks; Pomfret and St. George’s, prosperous and well-dressed; + Taft and Hotchkiss, which prepared the wealth of the Middle West for + social success at Yale; Pawling, Westminster, Choate, Kent, and a hundred + others; all milling out their well-set-up, conventional, impressive type, + year after year; their mental stimulus the college entrance exams; their + vague purpose set forth in a hundred circulars as “To impart a Thorough + Mental, Moral, and Physical Training as a Christian Gentleman, to fit the + boy for meeting the problems of his day and generation, and to give a + solid foundation in the Arts and Sciences.” + </p> + <p> + At St. Regis’ Amory stayed three days and took his exams with a scoffing + confidence, then doubling back to New York to pay his tutelary visit. The + metropolis, barely glimpsed, made little impression on him, except for the + sense of cleanliness he drew from the tall white buildings seen from a + Hudson River steamboat in the early morning. Indeed, his mind was so + crowded with dreams of athletic prowess at school that he considered this + visit only as a rather tiresome prelude to the great adventure. This, + however, it did not prove to be. + </p> + <p> + Monsignor Darcy’s house was an ancient, rambling structure set on a hill + overlooking the river, and there lived its owner, between his trips to all + parts of the Roman-Catholic world, rather like an exiled Stuart king + waiting to be called to the rule of his land. Monsignor was forty-four + then, and bustling—a trifle too stout for symmetry, with hair the + color of spun gold, and a brilliant, enveloping personality. When he came + into a room clad in his full purple regalia from thatch to toe, he + resembled a Turner sunset, and attracted both admiration and attention. He + had written two novels: one of them violently anti-Catholic, just before + his conversion, and five years later another, in which he had attempted to + turn all his clever jibes against Catholics into even cleverer innuendoes + against Episcopalians. He was intensely ritualistic, startlingly dramatic, + loved the idea of God enough to be a celibate, and rather liked his + neighbor. + </p> + <p> + Children adored him because he was like a child; youth revelled in his + company because he was still a youth, and couldn’t be shocked. In the + proper land and century he might have been a Richelieu—at present he + was a very moral, very religious (if not particularly pious) clergyman, + making a great mystery about pulling rusty wires, and appreciating life to + the fullest, if not entirely enjoying it. + </p> + <p> + He and Amory took to each other at first sight—the jovial, + impressive prelate who could dazzle an embassy ball, and the green-eyed, + intent youth, in his first long trousers, accepted in their own minds a + relation of father and son within a half-hour’s conversation. + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, I’ve been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair and + we’ll have a chat.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve just come from school—St. Regis’s, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “So your mother says—a remarkable woman; have a cigarette—I’m + sure you smoke. Well, if you’re like me, you loathe all science and + mathematics—” + </p> + <p> + Amory nodded vehemently. + </p> + <p> + “Hate ’em all. Like English and history.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. You’ll hate school for a while, too, but I’m glad you’re going + to St. Regis’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s a gentleman’s school, and democracy won’t hit you so early. + You’ll find plenty of that in college.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go to Princeton,” said Amory. “I don’t know why, but I think of + all Harvard men as sissies, like I used to be, and all Yale men as wearing + big blue sweaters and smoking pipes.” + </p> + <p> + Monsignor chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “I’m one, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’re different—I think of Princeton as being lazy and + good-looking and aristocratic—you know, like a spring day. Harvard + seems sort of indoors—” + </p> + <p> + “And Yale is November, crisp and energetic,” finished Monsignor. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it.” + </p> + <p> + They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. + </p> + <p> + “I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie,” announced Amory. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you were—and for Hannibal—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy.” He was rather sceptical about + being an Irish patriot—he suspected that being Irish was being + somewhat common—but Monsignor assured him that Ireland was a + romantic lost cause and Irish people quite charming, and that it should, + by all means, be one of his principal biasses. + </p> + <p> + After a crowded hour which included several more cigarettes, and during + which Monsignor learned, to his surprise but not to his horror, that Amory + had not been brought up a Catholic, he announced that he had another + guest. This turned out to be the Honorable Thornton Hancock, of Boston, + ex-minister to The Hague, author of an erudite history of the Middle Ages + and the last of a distinguished, patriotic, and brilliant family. + </p> + <p> + “He comes here for a rest,” said Monsignor confidentially, treating Amory + as a contemporary. “I act as an escape from the weariness of agnosticism, + and I think I’m the only man who knows how his staid old mind is really at + sea and longs for a sturdy spar like the Church to cling to.” + </p> + <p> + Their first luncheon was one of the memorable events of Amory’s early + life. He was quite radiant and gave off a peculiar brightness and charm. + Monsignor called out the best that he had thought by question and + suggestion, and Amory talked with an ingenious brilliance of a thousand + impulses and desires and repulsions and faiths and fears. He and Monsignor + held the floor, and the older man, with his less receptive, less + accepting, yet certainly not colder mentality, seemed content to listen + and bask in the mellow sunshine that played between these two. Monsignor + gave the effect of sunlight to many people; Amory gave it in his youth + and, to some extent, when he was very much older, but never again was it + quite so mutually spontaneous. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a radiant boy,” thought Thornton Hancock, who had seen the splendor + of two continents and talked with Parnell and Gladstone and Bismarck—and + afterward he added to Monsignor: “But his education ought not to be + intrusted to a school or college.” + </p> + <p> + But for the next four years the best of Amory’s intellect was concentrated + on matters of popularity, the intricacies of a university social system + and American Society as represented by Biltmore Teas and Hot Springs + golf-links. + </p> + <p> + ... In all, a wonderful week, that saw Amory’s mind turned inside out, a + hundred of his theories confirmed, and his joy of life crystallized to a + thousand ambitions. Not that the conversation was scholastic—heaven + forbid! Amory had only the vaguest idea as to what Bernard Shaw was—but + Monsignor made quite as much out of “The Beloved Vagabond” and “Sir + Nigel,” taking good care that Amory never once felt out of his depth. + </p> + <p> + But the trumpets were sounding for Amory’s preliminary skirmish with his + own generation. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is where + we are not,” said Monsignor. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>am</i> sorry—” + </p> + <p> + “No, you’re not. No one person in the world is necessary to you or to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + THE EGOTIST DOWN + </p> + <p> + Amory’s two years at St. Regis’, though in turn painful and triumphant, + had as little real significance in his own life as the American “prep” + school, crushed as it is under the heel of the universities, has to + American life in general. We have no Eton to create the self-consciousness + of a governing class; we have, instead, clean, flaccid and innocuous + preparatory schools. + </p> + <p> + He went all wrong at the start, was generally considered both conceited + and arrogant, and universally detested. He played football intensely, + alternating a reckless brilliancy with a tendency to keep himself as safe + from hazard as decency would permit. In a wild panic he backed out of a + fight with a boy his own size, to a chorus of scorn, and a week later, in + desperation, picked a battle with another boy very much bigger, from which + he emerged badly beaten, but rather proud of himself. + </p> + <p> + He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and this, + combined with a lazy indifference toward his work, exasperated every + master in school. He grew discouraged and imagined himself a pariah; took + to sulking in corners and reading after lights. With a dread of being + alone he attached a few friends, but since they were not among the elite + of the school, he used them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences before + which he might do that posing absolutely essential to him. He was + unbearably lonely, desperately unhappy. + </p> + <p> + There were some few grains of comfort. Whenever Amory was submerged, his + vanity was the last part to go below the surface, so he could still enjoy + a comfortable glow when “Wookey-wookey,” the deaf old housekeeper, told + him that he was the best-looking boy she had ever seen. It had pleased him + to be the lightest and youngest man on the first football squad; it + pleased him when Doctor Dougall told him at the end of a heated conference + that he could, if he wished, get the best marks in school. But Doctor + Dougall was wrong. It was temperamentally impossible for Amory to get the + best marks in school. + </p> + <p> + Miserable, confined to bounds, unpopular with both faculty and students—that + was Amory’s first term. But at Christmas he had returned to Minneapolis, + tight-lipped and strangely jubilant. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I was sort of fresh at first,” he told Frog Parker patronizingly, + “but I got along fine—lightest man on the squad. You ought to go + away to school, Froggy. It’s great stuff.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR + </p> + <p> + On the last night of his first term, Mr. Margotson, the senior master, + sent word to study hall that Amory was to come to his room at nine. Amory + suspected that advice was forthcoming, but he determined to be courteous, + because this Mr. Margotson had been kindly disposed toward him. + </p> + <p> + His summoner received him gravely, and motioned him to a chair. He hemmed + several times and looked consciously kind, as a man will when he knows + he’s on delicate ground. + </p> + <p> + “Amory,” he began. “I’ve sent for you on a personal matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve noticed you this year and I—I like you. I think you have in + you the makings of a—a very good man.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as if + he were an admitted failure. + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve noticed,” continued the older man blindly, “that you’re not very + popular with the boys.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” Amory licked his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—I thought you might not understand exactly what it was they—ah—objected + to. I’m going to tell you, because I believe—ah—that when a + boy knows his difficulties he’s better able to cope with them—to + conform to what others expect of him.” He a-hemmed again with delicate + reticence, and continued: “They seem to think that you’re—ah—rather + too fresh—” + </p> + <p> + Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely controlling + his voice when he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I know—oh, <i>don’t</i> you s’pose I know.” His voice rose. “I know + what they think; do you s’pose you have to <i>tell</i> me!” He paused. + “I’m—I’ve got to go back now—hope I’m not rude—” + </p> + <p> + He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked to his + house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped. + </p> + <p> + “That <i>damn</i> old fool!” he cried wildly. “As if I didn’t <i>know!</i>” + </p> + <p> + He decided, however, that this was a good excuse not to go back to study + hall that night, so, comfortably couched up in his room, he munched + Nabiscos and finished “The White Company.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL + </p> + <p> + There was a bright star in February. New York burst upon him on + Washington’s Birthday with the brilliance of a long-anticipated event. His + glimpse of it as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue sky had left a + picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in the Arabian Nights; + but this time he saw it by electric light, and romance gleamed from the + chariot-race sign on Broadway and from the women’s eyes at the Astor, + where he and young Paskert from St. Regis’ had dinner. When they walked + down the aisle of the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging and discord + of untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance of paint and powder, + he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything enchanted him. The + play was “The Little Millionaire,” with George M. Cohan, and there was one + stunning young brunette who made him sit with brimming eyes in the ecstasy + of watching her dance. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh—you—wonderful girl, + What a wonderful girl you are—” + </pre> + <p> + sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All—your—wonderful words + Thrill me through—” + </pre> + <p> + The violins swelled and quavered on the last notes, the girl sank to a + crumpled butterfly on the stage, a great burst of clapping filled the + house. Oh, to fall in love like that, to the languorous magic melody of + such a tune! + </p> + <p> + The last scene was laid on a roof-garden, and the cellos sighed to the + musical moon, while light adventure and facile froth-like comedy flitted + back and forth in the calcium. Amory was on fire to be an habitui of + roof-gardens, to meet a girl who should look like that—better, that + very girl; whose hair would be drenched with golden moonlight, while at + his elbow sparkling wine was poured by an unintelligible waiter. When the + curtain fell for the last time he gave such a long sigh that the people in + front of him twisted around and stared and said loud enough for him to + hear: + </p> + <p> + “What a <i>remarkable</i>-looking boy!” + </p> + <p> + This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem + handsome to the population of New York. + </p> + <p> + Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. The former was the + first to speak. His uncertain fifteen-year-old voice broke in in a + melancholy strain on Amory’s musings: + </p> + <p> + “I’d marry that girl to-night.” + </p> + <p> + There was no need to ask what girl he referred to. + </p> + <p> + “I’d be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people,” continued + Paskert. + </p> + <p> + Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of + Paskert. It sounded so mature. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?” + </p> + <p> + “No, <i>sir</i>, not by a darn sight,” said the worldly youth with + emphasis, “and I know that girl’s as good as gold. I can tell.” + </p> + <p> + They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the music that + eddied out of the cafes. New faces flashed on and off like myriad lights, + pale or rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by a weary excitement. Amory + watched them in fascination. He was planning his life. He was going to + live in New York, and be known at every restaurant and cafe, wearing a + dress-suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping away the dull + hours of the forenoon. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, <i>sir</i>, I’d marry that girl to-night!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE + </p> + <p> + October of his second and last year at St. Regis’ was a high point in + Amory’s memory. The game with Groton was played from three of a snappy, + exhilarating afternoon far into the crisp autumnal twilight, and Amory at + quarter-back, exhorting in wild despair, making impossible tackles, + calling signals in a voice that had diminished to a hoarse, furious + whisper, yet found time to revel in the blood-stained bandage around his + head, and the straining, glorious heroism of plunging, crashing bodies and + aching limbs. For those minutes courage flowed like wine out of the + November dusk, and he was the eternal hero, one with the sea-rover on the + prow of a Norse galley, one with Roland and Horatius, Sir Nigel and Ted + Coy, scraped and stripped into trim and then flung by his own will into + the breach, beating back the tide, hearing from afar the thunder of + cheers... finally bruised and weary, but still elusive, circling an end, + twisting, changing pace, straight-arming... falling behind the Groton goal + with two men on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER + </p> + <p> + From the scoffing superiority of sixth-form year and success Amory looked + back with cynical wonder on his status of the year before. He was changed + as completely as Amory Blaine could ever be changed. Amory plus Beatrice + plus two years in Minneapolis—these had been his ingredients when he + entered St. Regis’. But the Minneapolis years were not a thick enough + overlay to conceal the “Amory plus Beatrice” from the ferreting eyes of a + boarding-school, so St. Regis’ had very painfully drilled Beatrice out of + him, and begun to lay down new and more conventional planking on the + fundamental Amory. But both St. Regis’ and Amory were unconscious of the + fact that this fundamental Amory had not in himself changed. Those + qualities for which he had suffered, his moodiness, his tendency to pose, + his laziness, and his love of playing the fool, were now taken as a matter + of course, recognized eccentricities in a star quarter-back, a clever + actor, and the editor of the St. Regis Tattler: it puzzled him to see + impressionable small boys imitating the very vanities that had not long + ago been contemptible weaknesses. + </p> + <p> + After the football season he slumped into dreamy content. The night of the + pre-holiday dance he slipped away and went early to bed for the pleasure + of hearing the violin music cross the grass and come surging in at his + window. Many nights he lay there dreaming awake of secret cafes in Mont + Martre, where ivory women delved in romantic mysteries with diplomats and + soldiers of fortune, while orchestras played Hungarian waltzes and the air + was thick and exotic with intrigue and moonlight and adventure. In the + spring he read “L’Allegro,” by request, and was inspired to lyrical + outpourings on the subject of Arcady and the pipes of Pan. He moved his + bed so that the sun would wake him at dawn that he might dress and go out + to the archaic swing that hung from an apple-tree near the sixth-form + house. Seating himself in this he would pump higher and higher until he + got the effect of swinging into the wide air, into a fairyland of piping + satyrs and nymphs with the faces of fair-haired girls he passed in the + streets of Eastchester. As the swing reached its highest point, Arcady + really lay just over the brow of a certain hill, where the brown road + dwindled out of sight in a golden dot. + </p> + <p> + He read voluminously all spring, the beginning of his eighteenth year: + “The Gentleman from Indiana,” “The New Arabian Nights,” “The Morals of + Marcus Ordeyne,” “The Man Who Was Thursday,” which he liked without + understanding; “Stover at Yale,” that became somewhat of a text-book; + “Dombey and Son,” because he thought he really should read better stuff; + Robert Chambers, David Graham Phillips, and E. Phillips Oppenheim + complete, and a scattering of Tennyson and Kipling. Of all his class work + only “L’Allegro” and some quality of rigid clarity in solid geometry + stirred his languid interest. + </p> + <p> + As June drew near, he felt the need of conversation to formulate his own + ideas, and, to his surprise, found a co-philosopher in Rahill, the + president of the sixth form. In many a talk, on the highroad or lying + belly-down along the edge of the baseball diamond, or late at night with + their cigarettes glowing in the dark, they threshed out the questions of + school, and there was developed the term “slicker.” + </p> + <p> + “Got tobacco?” whispered Rahill one night, putting his head inside the + door five minutes after lights. + </p> + <p> + “Sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m coming in.” + </p> + <p> + “Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don’t you.” + </p> + <p> + Amory sat up in bed and lit a cigarette while Rahill settled for a + conversation. Rahill’s favorite subject was the respective futures of the + sixth form, and Amory never tired of outlining them for his benefit. + </p> + <p> + “Ted Converse? ’At’s easy. He’ll fail his exams, tutor all summer at + Harstrum’s, get into Sheff with about four conditions, and flunk out in + the middle of the freshman year. Then he’ll go back West and raise hell + for a year or so; finally his father will make him go into the paint + business. He’ll marry and have four sons, all bone heads. He’ll always + think St. Regis’s spoiled him, so he’ll send his sons to day school in + Portland. He’ll die of locomotor ataxia when he’s forty-one, and his wife + will give a baptizing stand or whatever you call it to the Presbyterian + Church, with his name on it—” + </p> + <p> + “Hold up, Amory. That’s too darned gloomy. How about yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m in a superior class. You are, too. We’re philosophers.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure you are. You’ve got a darn good head on you.” But Amory knew that + nothing in the abstract, no theory or generality, ever moved Rahill until + he stubbed his toe upon the concrete minutiae of it. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t,” insisted Rahill. “I let people impose on me here and don’t get + anything out of it. I’m the prey of my friends, damn it—do their + lessons, get ’em out of trouble, pay ’em stupid summer visits, and always + entertain their kid sisters; keep my temper when they get selfish and then + they think they pay me back by voting for me and telling me I’m the ‘big + man’ of St. Regis’s. I want to get where everybody does their own work and + I can tell people where to go. I’m tired of being nice to every poor fish + in school.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a slicker,” said Amory suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “A what?” + </p> + <p> + “A slicker.” + </p> + <p> + “What the devil’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s something that—that—there’s a lot of them. You’re + not one, and neither am I, though I am more than you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is one? What makes you one?” + </p> + <p> + Amory considered. + </p> + <p> + “Why—why, I suppose that the <i>sign</i> of it is when a fellow + slicks his hair back with water.” + </p> + <p> + “Like Carstairs?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—sure. He’s a slicker.” + </p> + <p> + They spent two evenings getting an exact definition. The slicker was + good-looking or clean-looking; he had brains, social brains, that is, and + he used all means on the broad path of honesty to get ahead, be popular, + admired, and never in trouble. He dressed well, was particularly neat in + appearance, and derived his name from the fact that his hair was + inevitably worn short, soaked in water or tonic, parted in the middle, and + slicked back as the current of fashion dictated. The slickers of that year + had adopted tortoise-shell spectacles as badges of their slickerhood, and + this made them so easy to recognize that Amory and Rahill never missed + one. The slicker seemed distributed through school, always a little wiser + and shrewder than his contemporaries, managing some team or other, and + keeping his cleverness carefully concealed. + </p> + <p> + Amory found the slicker a most valuable classification until his junior + year in college, when the outline became so blurred and indeterminate that + it had to be subdivided many times, and became only a quality. Amory’s + secret ideal had all the slicker qualifications, but, in addition, courage + and tremendous brains and talents—also Amory conceded him a bizarre + streak that was quite irreconcilable to the slicker proper. + </p> + <p> + This was a first real break from the hypocrisy of school tradition. The + slicker was a definite element of success, differing intrinsically from + the prep school “big man.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “THE SLICKER” + + 1. Clever sense of social values. + + 2. Dresses well. Pretends that dress is superficial—but knows that it isn’t. + + 3. Goes into such activities as he can shine in. + + 4. Gets to college and is, in a worldly way, successful. + + 5. Hair slicked. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “THE BIG MAN” + + 1. Inclined to stupidity and unconscious of social values. + + 2. Thinks dress is superficial, and is inclined to be + careless about it. + + 3. Goes out for everything from a sense of duty. + + 4. Gets to college and has a problematical future. Feels lost + without his circle, and always says that school days were + happiest, after all. Goes back to school and makes speeches + about what St. Regis’s boys are doing. + + 5. Hair not slicked. +</pre> + <p> + Amory had decided definitely on Princeton, even though he would be the + only boy entering that year from St. Regis’. Yale had a romance and + glamour from the tales of Minneapolis, and St. Regis’ men who had been + “tapped for Skull and Bones,” but Princeton drew him most, with its + atmosphere of bright colors and its alluring reputation as the pleasantest + country club in America. Dwarfed by the menacing college exams, Amory’s + school days drifted into the past. Years afterward, when he went back to + St. Regis’, he seemed to have forgotten the successes of sixth-form year, + and to be able to picture himself only as the unadjustable boy who had + hurried down corridors, jeered at by his rabid contemporaries mad with + common sense. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles + </h2> + <p> + At first Amory noticed only the wealth of sunshine creeping across the + long, green swards, dancing on the leaded window-panes, and swimming + around the tops of spires and towers and battlemented walls. Gradually he + realized that he was really walking up University Place, self-conscious + about his suitcase, developing a new tendency to glare straight ahead when + he passed any one. Several times he could have sworn that men turned to + look at him critically. He wondered vaguely if there was something the + matter with his clothes, and wished he had shaved that morning on the + train. He felt unnecessarily stiff and awkward among these + white-flannelled, bareheaded youths, who must be juniors and seniors, + judging from the savoir faire with which they strolled. + </p> + <p> + He found that 12 University Place was a large, dilapidated mansion, at + present apparently uninhabited, though he knew it housed usually a dozen + freshmen. After a hurried skirmish with his landlady he sallied out on a + tour of exploration, but he had gone scarcely a block when he became + horribly conscious that he must be the only man in town who was wearing a + hat. He returned hurriedly to 12 University, left his derby, and, emerging + bareheaded, loitered down Nassau Street, stopping to investigate a display + of athletic photographs in a store window, including a large one of + Allenby, the football captain, and next attracted by the sign “Jigger + Shop” over a confectionary window. This sounded familiar, so he sauntered + in and took a seat on a high stool. + </p> + <p> + “Chocolate sundae,” he told a colored person. + </p> + <p> + “Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Bacon bun?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—yes.” + </p> + <p> + He munched four of these, finding them of pleasing savor, and then + consumed another double-chocolate jigger before ease descended upon him. + After a cursory inspection of the pillow-cases, leather pennants, and + Gibson Girls that lined the walls, he left, and continued along Nassau + Street with his hands in his pockets. Gradually he was learning to + distinguish between upper classmen and entering men, even though the + freshman cap would not appear until the following Monday. Those who were + too obviously, too nervously at home were freshmen, for as each train + brought a new contingent it was immediately absorbed into the hatless, + white-shod, book-laden throng, whose function seemed to be to drift + endlessly up and down the street, emitting great clouds of smoke from + brand-new pipes. By afternoon Amory realized that now the newest arrivals + were taking him for an upper classman, and he tried conscientiously to + look both pleasantly blasé and casually critical, which was as near as he + could analyze the prevalent facial expression. + </p> + <p> + At five o’clock he felt the need of hearing his own voice, so he retreated + to his house to see if any one else had arrived. Having climbed the + rickety stairs he scrutinized his room resignedly, concluding that it was + hopeless to attempt any more inspired decoration than class banners and + tiger pictures. There was a tap at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” + </p> + <p> + A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Got a hammer?” + </p> + <p> + “No—sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger advanced into the room. + </p> + <p> + “You an inmate of this asylum?” + </p> + <p> + Amory nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Awful barn for the rent we pay.” + </p> + <p> + Amory had to agree that it was. + </p> + <p> + “I thought of the campus,” he said, “but they say there’s so few freshmen + that they’re lost. Have to sit around and study for something to do.” + </p> + <p> + The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself. + </p> + <p> + “My name’s Holiday.” + </p> + <p> + “Blaine’s my name.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned. + </p> + <p> + “Where’d you prep?” + </p> + <p> + “Andover—where did you?” + </p> + <p> + “St. Regis’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, did you? I had a cousin there.” + </p> + <p> + They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he + was to meet his brother for dinner at six. + </p> + <p> + “Come along and have a bite with us.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holiday—he of the gray eyes was + Kerry—and during a limpid meal of thin soup and anaemic vegetables + they stared at the other freshmen, who sat either in small groups looking + very ill at ease, or in large groups seeming very much at home. + </p> + <p> + “I hear Commons is pretty bad,” said Amory. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the rumor. But you’ve got to eat there—or pay anyways.” + </p> + <p> + “Crime!” + </p> + <p> + “Imposition!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, at Princeton you’ve got to swallow everything the first year. It’s + like a damned prep school.” + </p> + <p> + Amory agreed. + </p> + <p> + “Lot of pep, though,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t have gone to Yale for a + million.” + </p> + <p> + “Me either.” + </p> + <p> + “You going out for anything?” inquired Amory of the elder brother. + </p> + <p> + “Not me—Burne here is going out for the Prince—the Daily + Princetonian, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “You going out for anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—yes. I’m going to take a whack at freshman football.” + </p> + <p> + “Play at St. Regis’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Some,” admitted Amory depreciatingly, “but I’m getting so damned thin.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not thin.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I used to be stocky last fall.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + After supper they attended the movies, where Amory was fascinated by the + glib comments of a man in front of him, as well as by the wild yelling and + shouting. + </p> + <p> + “Yoho!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, honey-baby—you’re so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!” + </p> + <p> + “Clinch!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Clinch!” + </p> + <p> + “Kiss her, kiss ’at lady, quick!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h-h—!” + </p> + <p> + A group began whistling “By the Sea,” and the audience took it up noisily. + This was followed by an indistinguishable song that included much stamping + and then by an endless, incoherent dirge. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh-h-h-h-h + She works in a Jam Factoree + And—that-may-be-all-right + But you can’t-fool-me + For I know—DAMN—WELL + That she DON’T-make-jam-all-night! + Oh-h-h-h!” + </pre> + <p> + As they pushed out, giving and receiving curious impersonal glances, Amory + decided that he liked the movies, wanted to enjoy them as the row of upper + classmen in front had enjoyed them, with their arms along the backs of the + seats, their comments Gaelic and caustic, their attitude a mixture of + critical wit and tolerant amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Want a sundae—I mean a jigger?” asked Kerry. + </p> + <p> + “Sure.” + </p> + <p> + They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to 12. + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful night.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a whiz.” + </p> + <p> + “You men going to unpack?” + </p> + <p> + “Guess so. Come on, Burne.” + </p> + <p> + Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade them good + night. + </p> + <p> + The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last edge + of twilight. The early moon had drenched the arches with pale blue, and, + weaving over the night, in and out of the gossamer rifts of moon, swept a + song, a song with more than a hint of sadness, infinitely transient, + infinitely regretful. + </p> + <p> + He remembered that an alumnus of the nineties had told him of one of Booth + Tarkington’s amusements: standing in mid-campus in the small hours and + singing tenor songs to the stars, arousing mingled emotions in the couched + undergraduates according to the sentiment of their moods. + </p> + <p> + Now, far down the shadowy line of University Place a white-clad phalanx + broke the gloom, and marching figures, white-shirted, white-trousered, + swung rhythmically up the street, with linked arms and heads thrown back: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Going back—going back, + Going—back—to—Nas-sau—Hall, + Going back—going back— + To the—Best—Old—Place—of—All. + Going back—going back, + From all—this—earth-ly—ball, + We’ll—clear—the—track—as—we—go—back— + Going—back—to—Nas-sau—Hall!” + </pre> + <p> + Amory closed his eyes as the ghostly procession drew near. The song soared + so high that all dropped out except the tenors, who bore the melody + triumphantly past the danger-point and relinquished it to the fantastic + chorus. Then Amory opened his eyes, half afraid that sight would spoil the + rich illusion of harmony. + </p> + <p> + He sighed eagerly. There at the head of the white platoon marched Allenby, + the football captain, slim and defiant, as if aware that this year the + hopes of the college rested on him, that his hundred-and-sixty pounds were + expected to dodge to victory through the heavy blue and crimson lines. + </p> + <p> + Fascinated, Amory watched each rank of linked arms as it came abreast, the + faces indistinct above the polo shirts, the voices blent in a paean of + triumph—and then the procession passed through shadowy Campbell + Arch, and the voices grew fainter as it wound eastward over the campus. + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed and Amory sat there very quietly. He regretted the rule + that would forbid freshmen to be outdoors after curfew, for he wanted to + ramble through the shadowy scented lanes, where Witherspoon brooded like a + dark mother over Whig and Clio, her Attic children, where the black Gothic + snake of Little curled down to Cuyler and Patton, these in turn flinging + the mystery out over the placid slope rolling to the lake. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Princeton of the daytime filtered slowly into his consciousness—West + and Reunion, redolent of the sixties, Seventy-nine Hall, brick-red and + arrogant, Upper and Lower Pyne, aristocratic Elizabethan ladies not quite + content to live among shopkeepers, and, topping all, climbing with clear + blue aspiration, the great dreaming spires of Holder and Cleveland towers. + </p> + <p> + From the first he loved Princeton—its lazy beauty, its half-grasped + significance, the wild moonlight revel of the rushes, the handsome, + prosperous big-game crowds, and under it all the air of struggle that + pervaded his class. From the day when, wild-eyed and exhausted, the + jerseyed freshmen sat in the gymnasium and elected some one from Hill + School class president, a Lawrenceville celebrity vice-president, a hockey + star from St. Paul’s secretary, up until the end of sophomore year it + never ceased, that breathless social system, that worship, seldom named, + never really admitted, of the bogey “Big Man.” + </p> + <p> + First it was schools, and Amory, alone from St. Regis’, watched the crowds + form and widen and form again; St. Paul’s, Hill, Pomfret, eating at + certain tacitly reserved tables in Commons, dressing in their own corners + of the gymnasium, and drawing unconsciously about them a barrier of the + slightly less important but socially ambitious to protect them from the + friendly, rather puzzled high-school element. From the moment he realized + this Amory resented social barriers as artificial distinctions made by the + strong to bolster up their weak retainers and keep out the almost strong. + </p> + <p> + Having decided to be one of the gods of the class, he reported for + freshman football practice, but in the second week, playing quarter-back, + already paragraphed in corners of the Princetonian, he wrenched his knee + seriously enough to put him out for the rest of the season. This forced + him to retire and consider the situation. + </p> + <p> + “12 Univee” housed a dozen miscellaneous question-marks. There were three + or four inconspicuous and quite startled boys from Lawrenceville, two + amateur wild men from a New York private school (Kerry Holiday christened + them the “plebeian drunks”), a Jewish youth, also from New York, and, as + compensation for Amory, the two Holidays, to whom he took an instant + fancy. + </p> + <p> + The Holidays were rumored twins, but really the dark-haired one, Kerry, + was a year older than his blond brother, Burne. Kerry was tall, with + humorous gray eyes, and a sudden, attractive smile; he became at once the + mentor of the house, reaper of ears that grew too high, censor of conceit, + vendor of rare, satirical humor. Amory spread the table of their future + friendship with all his ideas of what college should and did mean. Kerry, + not inclined as yet to take things seriously, chided him gently for being + curious at this inopportune time about the intricacies of the social + system, but liked him and was both interested and amused. + </p> + <p> + Burne, fair-haired, silent, and intent, appeared in the house only as a + busy apparition, gliding in quietly at night and off again in the early + morning to get up his work in the library—he was out for the + Princetonian, competing furiously against forty others for the coveted + first place. In December he came down with diphtheria, and some one else + won the competition, but, returning to college in February, he dauntlessly + went after the prize again. Necessarily, Amory’s acquaintance with him was + in the way of three-minute chats, walking to and from lectures, so he + failed to penetrate Burne’s one absorbing interest and find what lay + beneath it. + </p> + <p> + Amory was far from contented. He missed the place he had won at St. + Regis’, the being known and admired, yet Princeton stimulated him, and + there were many things ahead calculated to arouse the Machiavelli latent + in him, could he but insert a wedge. The upper-class clubs, concerning + which he had pumped a reluctant graduate during the previous summer, + excited his curiosity: Ivy, detached and breathlessly aristocratic; + Cottage, an impressive mélange of brilliant adventurers and well-dressed + philanderers; Tiger Inn, broad-shouldered and athletic, vitalized by an + honest elaboration of prep-school standards; Cap and Gown, anti-alcoholic, + faintly religious and politically powerful; flamboyant Colonial; literary + Quadrangle; and the dozen others, varying in age and position. + </p> + <p> + Anything which brought an under classman into too glaring a light was + labelled with the damning brand of “running it out.” The movies thrived on + caustic comments, but the men who made them were generally running it out; + talking of clubs was running it out; standing for anything very strongly, + as, for instance, drinking parties or teetotalling, was running it out; in + short, being personally conspicuous was not tolerated, and the influential + man was the non-committal man, until at club elections in sophomore year + every one should be sewed up in some bag for the rest of his college + career. + </p> + <p> + Amory found that writing for the Nassau Literary Magazine would get him + nothing, but that being on the board of the Daily Princetonian would get + any one a good deal. His vague desire to do immortal acting with the + English Dramatic Association faded out when he found that the most + ingenious brains and talents were concentrated upon the Triangle Club, a + musical comedy organization that every year took a great Christmas trip. + In the meanwhile, feeling strangely alone and restless in Commons, with + new desires and ambitions stirring in his mind, he let the first term go + by between an envy of the embryo successes and a puzzled fretting with + Kerry as to why they were not accepted immediately among the elite of the + class. + </p> + <p> + Many afternoons they lounged in the windows of 12 Univee and watched the + class pass to and from Commons, noting satellites already attaching + themselves to the more prominent, watching the lonely grind with his + hurried step and downcast eye, envying the happy security of the big + school groups. + </p> + <p> + “We’re the damned middle class, that’s what!” he complained to Kerry one + day as he lay stretched out on the sofa, consuming a family of Fatimas + with contemplative precision. + </p> + <p> + “Well, why not? We came to Princeton so we could feel that way toward the + small colleges—have it on ’em, more self-confidence, dress better, + cut a swathe—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it isn’t that I mind the glittering caste system,” admitted Amory. “I + like having a bunch of hot cats on top, but gosh, Kerry, I’ve got to be + one of them.” + </p> + <p> + “But just now, Amory, you’re only a sweaty bourgeois.” + </p> + <p> + Amory lay for a moment without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t be—long,” he said finally. “But I hate to get anywhere by + working for it. I’ll show the marks, don’t you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Honorable scars.” Kerry craned his neck suddenly at the street. “There’s + Langueduc, if you want to see what he looks like—and Humbird just + behind.” + </p> + <p> + Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” he said, scrutinizing these worthies, “Humbird looks like a + knock-out, but this Langueduc—he’s the rugged type, isn’t he? I + distrust that sort. All diamonds look big in the rough.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, “you’re a literary genius. + It’s up to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder”—Amory paused—“if I could be. I honestly think so + sometimes. That sounds like the devil, and I wouldn’t say it to anybody + except you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy + D’Invilliers in the Lit.” + </p> + <p> + Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Read his latest effort?” + </p> + <p> + “Never miss ’em. They’re rare.” + </p> + <p> + Amory glanced through the issue. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he said in surprise, “he’s a freshman, isn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yeah.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to this! My God! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘A serving lady speaks: + Black velvet trails its folds over the day, + White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames, + Wave their thin flames like shadows in the wind, + Pia, Pompia, come—come away—’ +</pre> + <p> + “Now, what the devil does that mean?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a pantry scene.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Her toes are stiffened like a stork’s in flight; + She’s laid upon her bed, on the white sheets, + Her hands pressed on her smooth bust like a saint, + Bella Cunizza, come into the light!’ +</pre> + <p> + “My gosh, Kerry, what in hell is it all about? I swear I don’t get him at + all, and I’m a literary bird myself.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s pretty tricky,” said Kerry, “only you’ve got to think of hearses and + stale milk when you read it. That isn’t as pash as some of them.” + </p> + <p> + Amory tossed the magazine on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he sighed, “I sure am up in the air. I know I’m not a regular + fellow, yet I loathe anybody else that isn’t. I can’t decide whether to + cultivate my mind and be a great dramatist, or to thumb my nose at the + Golden Treasury and be a Princeton slicker.” + </p> + <p> + “Why decide?” suggested Kerry. “Better drift, like me. I’m going to sail + into prominence on Burne’s coat-tails.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t drift—I want to be interested. I want to pull strings, even + for somebody else, or be Princetonian chairman or Triangle president. I + want to be admired, Kerry.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re thinking too much about yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Amory sat up at this. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m thinking about you, too. We’ve got to get out and mix around the + class right now, when it’s fun to be a snob. I’d like to bring a sardine + to the prom in June, for instance, but I wouldn’t do it unless I could be + damn debonaire about it—introduce her to all the prize + parlor-snakes, and the football captain, and all that simple stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “Amory,” said Kerry impatiently, “you’re just going around in a circle. If + you want to be prominent, get out and try for something; if you don’t, + just take it easy.” He yawned. “Come on, let’s let the smoke drift off. + We’ll go down and watch football practice.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Amory gradually accepted this point of view, decided that next fall would + inaugurate his career, and relinquished himself to watching Kerry extract + joy from 12 Univee. + </p> + <p> + They filled the Jewish youth’s bed with lemon pie; they put out the gas + all over the house every night by blowing into the jet in Amory’s room, to + the bewilderment of Mrs. Twelve and the local plumber; they set up the + effects of the plebeian drunks—pictures, books, and furniture—in + the bathroom, to the confusion of the pair, who hazily discovered the + transposition on their return from a Trenton spree; they were disappointed + beyond measure when the plebeian drunks decided to take it as a joke; they + played red-dog and twenty-one and jackpot from dinner to dawn, and on the + occasion of one man’s birthday persuaded him to buy sufficient champagne + for a hilarious celebration. The donor of the party having remained sober, + Kerry and Amory accidentally dropped him down two flights of stairs and + called, shame-faced and penitent, at the infirmary all the following week. + </p> + <p> + “Say, who are all these women?” demanded Kerry one day, protesting at the + size of Amory’s mail. “I’ve been looking at the postmarks lately—Farmington + and Dobbs and Westover and Dana Hall—what’s the idea?” + </p> + <p> + Amory grinned. + </p> + <p> + “All from the Twin Cities.” He named them off. “There’s Marylyn De Witt—she’s + pretty, got a car of her own and that’s damn convenient; there’s Sally + Weatherby—she’s getting too fat; there’s Myra St. Claire, she’s an + old flame, easy to kiss if you like it—” + </p> + <p> + “What line do you throw ’em?” demanded Kerry. “I’ve tried everything, and + the mad wags aren’t even afraid of me.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re the ‘nice boy’ type,” suggested Amory. + </p> + <p> + “That’s just it. Mother always feels the girl is safe if she’s with me. + Honestly, it’s annoying. If I start to hold somebody’s hand, they laugh at + me, and let me, just as if it wasn’t part of them. As soon as I get hold + of a hand they sort of disconnect it from the rest of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Sulk,” suggested Amory. “Tell ’em you’re wild and have ’em reform you—go + home furious—come back in half an hour—startle ’em.” + </p> + <p> + Kerry shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No chance. I wrote a St. Timothy girl a really loving letter last year. + In one place I got rattled and said: ‘My God, how I love you!’ She took a + nail scissors, clipped out the ‘My God’ and showed the rest of the letter + all over school. Doesn’t work at all. I’m just ‘good old Kerry’ and all + that rot.” + </p> + <p> + Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as “good old Amory.” He failed + completely. + </p> + <p> + February dripped snow and rain, the cyclonic freshman mid-years passed, + and life in 12 Univee continued interesting if not purposeful. Once a day + Amory indulged in a club sandwich, cornflakes, and Julienne potatoes at + “Joe’s,” accompanied usually by Kerry or Alec Connage. The latter was a + quiet, rather aloof slicker from Hotchkiss, who lived next door and shared + the same enforced singleness as Amory, due to the fact that his entire + class had gone to Yale. “Joe’s” was unaesthetic and faintly unsanitary, + but a limitless charge account could be opened there, a convenience that + Amory appreciated. His father had been experimenting with mining stocks + and, in consequence, his allowance, while liberal, was not at all what he + had expected. + </p> + <p> + “Joe’s” had the additional advantage of seclusion from curious upper-class + eyes, so at four each afternoon Amory, accompanied by friend or book, went + up to experiment with his digestion. One day in March, finding that all + the tables were occupied, he slipped into a chair opposite a freshman who + bent intently over a book at the last table. They nodded briefly. For + twenty minutes Amory sat consuming bacon buns and reading “Mrs. Warren’s + Profession” (he had discovered Shaw quite by accident while browsing in + the library during mid-years); the other freshman, also intent on his + volume, meanwhile did away with a trio of chocolate malted milks. + </p> + <p> + By and by Amory’s eyes wandered curiously to his fellow-luncher’s book. He + spelled out the name and title upside down—“Marpessa,” by Stephen + Phillips. This meant nothing to him, his metrical education having been + confined to such Sunday classics as “Come into the Garden, Maude,” and + what morsels of Shakespeare and Milton had been recently forced upon him. + </p> + <p> + Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book for a + moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily: + </p> + <p> + “Ha! Great stuff!” + </p> + <p> + The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial + embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “Are you referring to your bacon buns?” His cracked, kindly voice went + well with the large spectacles and the impression of a voluminous keenness + that he gave. + </p> + <p> + “No,” Amory answered. “I was referring to Bernard Shaw.” He turned the + book around in explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never read any Shaw. I’ve always meant to.” The boy paused and then + continued: “Did you ever read Stephen Phillips, or do you like poetry?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed,” Amory affirmed eagerly. “I’ve never read much of Phillips, + though.” (He had never heard of any Phillips except the late David + Graham.) + </p> + <p> + “It’s pretty fair, I think. Of course he’s a Victorian.” They sallied into + a discussion of poetry, in the course of which they introduced themselves, + and Amory’s companion proved to be none other than “that awful highbrow, + Thomas Parke D’Invilliers,” who signed the passionate love-poems in the + Lit. He was, perhaps, nineteen, with stooped shoulders, pale blue eyes, + and, as Amory could tell from his general appearance, without much + conception of social competition and such phenomena of absorbing interest. + Still, he liked books, and it seemed forever since Amory had met any one + who did; if only that St. Paul’s crowd at the next table would not mistake + <i>him</i> for a bird, too, he would enjoy the encounter tremendously. + They didn’t seem to be noticing, so he let himself go, discussed books by + the dozens—books he had read, read about, books he had never heard + of, rattling off lists of titles with the facility of a Brentano’s clerk. + D’Invilliers was partially taken in and wholly delighted. In a + good-natured way he had almost decided that Princeton was one part deadly + Philistines and one part deadly grinds, and to find a person who could + mention Keats without stammering, yet evidently washed his hands, was + rather a treat. + </p> + <p> + “Ever read any Oscar Wilde?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. Who wrote it?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a man—don’t you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, surely.” A faint chord was struck in Amory’s memory. “Wasn’t the + comic opera, ‘Patience,’ written about him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s the fella. I’ve just finished a book of his, ‘The Picture of + Dorian Gray,’ and I certainly wish you’d read it. You’d like it. You can + borrow it if you want to.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I’d like it a lot—thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you want to come up to the room? I’ve got a few other books.” + </p> + <p> + Amory hesitated, glanced at the St. Paul’s group—one of them was the + magnificent, exquisite Humbird—and he considered how determinate the + addition of this friend would be. He never got to the stage of making them + and getting rid of them—he was not hard enough for that—so he + measured Thomas Parke D’Invilliers’ undoubted attractions and value + against the menace of cold eyes behind tortoise-rimmed spectacles that he + fancied glared from the next table. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’ll go.” + </p> + <p> + So he found “Dorian Gray” and the “Mystic and Somber Dolores” and the + “Belle Dame sans Merci”; for a month was keen on naught else. The world + became pale and interesting, and he tried hard to look at Princeton + through the satiated eyes of Oscar Wilde and Swinburne—or “Fingal + O’Flaherty” and “Algernon Charles,” as he called them in precieuse jest. + He read enormously every night—Shaw, Chesterton, Barrie, Pinero, + Yeats, Synge, Ernest Dowson, Arthur Symons, Keats, Sudermann, Robert Hugh + Benson, the Savoy Operas—just a heterogeneous mixture, for he + suddenly discovered that he had read nothing for years. + </p> + <p> + Tom D’Invilliers became at first an occasion rather than a friend. Amory + saw him about once a week, and together they gilded the ceiling of Tom’s + room and decorated the walls with imitation tapestry, bought at an + auction, tall candlesticks and figured curtains. Amory liked him for being + clever and literary without effeminacy or affectation. In fact, Amory did + most of the strutting and tried painfully to make every remark an epigram, + than which, if one is content with ostensible epigrams, there are many + feats harder. 12 Univee was amused. Kerry read “Dorian Gray” and simulated + Lord Henry, following Amory about, addressing him as “Dorian” and + pretending to encourage in him wicked fancies and attenuated tendencies to + ennui. When he carried it into Commons, to the amazement of the others at + table, Amory became furiously embarrassed, and after that made epigrams + only before D’Invilliers or a convenient mirror. + </p> + <p> + One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany’s poems to + the music of Kerry’s graphophone. + </p> + <p> + “Chant!” cried Tom. “Don’t recite! Chant!” + </p> + <p> + Amory, who was performing, looked annoyed, and claimed that he needed a + record with less piano in it. Kerry thereupon rolled on the floor in + stifled laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Put on ‘Hearts and Flowers’!” he howled. “Oh, my Lord, I’m going to cast + a kitten.” + </p> + <p> + “Shut off the damn graphophone,” Amory cried, rather red in the face. “I’m + not giving an exhibition.” + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile Amory delicately kept trying to awaken a sense of the + social system in D’Invilliers, for he knew that this poet was really more + conventional than he, and needed merely watered hair, a smaller range of + conversation, and a darker brown hat to become quite regular. But the + liturgy of Livingstone collars and dark ties fell on heedless ears; in + fact D’Invilliers faintly resented his efforts; so Amory confined himself + to calls once a week, and brought him occasionally to 12 Univee. This + caused mild titters among the other freshmen, who called them “Doctor + Johnson and Boswell.” + </p> + <p> + Alec Connage, another frequent visitor, liked him in a vague way, but was + afraid of him as a highbrow. Kerry, who saw through his poetic patter to + the solid, almost respectable depths within, was immensely amused and + would have him recite poetry by the hour, while he lay with closed eyes on + Amory’s sofa and listened: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Asleep or waking is it? for her neck + Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck + Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out; + Soft and stung softly—fairer for a fleck...” + </pre> + <p> + “That’s good,” Kerry would say softly. “It pleases the elder Holiday. + That’s a great poet, I guess.” Tom, delighted at an audience, would ramble + through the “Poems and Ballades” until Kerry and Amory knew them almost as + well as he. + </p> + <p> + Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the + big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the + artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willows. + May came too soon, and suddenly unable to bear walls, he wandered the + campus at all hours through starlight and rain. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A DAMP SYMBOLIC INTERLUDE + </p> + <p> + The night mist fell. From the moon it rolled, clustered about the spires + and towers, and then settled below them, so that the dreaming peaks were + still in lofty aspiration toward the sky. Figures that dotted the day like + ants now brushed along as shadowy ghosts, in and out of the foreground. + The Gothic halls and cloisters were infinitely more mysterious as they + loomed suddenly out of the darkness, outlined each by myriad faint squares + of yellow light. Indefinitely from somewhere a bell boomed the + quarter-hour, and Amory, pausing by the sun-dial, stretched himself out + full length on the damp grass. The cool bathed his eyes and slowed the + flight of time—time that had crept so insidiously through the lazy + April afternoons, seemed so intangible in the long spring twilights. + Evening after evening the senior singing had drifted over the campus in + melancholy beauty, and through the shell of his undergraduate + consciousness had broken a deep and reverent devotion to the gray walls + and Gothic peaks and all they symbolized as warehouses of dead ages. + </p> + <p> + The tower that in view of his window sprang upward, grew into a spire, + yearning higher until its uppermost tip was half invisible against the + morning skies, gave him the first sense of the transiency and unimportance + of the campus figures except as holders of the apostolic succession. He + liked knowing that Gothic architecture, with its upward trend, was + peculiarly appropriate to universities, and the idea became personal to + him. The silent stretches of green, the quiet halls with an occasional + late-burning scholastic light held his imagination in a strong grasp, and + the chastity of the spire became a symbol of this perception. + </p> + <p> + “Damn it all,” he whispered aloud, wetting his hands in the damp and + running them through his hair. “Next year I work!” Yet he knew that where + now the spirit of spires and towers made him dreamily acquiescent, it + would then overawe him. Where now he realized only his own inconsequence, + effort would make him aware of his own impotency and insufficiency. + </p> + <p> + The college dreamed on—awake. He felt a nervous excitement that + might have been the very throb of its slow heart. It was a stream where he + was to throw a stone whose faint ripple would be vanishing almost as it + left his hand. As yet he had given nothing, he had taken nothing. + </p> + <p> + A belated freshman, his oilskin slicker rasping loudly, slushed along the + soft path. A voice from somewhere called the inevitable formula, “Stick + out your head!” below an unseen window. A hundred little sounds of the + current drifting on under the fog pressed in finally on his consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, God!” he cried suddenly, and started at the sound of his voice in the + stillness. The rain dripped on. A minute longer he lay without moving, his + hands clinched. Then he sprang to his feet and gave his clothes a + tentative pat. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very damn wet!” he said aloud to the sun-dial. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + HISTORICAL + </p> + <p> + The war began in the summer following his freshman year. Beyond a sporting + interest in the German dash for Paris the whole affair failed either to + thrill or interest him. With the attitude he might have held toward an + amusing melodrama he hoped it would be long and bloody. If it had not + continued he would have felt like an irate ticket-holder at a prize-fight + where the principals refused to mix it up. + </p> + <p> + That was his total reaction. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “HA-HA HORTENSE!” + </p> + <p> + “All right, ponies!” + </p> + <p> + “Shake it up!” + </p> + <p> + “Hey, ponies—how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a + mean hip?” + </p> + <p> + “Hey, <i>ponies!</i>” + </p> + <p> + The coach fumed helplessly, the Triangle Club president, glowering with + anxiety, varied between furious bursts of authority and fits of + temperamental lassitude, when he sat spiritless and wondered how the devil + the show was ever going on tour by Christmas. + </p> + <p> + “All right. We’ll take the pirate song.” + </p> + <p> + The ponies took last drags at their cigarettes and slumped into place; the + leading lady rushed into the foreground, setting his hands and feet in an + atmospheric mince; and as the coach clapped and stamped and tumped and + da-da’d, they hashed out a dance. + </p> + <p> + A great, seething ant-hill was the Triangle Club. It gave a musical comedy + every year, travelling with cast, chorus, orchestra, and scenery all + through Christmas vacation. The play and music were the work of + undergraduates, and the club itself was the most influential of + institutions, over three hundred men competing for it every year. + </p> + <p> + Amory, after an easy victory in the first sophomore Princetonian + competition, stepped into a vacancy of the cast as Boiling Oil, a Pirate + Lieutenant. Every night for the last week they had rehearsed “Ha-Ha + Hortense!” in the Casino, from two in the afternoon until eight in the + morning, sustained by dark and powerful coffee, and sleeping in lectures + through the interim. A rare scene, the Casino. A big, barnlike auditorium, + dotted with boys as girls, boys as pirates, boys as babies; the scenery in + course of being violently set up; the spotlight man rehearsing by throwing + weird shafts into angry eyes; over all the constant tuning of the + orchestra or the cheerful tumpty-tump of a Triangle tune. The boy who + writes the lyrics stands in the corner, biting a pencil, with twenty + minutes to think of an encore; the business manager argues with the + secretary as to how much money can be spent on “those damn milkmaid + costumes”; the old graduate, president in ninety-eight, perches on a box + and thinks how much simpler it was in his day. + </p> + <p> + How a Triangle show ever got off was a mystery, but it was a riotous + mystery, anyway, whether or not one did enough service to wear a little + gold Triangle on his watch-chain. “Ha-Ha Hortense!” was written over six + times and had the names of nine collaborators on the programme. All + Triangle shows started by being “something different—not just a + regular musical comedy,” but when the several authors, the president, the + coach and the faculty committee finished with it, there remained just the + old reliable Triangle show with the old reliable jokes and the star + comedian who got expelled or sick or something just before the trip, and + the dark-whiskered man in the pony-ballet, who “absolutely won’t shave + twice a day, doggone it!” + </p> + <p> + There was one brilliant place in “Ha-Ha Hortense!” It is a Princeton + tradition that whenever a Yale man who is a member of the widely + advertised “Skull and Bones” hears the sacred name mentioned, he must + leave the room. It is also a tradition that the members are invariably + successful in later life, amassing fortunes or votes or coupons or + whatever they choose to amass. Therefore, at each performance of “Ha-Ha + Hortense!” half-a-dozen seats were kept from sale and occupied by six of + the worst-looking vagabonds that could be hired from the streets, further + touched up by the Triangle make-up man. At the moment in the show where + Firebrand, the Pirate Chief, pointed at his black flag and said, “I am a + Yale graduate—note my Skull and Bones!”—at this very moment + the six vagabonds were instructed to rise <i>conspicuously</i> and leave + the theatre with looks of deep melancholy and an injured dignity. It was + claimed though never proved that on one occasion the hired Elis were + swelled by one of the real thing. + </p> + <p> + They played through vacation to the fashionable of eight cities. Amory + liked Louisville and Memphis best: these knew how to meet strangers, + furnished extraordinary punch, and flaunted an astonishing array of + feminine beauty. Chicago he approved for a certain verve that transcended + its loud accent—however, it was a Yale town, and as the Yale Glee + Club was expected in a week the Triangle received only divided homage. In + Baltimore, Princeton was at home, and every one fell in love. There was a + proper consumption of strong waters all along the line; one man invariably + went on the stage highly stimulated, claiming that his particular + interpretation of the part required it. There were three private cars; + however, no one slept except in the third car, which was called the + “animal car,” and where were herded the spectacled wind-jammers of the + orchestra. Everything was so hurried that there was no time to be bored, + but when they arrived in Philadelphia, with vacation nearly over, there + was rest in getting out of the heavy atmosphere of flowers and + grease-paint, and the ponies took off their corsets with abdominal pains + and sighs of relief. + </p> + <p> + When the disbanding came, Amory set out post haste for Minneapolis, for + Sally Weatherby’s cousin, Isabelle Borge, was coming to spend the winter + in Minneapolis while her parents went abroad. He remembered Isabelle only + as a little girl with whom he had played sometimes when he first went to + Minneapolis. She had gone to Baltimore to live—but since then she + had developed a past. + </p> + <p> + Amory was in full stride, confident, nervous, and jubilant. Scurrying back + to Minneapolis to see a girl he had known as a child seemed the + interesting and romantic thing to do, so without compunction he wired his + mother not to expect him... sat in the train, and thought about himself + for thirty-six hours. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “PETTING” + </p> + <p> + On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant contact with that great + current American phenomenon, the “petting party.” + </p> + <p> + None of the Victorian mothers—and most of the mothers were Victorian—had + any idea how casually their daughters were accustomed to be kissed. + “Servant-girls are that way,” says Mrs. Huston-Carmelite to her popular + daughter. “They are kissed first and proposed to afterward.” + </p> + <p> + But the Popular Daughter becomes engaged every six months between sixteen + and twenty-two, when she arranges a match with young Hambell, of Cambell + & Hambell, who fatuously considers himself her first love, and between + engagements the P. D. (she is selected by the cut-in system at dances, + which favors the survival of the fittest) has other sentimental last + kisses in the moonlight, or the firelight, or the outer darkness. + </p> + <p> + Amory saw girls doing things that even in his memory would have been + impossible: eating three-o’clock, after-dance suppers in impossible cafes, + talking of every side of life with an air half of earnestness, half of + mockery, yet with a furtive excitement that Amory considered stood for a + real moral let-down. But he never realized how wide-spread it was until he + saw the cities between New York and Chicago as one vast juvenile intrigue. + </p> + <p> + Afternoon at the Plaza, with winter twilight hovering outside and faint + drums down-stairs... they strut and fret in the lobby, taking another + cocktail, scrupulously attired and waiting. Then the swinging doors + revolve and three bundles of fur mince in. The theatre comes afterward; + then a table at the Midnight Frolic—of course, mother will be along + there, but she will serve only to make things more secretive and brilliant + as she sits in solitary state at the deserted table and thinks such + entertainments as this are not half so bad as they are painted, only + rather wearying. But the P. D. is in love again... it was odd, wasn’t it?—that + though there was so much room left in the taxi the P. D. and the boy from + Williams were somehow crowded out and had to go in a separate car. Odd! + Didn’t you notice how flushed the P. D. was when she arrived just seven + minutes late? But the P. D. “gets away with it.” + </p> + <p> + The “belle” had become the “flirt,” the “flirt” had become the “baby + vamp.” The “belle” had five or six callers every afternoon. If the P. D., + by some strange accident, has two, it is made pretty uncomfortable for the + one who hasn’t a date with her. The “belle” was surrounded by a dozen men + in the intermissions between dances. Try to find the P. D. between dances, + just <i>try</i> to find her. + </p> + <p> + The same girl... deep in an atmosphere of jungle music and the questioning + of moral codes. Amory found it rather fascinating to feel that any popular + girl he met before eight he might quite possibly kiss before twelve. + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth are we here?” he asked the girl with the green combs one + night as they sat in some one’s limousine, outside the Country Club in + Louisville. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I’m just full of the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s be frank—we’ll never see each other again. I wanted to come + out here with you because I thought you were the best-looking girl in + sight. You really don’t care whether you ever see me again, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No—but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to + deserve it?” + </p> + <p> + “And you didn’t feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of the + things you said? You just wanted to be—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, let’s go in,” she interrupted, “if you want to <i>analyze</i>. Let’s + not <i>talk</i> about it.” + </p> + <p> + When the hand-knit, sleeveless jerseys were stylish, Amory, in a burst of + inspiration, named them “petting shirts.” The name travelled from coast to + coast on the lips of parlor-snakes and P. D.’s. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + DESCRIPTIVE + </p> + <p> + Amory was now eighteen years old, just under six feet tall and + exceptionally, but not conventionally, handsome. He had rather a young + face, the ingenuousness of which was marred by the penetrating green eyes, + fringed with long dark eyelashes. He lacked somehow that intense animal + magnetism that so often accompanies beauty in men or women; his + personality seemed rather a mental thing, and it was not in his power to + turn it on and off like a water-faucet. But people never forgot his face. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + ISABELLE + </p> + <p> + She paused at the top of the staircase. The sensations attributed to + divers on spring-boards, leading ladies on opening nights, and lumpy, + husky young men on the day of the Big Game, crowded through her. She + should have descended to a burst of drums or a discordant blend of themes + from “Thais” and “Carmen.” She had never been so curious about her + appearance, she had never been so satisfied with it. She had been sixteen + years old for six months. + </p> + <p> + “Isabelle!” called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the dressing-room. + </p> + <p> + “I’m ready.” She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her throat. + </p> + <p> + “I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. It’ll be + just a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Isabelle started toward the dressing-room for a last peek in the mirror, + but something decided her to stand there and gaze down the broad stairs of + the Minnehaha Club. They curved tantalizingly, and she could catch just a + glimpse of two pairs of masculine feet in the hall below. Pump-shod in + uniform black, they gave no hint of identity, but she wondered eagerly if + one pair were attached to Amory Blaine. This young man, not as yet + encountered, had nevertheless taken up a considerable part of her day—the + first day of her arrival. Coming up in the machine from the station, Sally + had volunteered, amid a rain of question, comment, revelation, and + exaggeration: + </p> + <p> + “You remember Amory Blaine, of <i>course</i>. Well, he’s simply mad to see + you again. He’s stayed over a day from college, and he’s coming to-night. + He’s heard so much about you—says he remembers your eyes.” + </p> + <p> + This had pleased Isabelle. It put them on equal terms, although she was + quite capable of staging her own romances, with or without advance + advertising. But following her happy tremble of anticipation, came a + sinking sensation that made her ask: + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean he’s heard about me? What sort of things?” + </p> + <p> + Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with her more + exotic cousin. + </p> + <p> + “He knows you’re—you’re considered beautiful and all that”—she + paused—“and I guess he knows you’ve been kissed.” + </p> + <p> + At this Isabelle’s little fist had clinched suddenly under the fur robe. + She was accustomed to be thus followed by her desperate past, and it never + failed to rouse in her the same feeling of resentment; yet—in a + strange town it was an advantageous reputation. She was a “Speed,” was + she? Well—let them find out. + </p> + <p> + Out of the window Isabelle watched the snow glide by in the frosty + morning. It was ever so much colder here than in Baltimore; she had not + remembered; the glass of the side door was iced, the windows were shirred + with snow in the corners. Her mind played still with one subject. Did <i>he</i> + dress like that boy there, who walked calmly down a bustling business + street, in moccasins and winter-carnival costume? How very <i>Western!</i> + Of course he wasn’t that way: he went to Princeton, was a sophomore or + something. Really she had no distinct idea of him. An ancient snap-shot + she had preserved in an old kodak book had impressed her by the big eyes + (which he had probably grown up to by now). However, in the last month, + when her winter visit to Sally had been decided on, he had assumed the + proportions of a worthy adversary. Children, most astute of match-makers, + plot their campaigns quickly, and Sally had played a clever correspondence + sonata to Isabelle’s excitable temperament. Isabelle had been for some + time capable of very strong, if very transient emotions.... + </p> + <p> + They drew up at a spreading, white-stone building, set back from the snowy + street. Mrs. Weatherby greeted her warmly and her various younger cousins + were produced from the corners where they skulked politely. Isabelle met + them tactfully. At her best she allied all with whom she came in contact—except + older girls and some women. All the impressions she made were conscious. + The half-dozen girls she renewed acquaintance with that morning were all + rather impressed and as much by her direct personality as by her + reputation. Amory Blaine was an open subject. Evidently a bit light of + love, neither popular nor unpopular—every girl there seemed to have + had an affair with him at some time or other, but no one volunteered any + really useful information. He was going to fall for her.... Sally had + published that information to her young set and they were retailing it + back to Sally as fast as they set eyes on Isabelle. Isabelle resolved + secretly that she would, if necessary, <i>force</i> herself to like him—she + owed it to Sally. Suppose she were terribly disappointed. Sally had + painted him in such glowing colors—he was good-looking, “sort of + distinguished, when he wants to be,” had a line, and was properly + inconstant. In fact, he summed up all the romance that her age and + environment led her to desire. She wondered if those were his + dancing-shoes that fox-trotted tentatively around the soft rug below. + </p> + <p> + All impressions and, in fact, all ideas were extremely kaleidoscopic to + Isabelle. She had that curious mixture of the social and the artistic + temperaments found often in two classes, society women and actresses. Her + education or, rather, her sophistication, had been absorbed from the boys + who had dangled on her favor; her tact was instinctive, and her capacity + for love-affairs was limited only by the number of the susceptible within + telephone distance. Flirt smiled from her large black-brown eyes and shone + through her intense physical magnetism. + </p> + <p> + So she waited at the head of the stairs that evening while slippers were + fetched. Just as she was growing impatient, Sally came out of the + dressing-room, beaming with her accustomed good nature and high spirits, + and together they descended to the floor below, while the shifting + search-light of Isabelle’s mind flashed on two ideas: she was glad she had + high color to-night, and she wondered if he danced well. + </p> + <p> + Down-stairs, in the club’s great room, she was surrounded for a moment by + the girls she had met in the afternoon, then she heard Sally’s voice + repeating a cycle of names, and found herself bowing to a sextet of black + and white, terribly stiff, vaguely familiar figures. The name Blaine + figured somewhere, but at first she could not place him. A very confused, + very juvenile moment of awkward backings and bumpings followed, and every + one found himself talking to the person he least desired to. Isabelle + manoeuvred herself and Froggy Parker, freshman at Harvard, with whom she + had once played hop-scotch, to a seat on the stairs. A humorous reference + to the past was all she needed. The things Isabelle could do socially with + one idea were remarkable. First, she repeated it rapturously in an + enthusiastic contralto with a soupcon of Southern accent; then she held it + off at a distance and smiled at it—her wonderful smile; then she + delivered it in variations and played a sort of mental catch with it, all + this in the nominal form of dialogue. Froggy was fascinated and quite + unconscious that this was being done, not for him, but for the green eyes + that glistened under the shining carefully watered hair, a little to her + left, for Isabelle had discovered Amory. As an actress even in the fullest + flush of her own conscious magnetism gets a deep impression of most of the + people in the front row, so Isabelle sized up her antagonist. First, he + had auburn hair, and from her feeling of disappointment she knew that she + had expected him to be dark and of garter-advertisement slenderness.... + For the rest, a faint flush and a straight, romantic profile; the effect + set off by a close-fitting dress suit and a silk ruffled shirt of the kind + that women still delight to see men wear, but men were just beginning to + get tired of. + </p> + <p> + During this inspection Amory was quietly watching. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t <i>you</i> think so?” she said suddenly, turning to him, + innocent-eyed. + </p> + <p> + There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their table. Amory + struggled to Isabelle’s side, and whispered: + </p> + <p> + “You’re my dinner partner, you know. We’re all coached for each other.” + </p> + <p> + Isabelle gasped—this was rather right in line. But really she felt + as if a good speech had been taken from the star and given to a minor + character.... She mustn’t lose the leadership a bit. The dinner-table + glittered with laughter at the confusion of getting places and then + curious eyes were turned on her, sitting near the head. She was enjoying + this immensely, and Froggy Parker was so engrossed with the added sparkle + of her rising color that he forgot to pull out Sally’s chair, and fell + into a dim confusion. Amory was on the other side, full of confidence and + vanity, gazing at her in open admiration. He began directly, and so did + Froggy: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard a lot about you since you wore braids—” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t it funny this afternoon—” + </p> + <p> + Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her face was always enough + answer for any one, but she decided to speak. + </p> + <p> + “How—from whom?” + </p> + <p> + “From everybody—for all the years since you’ve been away.” She + blushed appropriately. On her right Froggy was <i>hors de combat</i> + already, although he hadn’t quite realized it. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you what I remembered about you all these years,” Amory + continued. She leaned slightly toward him and looked modestly at the + celery before her. Froggy sighed—he knew Amory, and the situations + that Amory seemed born to handle. He turned to Sally and asked her if she + was going away to school next year. Amory opened with grape-shot. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got an adjective that just fits you.” This was one of his favorite + starts—he seldom had a word in mind, but it was a curiosity + provoker, and he could always produce something complimentary if he got in + a tight corner. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—what?” Isabelle’s face was a study in enraptured curiosity. + </p> + <p> + Amory shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know you very well yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell me—afterward?” she half whispered. + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll sit out.” + </p> + <p> + Isabelle nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Amory attempted to make them look even keener. He fancied, but he was not + sure, that her foot had just touched his under the table. But it might + possibly have been only the table leg. It was so hard to tell. Still it + thrilled him. He wondered quickly if there would be any difficulty in + securing the little den up-stairs. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + BABES IN THE WOODS + </p> + <p> + Isabelle and Amory were distinctly not innocent, nor were they + particularly brazen. Moreover, amateur standing had very little value in + the game they were playing, a game that would presumably be her principal + study for years to come. She had begun as he had, with good looks and an + excitable temperament, and the rest was the result of accessible popular + novels and dressing-room conversation culled from a slightly older set. + Isabelle had walked with an artificial gait at nine and a half, and when + her eyes, wide and starry, proclaimed the ingenue most. Amory was + proportionately less deceived. He waited for the mask to drop off, but at + the same time he did not question her right to wear it. She, on her part, + was not impressed by his studied air of blasé sophistication. She had + lived in a larger city and had slightly an advantage in range. But she + accepted his pose—it was one of the dozen little conventions of this + kind of affair. He was aware that he was getting this particular favor now + because she had been coached; he knew that he stood for merely the best + game in sight, and that he would have to improve his opportunity before he + lost his advantage. So they proceeded with an infinite guile that would + have horrified her parents. + </p> + <p> + After the dinner the dance began... smoothly. Smoothly?—boys cut in + on Isabelle every few feet and then squabbled in the corners with: “You + might let me get more than an inch!” and “She didn’t like it either—she + told me so next time I cut in.” It was true—she told every one so, + and gave every hand a parting pressure that said: “You know that your + dances are <i>making</i> my evening.” + </p> + <p> + But time passed, two hours of it, and the less subtle beaux had better + learned to focus their pseudo-passionate glances elsewhere, for eleven + o’clock found Isabelle and Amory sitting on the couch in the little den + off the reading-room up-stairs. She was conscious that they were a + handsome pair, and seemed to belong distinctively in this seclusion, while + lesser lights fluttered and chattered down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + Boys who passed the door looked in enviously—girls who passed only + laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves. + </p> + <p> + They had now reached a very definite stage. They had traded accounts of + their progress since they had met last, and she had listened to much she + had heard before. He was a sophomore, was on the Princetonian board, hoped + to be chairman in senior year. He learned that some of the boys she went + with in Baltimore were “terrible speeds” and came to dances in states of + artificial stimulation; most of them were twenty or so, and drove alluring + red Stutzes. A good half seemed to have already flunked out of various + schools and colleges, but some of them bore athletic names that made him + look at her admiringly. As a matter of fact, Isabelle’s closer + acquaintance with the universities was just commencing. She had bowing + acquaintance with a lot of young men who thought she was a “pretty kid—worth + keeping an eye on.” But Isabelle strung the names into a fabrication of + gayety that would have dazzled a Viennese nobleman. Such is the power of + young contralto voices on sink-down sofas. + </p> + <p> + He asked her if she thought he was conceited. She said there was a + difference between conceit and self-confidence. She adored self-confidence + in men. + </p> + <p> + “Is Froggy a good friend of yours?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Rather—why?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a bum dancer.” + </p> + <p> + Amory laughed. + </p> + <p> + “He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his arms.” + </p> + <p> + She appreciated this. + </p> + <p> + “You’re awfully good at sizing people up.” + </p> + <p> + Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people for her. + Then they talked about hands. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got awfully nice hands,” she said. “They look as if you played the + piano. Do you?” + </p> + <p> + I have said they had reached a very definite stage—nay, more, a very + critical stage. Amory had stayed over a day to see her, and his train left + at twelve-eighteen that night. His trunk and suitcase awaited him at the + station; his watch was beginning to hang heavy in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Isabelle,” he said suddenly, “I want to tell you something.” They had + been talking lightly about “that funny look in her eyes,” and Isabelle + knew from the change in his manner what was coming—indeed, she had + been wondering how soon it would come. Amory reached above their heads and + turned out the electric light, so that they were in the dark, except for + the red glow that fell through the door from the reading-room lamps. Then + he began: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether or not you know what you—what I’m going to + say. Lordy, Isabelle—this <i>sounds</i> like a line, but it isn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Isabelle softly. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe we’ll never meet again like this—I have darned hard luck + sometimes.” He was leaning away from her on the other arm of the lounge, + but she could see his eyes plainly in the dark. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll meet me again—silly.” There was just the slightest emphasis + on the last word—so that it became almost a term of endearment. He + continued a bit huskily: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve fallen for a lot of people—girls—and I guess you have, + too—boys, I mean, but, honestly, you—” he broke off suddenly + and leaned forward, chin on his hands: “Oh, what’s the use—you’ll go + your way and I suppose I’ll go mine.” + </p> + <p> + Silence for a moment. Isabelle was quite stirred; she wound her + handkerchief into a tight ball, and by the faint light that streamed over + her, dropped it deliberately on the floor. Their hands touched for an + instant, but neither spoke. Silences were becoming more frequent and more + delicious. Outside another stray couple had come up and were experimenting + on the piano in the next room. After the usual preliminary of + “chopsticks,” one of them started “Babes in the Woods” and a light tenor + carried the words into the den: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Give me your hand + I’ll understand + We’re off to slumberland.” + </pre> + <p> + Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt Amory’s hand close over + hers. + </p> + <p> + “Isabelle,” he whispered. “You know I’m mad about you. You <i>do</i> give + a darn about me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “How much do you care—do you like any one better?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” He could scarcely hear her, although he bent so near that he felt + her breath against his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Isabelle, I’m going back to college for six long months, and why + shouldn’t we—if I could only just have one thing to remember you by—” + </p> + <p> + “Close the door....” Her voice had just stirred so that he half wondered + whether she had spoken at all. As he swung the door softly shut, the music + seemed quivering just outside. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Moonlight is bright, + Kiss me good night.” + </pre> + <p> + What a wonderful song, she thought—everything was wonderful + to-night, most of all this romantic scene in the den, with their hands + clinging and the inevitable looming charmingly close. The future vista of + her life seemed an unending succession of scenes like this: under + moonlight and pale starlight, and in the backs of warm limousines and in + low, cosy roadsters stopped under sheltering trees—only the boy + might change, and this one was so nice. He took her hand softly. With a + sudden movement he turned it and, holding it to his lips, kissed the palm. + </p> + <p> + “Isabelle!” His whisper blended in the music, and they seemed to float + nearer together. Her breath came faster. “Can’t I kiss you, Isabelle—Isabelle?” + Lips half parted, she turned her head to him in the dark. Suddenly the + ring of voices, the sound of running footsteps surged toward them. Quick + as a flash Amory reached up and turned on the light, and when the door + opened and three boys, the wrathy and dance-craving Froggy among them, + rushed in, he was turning over the magazines on the table, while she sat + without moving, serene and unembarrassed, and even greeted them with a + welcoming smile. But her heart was beating wildly, and she felt somehow as + if she had been deprived. + </p> + <p> + It was evidently over. There was a clamor for a dance, there was a glance + that passed between them—on his side despair, on hers regret, and + then the evening went on, with the reassured beaux and the eternal cutting + in. + </p> + <p> + At quarter to twelve Amory shook hands with her gravely, in the midst of a + small crowd assembled to wish him good-speed. For an instant he lost his + poise, and she felt a bit rattled when a satirical voice from a concealed + wit cried: + </p> + <p> + “Take her outside, Amory!” As he took her hand he pressed it a little, and + she returned the pressure as she had done to twenty hands that evening—that + was all. + </p> + <p> + At two o’clock back at the Weatherbys’ Sally asked her if she and Amory + had had a “time” in the den. Isabelle turned to her quietly. In her eyes + was the light of the idealist, the inviolate dreamer of Joan-like dreams. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered. “I don’t do that sort of thing any more; he asked me + to, but I said no.” + </p> + <p> + As she crept in bed she wondered what he’d say in his special delivery + to-morrow. He had such a good-looking mouth—would she ever—? + </p> + <p> + “Fourteen angels were watching o’er them,” sang Sally sleepily from the + next room. + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious lump and + exploring the cold sheets cautiously. “Damn!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + CARNIVAL + </p> + <p> + Amory, by way of the Princetonian, had arrived. The minor snobs, finely + balanced thermometers of success, warmed to him as the club elections grew + nigh, and he and Tom were visited by groups of upper classmen who arrived + awkwardly, balanced on the edge of the furniture and talked of all + subjects except the one of absorbing interest. Amory was amused at the + intent eyes upon him, and, in case the visitors represented some club in + which he was not interested, took great pleasure in shocking them with + unorthodox remarks. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, let me see—” he said one night to a flabbergasted delegation, + “what club do you represent?” + </p> + <p> + With visitors from Ivy and Cottage and Tiger Inn he played the “nice, + unspoilt, ingenuous boy” very much at ease and quite unaware of the object + of the call. + </p> + <p> + When the fatal morning arrived, early in March, and the campus became a + document in hysteria, he slid smoothly into Cottage with Alec Connage and + watched his suddenly neurotic class with much wonder. + </p> + <p> + There were fickle groups that jumped from club to club; there were friends + of two or three days who announced tearfully and wildly that they must + join the same club, nothing should separate them; there were snarling + disclosures of long-hidden grudges as the Suddenly Prominent remembered + snubs of freshman year. Unknown men were elevated into importance when + they received certain coveted bids; others who were considered “all set” + found that they had made unexpected enemies, felt themselves stranded and + deserted, talked wildly of leaving college. + </p> + <p> + In his own crowd Amory saw men kept out for wearing green hats, for being + “a damn tailor’s dummy,” for having “too much pull in heaven,” for getting + drunk one night “not like a gentleman, by God,” or for unfathomable secret + reasons known to no one but the wielders of the black balls. + </p> + <p> + This orgy of sociability culminated in a gigantic party at the Nassau Inn, + where punch was dispensed from immense bowls, and the whole down-stairs + became a delirious, circulating, shouting pattern of faces and voices. + </p> + <p> + “Hi, Dibby—’gratulations!” + </p> + <p> + “Goo’ boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Kerry—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Kerry—I hear you went Tiger with all the weight-lifters!” + “Well, I didn’t go Cottage—the parlor-snakes’ delight.” + </p> + <p> + “They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid—Did he sign up the + first day?—oh, <i>no</i>. Tore over to Murray-Dodge on a bicycle—afraid + it was a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “How’d you get into Cap—you old roue?” + </p> + <p> + “’Gratulations!” + </p> + <p> + “’Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd.” + </p> + <p> + When the bar closed, the party broke up into groups and streamed, singing, + over the snow-clad campus, in a weird delusion that snobbishness and + strain were over at last, and that they could do what they pleased for the + next two years. + </p> + <p> + Long afterward Amory thought of sophomore spring as the happiest time of + his life. His ideas were in tune with life as he found it; he wanted no + more than to drift and dream and enjoy a dozen new-found friendships + through the April afternoons. + </p> + <p> + Alec Connage came into his room one morning and woke him up into the + sunshine and peculiar glory of Campbell Hall shining in the window. + </p> + <p> + “Wake up, Original Sin, and scrape yourself together. Be in front of + Renwick’s in half an hour. Somebody’s got a car.” He took the bureau cover + and carefully deposited it, with its load of small articles, upon the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Where’d you get the car?” demanded Amory cynically. + </p> + <p> + “Sacred trust, but don’t be a critical goopher or you can’t go!” + </p> + <p> + “I think I’ll sleep,” Amory said calmly, resettling himself and reaching + beside the bed for a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? I’ve got a class at eleven-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + “You damned gloom! Of course, if you don’t want to go to the coast—” + </p> + <p> + With a bound Amory was out of bed, scattering the bureau cover’s burden on + the floor. The coast... he hadn’t seen it for years, since he and his + mother were on their pilgrimage. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s going?” he demanded as he wriggled into his B. V. D.’s. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse Ferrenby and—oh about + five or six. Speed it up, kid!” + </p> + <p> + In ten minutes Amory was devouring cornflakes in Renwick’s, and at + nine-thirty they bowled happily out of town, headed for the sands of Deal + Beach. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Kerry, “the car belongs down there. In fact, it was stolen + from Asbury Park by persons unknown, who deserted it in Princeton and left + for the West. Heartless Humbird here got permission from the city council + to deliver it.” + </p> + <p> + “Anybody got any money?” suggested Ferrenby, turning around from the front + seat. + </p> + <p> + There was an emphatic negative chorus. + </p> + <p> + “That makes it interesting.” + </p> + <p> + “Money—what’s money? We can sell the car.” + </p> + <p> + “Charge him salvage or something.” + </p> + <p> + “How’re we going to get food?” asked Amory. + </p> + <p> + “Honestly,” answered Kerry, eying him reprovingly, “do you doubt Kerry’s + ability for three short days? Some people have lived on nothing for years + at a time. Read the Boy Scout Monthly.” + </p> + <p> + “Three days,” Amory mused, “and I’ve got classes.” + </p> + <p> + “One of the days is the Sabbath.” + </p> + <p> + “Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with over a month and a + half to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Throw him out!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a long walk back.” + </p> + <p> + “Amory, you’re running it out, if I may coin a new phrase.” + </p> + <p> + “Hadn’t you better get some dope on yourself, Amory?” + </p> + <p> + Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the scenery. + Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, winter’s rains and ruins are over, + And all the seasons of snows and sins; + The days dividing lover and lover, + The light that loses, the night that wins; + And time remembered is grief forgotten, + And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, + And in green underwood and cover, + Blossom by blossom the spring begins. + + “The full streams feed on flower of—” + </pre> + <p> + “What’s the matter, Amory? Amory’s thinking about poetry, about the pretty + birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not,” he lied. “I’m thinking about the Princetonian. I ought to + make up to-night; but I can telephone back, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Kerry respectfully, “these important men—” + </p> + <p> + Amory flushed and it seemed to him that Ferrenby, a defeated competitor, + winced a little. Of course, Kerry was only kidding, but he really mustn’t + mention the Princetonian. + </p> + <p> + It was a halcyon day, and as they neared the shore and the salt breezes + scurried by, he began to picture the ocean and long, level stretches of + sand and red roofs over blue sea. Then they hurried through the little + town and it all flashed upon his consciousness to a mighty paean of + emotion.... + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good Lord! <i>Look</i> at it!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Let me out, quick—I haven’t seen it for eight years! Oh, + gentlefolk, stop the car!” + </p> + <p> + “What an odd child!” remarked Alec. + </p> + <p> + “I do believe he’s a bit eccentric.” + </p> + <p> + The car was obligingly drawn up at a curb, and Amory ran for the + boardwalk. First, he realized that the sea was blue and that there was an + enormous quantity of it, and that it roared and roared—really all + the banalities about the ocean that one could realize, but if any one had + told him then that these things were banalities, he would have gaped in + wonder. + </p> + <p> + “Now we’ll get lunch,” ordered Kerry, wandering up with the crowd. “Come + on, Amory, tear yourself away and get practical.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll try the best hotel first,” he went on, “and thence and so forth.” + </p> + <p> + They strolled along the boardwalk to the most imposing hostelry in sight, + and, entering the dining-room, scattered about a table. + </p> + <p> + “Eight Bronxes,” commanded Alec, “and a club sandwich and Juliennes. The + food for one. Hand the rest around.” + </p> + <p> + Amory ate little, having seized a chair where he could watch the sea and + feel the rock of it. When luncheon was over they sat and smoked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the bill?” + </p> + <p> + Some one scanned it. + </p> + <p> + “Eight twenty-five.” + </p> + <p> + “Rotten overcharge. We’ll give them two dollars and one for the waiter. + Kerry, collect the small change.” + </p> + <p> + The waiter approached, and Kerry gravely handed him a dollar, tossed two + dollars on the check, and turned away. They sauntered leisurely toward the + door, pursued in a moment by the suspicious Ganymede. + </p> + <p> + “Some mistake, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Kerry took the bill and examined it critically. + </p> + <p> + “No mistake!” he said, shaking his head gravely, and, tearing it into four + pieces, he handed the scraps to the waiter, who was so dumfounded that he + stood motionless and expressionless while they walked out. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t he send after us?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Kerry; “for a minute he’ll think we’re the proprietor’s sons or + something; then he’ll look at the check again and call the manager, and in + the meantime—” + </p> + <p> + They left the car at Asbury and street-car’d to Allenhurst, where they + investigated the crowded pavilions for beauty. At four there were + refreshments in a lunch-room, and this time they paid an even smaller per + cent on the total cost; something about the appearance and savoir-faire of + the crowd made the thing go, and they were not pursued. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Amory, we’re Marxian Socialists,” explained Kerry. “We don’t + believe in property and we’re putting it to the great test.” + </p> + <p> + “Night will descend,” Amory suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Watch, and put your trust in Holiday.” + </p> + <p> + They became jovial about five-thirty and, linking arms, strolled up and + down the boardwalk in a row, chanting a monotonous ditty about the sad sea + waves. Then Kerry saw a face in the crowd that attracted him and, rushing + off, reappeared in a moment with one of the homeliest girls Amory had ever + set eyes on. Her pale mouth extended from ear to ear, her teeth projected + in a solid wedge, and she had little, squinty eyes that peeped + ingratiatingly over the side sweep of her nose. Kerry presented them + formally. + </p> + <p> + “Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me present Messrs. Connage, Sloane, + Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine.” + </p> + <p> + The girl bobbed courtesies all around. Poor creature; Amory supposed she + had never before been noticed in her life—possibly she was + half-witted. While she accompanied them (Kerry had invited her to supper) + she said nothing which could discountenance such a belief. + </p> + <p> + “She prefers her native dishes,” said Alec gravely to the waiter, “but any + coarse food will do.” + </p> + <p> + All through supper he addressed her in the most respectful language, while + Kerry made idiotic love to her on the other side, and she giggled and + grinned. Amory was content to sit and watch the by-play, thinking what a + light touch Kerry had, and how he could transform the barest incident into + a thing of curve and contour. They all seemed to have the spirit of it + more or less, and it was a relaxation to be with them. Amory usually liked + men individually, yet feared them in crowds unless the crowd was around + him. He wondered how much each one contributed to the party, for there was + somewhat of a spiritual tax levied. Alec and Kerry were the life of it, + but not quite the centre. Somehow the quiet Humbird, and Sloane, with his + impatient superciliousness, were the centre. + </p> + <p> + Dick Humbird had, ever since freshman year, seemed to Amory a perfect type + of aristocrat. He was slender but well-built—black curly hair, + straight features, and rather a dark skin. Everything he said sounded + intangibly appropriate. He possessed infinite courage, an averagely good + mind, and a sense of honor with a clear charm and <i>noblesse oblige</i> + that varied it from righteousness. He could dissipate without going to + pieces, and even his most bohemian adventures never seemed “running it + out.” People dressed like him, tried to talk as he did.... Amory decided + that he probably held the world back, but he wouldn’t have changed him. + ... + </p> + <p> + He differed from the healthy type that was essentially middle class—he + never seemed to perspire. Some people couldn’t be familiar with a + chauffeur without having it returned; Humbird could have lunched at + Sherry’s with a colored man, yet people would have somehow known that it + was all right. He was not a snob, though he knew only half his class. His + friends ranged from the highest to the lowest, but it was impossible to + “cultivate” him. Servants worshipped him, and treated him like a god. He + seemed the eternal example of what the upper class tries to be. + </p> + <p> + “He’s like those pictures in the Illustrated London News of the English + officers who have been killed,” Amory had said to Alec. “Well,” Alec had + answered, “if you want to know the shocking truth, his father was a + grocery clerk who made a fortune in Tacoma real estate and came to New + York ten years ago.” + </p> + <p> + Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation. + </p> + <p> + This present type of party was made possible by the surging together of + the class after club elections—as if to make a last desperate + attempt to know itself, to keep together, to fight off the tightening + spirit of the clubs. It was a let-down from the conventional heights they + had all walked so rigidly. + </p> + <p> + After supper they saw Kaluka to the boardwalk, and then strolled back + along the beach to Asbury. The evening sea was a new sensation, for all + its color and mellow age was gone, and it seemed the bleak waste that made + the Norse sagas sad; Amory thought of Kipling’s + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Beaches of Lukanon before the sealers came.” + </pre> + <p> + It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful. + </p> + <p> + Ten o’clock found them penniless. They had suppered greatly on their last + eleven cents and, singing, strolled up through the casinos and lighted + arches on the boardwalk, stopping to listen approvingly to all band + concerts. In one place Kerry took up a collection for the French War + Orphans which netted a dollar and twenty cents, and with this they bought + some brandy in case they caught cold in the night. They finished the day + in a moving-picture show and went into solemn systematic roars of laughter + at an ancient comedy, to the startled annoyance of the rest of the + audience. Their entrance was distinctly strategic, for each man as he + entered pointed reproachfully at the one just behind him. Sloane, bringing + up the rear, disclaimed all knowledge and responsibility as soon as the + others were scattered inside; then as the irate ticket-taker rushed in he + followed nonchalantly. + </p> + <p> + They reassembled later by the Casino and made arrangements for the night. + Kerry wormed permission from the watchman to sleep on the platform and, + having collected a huge pile of rugs from the booths to serve as + mattresses and blankets, they talked until midnight, and then fell into a + dreamless sleep, though Amory tried hard to stay awake and watch that + marvellous moon settle on the sea. + </p> + <p> + So they progressed for two happy days, up and down the shore by street-car + or machine, or by shoe-leather on the crowded boardwalk; sometimes eating + with the wealthy, more frequently dining frugally at the expense of an + unsuspecting restaurateur. They had their photos taken, eight poses, in a + quick-development store. Kerry insisted on grouping them as a “varsity” + football team, and then as a tough gang from the East Side, with their + coats inside out, and himself sitting in the middle on a cardboard moon. + The photographer probably has them yet—at least, they never called + for them. The weather was perfect, and again they slept outside, and again + Amory fell unwillingly asleep. + </p> + <p> + Sunday broke stolid and respectable, and even the sea seemed to mumble and + complain, so they returned to Princeton via the Fords of transient + farmers, and broke up with colds in their heads, but otherwise none the + worse for wandering. + </p> + <p> + Even more than in the year before, Amory neglected his work, not + deliberately but lazily and through a multitude of other interests. + Co-ordinate geometry and the melancholy hexameters of Corneille and Racine + held forth small allurements, and even psychology, which he had eagerly + awaited, proved to be a dull subject full of muscular reactions and + biological phrases rather than the study of personality and influence. + That was a noon class, and it always sent him dozing. Having found that + “subjective and objective, sir,” answered most of the questions, he used + the phrase on all occasions, and it became the class joke when, on a query + being levelled at him, he was nudged awake by Ferrenby or Sloane to gasp + it out. + </p> + <p> + Mostly there were parties—to Orange or the Shore, more rarely to New + York and Philadelphia, though one night they marshalled fourteen + waitresses out of Childs’ and took them to ride down Fifth Avenue on top + of an auto bus. They all cut more classes than were allowed, which meant + an additional course the following year, but spring was too rare to let + anything interfere with their colorful ramblings. In May Amory was elected + to the Sophomore Prom Committee, and when after a long evening’s + discussion with Alec they made out a tentative list of class probabilities + for the senior council, they placed themselves among the surest. The + senior council was composed presumably of the eighteen most representative + seniors, and in view of Alec’s football managership and Amory’s chance of + nosing out Burne Holiday as Princetonian chairman, they seemed fairly + justified in this presumption. Oddly enough, they both placed D’Invilliers + as among the possibilities, a guess that a year before the class would + have gaped at. + </p> + <p> + All through the spring Amory had kept up an intermittent correspondence + with Isabelle Borge, punctuated by violent squabbles and chiefly enlivened + by his attempts to find new words for love. He discovered Isabelle to be + discreetly and aggravatingly unsentimental in letters, but he hoped + against hope that she would prove not too exotic a bloom to fit the large + spaces of spring as she had fitted the den in the Minnehaha Club. During + May he wrote thirty-page documents almost nightly, and sent them to her in + bulky envelopes exteriorly labelled “Part I” and “Part II.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Alec, I believe I’m tired of college,” he said sadly, as they walked + the dusk together. + </p> + <p> + “I think I am, too, in a way.” + </p> + <p> + “All I’d like would be a little home in the country, some warm country, + and a wife, and just enough to do to keep from rotting.” + </p> + <p> + “Me, too.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to quit.” + </p> + <p> + “What does your girl say?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” Amory gasped in horror. “She wouldn’t <i>think</i> of marrying... + that is, not now. I mean the future, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “My girl would. I’m engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you really?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Don’t say a word to anybody, please, but I am. I may not come back + next year.” + </p> + <p> + “But you’re only twenty! Give up college?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Amory interrupted, “but I was just wishing. I wouldn’t think of + leaving college. It’s just that I feel so sad these wonderful nights. I + sort of feel they’re never coming again, and I’m not really getting all I + could out of them. I wish my girl lived here. But marry—not a + chance. Especially as father says the money isn’t forthcoming as it used + to be.” + </p> + <p> + “What a waste these nights are!” agreed Alec. + </p> + <p> + But Amory sighed and made use of the nights. He had a snap-shot of + Isabelle, enshrined in an old watch, and at eight almost every night he + would turn off all the lights except the desk lamp and, sitting by the + open windows with the picture before him, write her rapturous letters. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... Oh it’s so hard to write you what I really <i>feel</i> when I + think about you so much; you’ve gotten to mean to me a <i>dream</i> that + I can’t put on paper any more. Your last letter came and it was + wonderful! I read it over about six times, especially the last + part, but I do wish, sometimes, you’d be more <i>frank</i> and tell me + what you really do think of me, yet your last letter was too good + to be true, and I can hardly wait until June! Be sure and be able + to come to the prom. It’ll be fine, I think, and I want to bring + <i>you</i> just at the end of a wonderful year. I often think over what + you said on that night and wonder how much you meant. If it were + anyone but you—but you see I <i>thought</i> you were fickle the first + time I saw you and you are so popular and everthing that I can’t + imagine you really liking me <i>best</i>. + + Oh, Isabelle, dear—it’s a wonderful night. Somebody is playing + “Love Moon” on a mandolin far across the campus, and the music + seems to bring you into the window. Now he’s playing “Good-by, + Boys, I’m Through,” and how well it suits me. For I am through + with everything. I have decided never to take a cocktail again, + and I know I’ll never again fall in love—I couldn’t—you’ve been + too much a part of my days and nights to ever let me think of + another girl. I meet them all the time and they don’t interest me. + I’m not pretending to be blasé, because it’s not that. It’s just + that I’m in love. Oh, <i>dearest</i> Isabelle (somehow I can’t call you + just Isabelle, and I’m afraid I’ll come out with the “dearest” + before your family this June), you’ve got to come to the prom, + and then I’ll come up to your house for a day and everything’ll be + perfect.... +</pre> + <p> + And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them infinitely + charming, infinitely new. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + June came and the days grew so hot and lazy that they could not worry even + about exams, but spent dreamy evenings on the court of Cottage, talking of + long subjects until the sweep of country toward Stony Brook became a blue + haze and the lilacs were white around tennis-courts, and words gave way to + silent cigarettes.... Then down deserted Prospect and along McCosh with + song everywhere around them, up to the hot joviality of Nassau Street. + </p> + <p> + Tom D’Invilliers and Amory walked late in those days. A gambling fever + swept through the sophomore class and they bent over the bones till three + o’clock many a sultry night. After one session they came out of Sloane’s + room to find the dew fallen and the stars old in the sky. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s borrow bicycles and take a ride,” Amory suggested. + </p> + <p> + “All right. I’m not a bit tired and this is almost the last night of the + year, really, because the prom stuff starts Monday.” + </p> + <p> + They found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court and rode out about + half-past three along the Lawrenceville Road. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do this summer, Amory?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me—same old things, I suppose. A month or two in Lake + Geneva—I’m counting on you to be there in July, you know—then + there’ll be Minneapolis, and that means hundreds of summer hops, + parlor-snaking, getting bored—But oh, Tom,” he added suddenly, + “hasn’t this year been slick!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” declared Tom emphatically, a new Tom, clothed by Brooks, shod by + Franks, “I’ve won this game, but I feel as if I never want to play + another. You’re all right—you’re a rubber ball, and somehow it suits + you, but I’m sick of adapting myself to the local snobbishness of this + corner of the world. I want to go where people aren’t barred because of + the color of their neckties and the roll of their coats.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t, Tom,” argued Amory, as they rolled along through the + scattering night; “wherever you go now you’ll always unconsciously apply + these standards of ‘having it’ or ‘lacking it.’ For better or worse we’ve + stamped you; you’re a Princeton type!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” complained Tom, his cracked voice rising plaintively, “why + do I have to come back at all? I’ve learned all that Princeton has to + offer. Two years more of mere pedantry and lying around a club aren’t + going to help. They’re just going to disorganize me, conventionalize me + completely. Even now I’m so spineless that I wonder how I get away with + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you’re missing the real point, Tom,” Amory interrupted. “You’ve + just had your eyes opened to the snobbishness of the world in a rather + abrupt manner. Princeton invariably gives the thoughtful man a social + sense.” + </p> + <p> + “You consider you taught me that, don’t you?” he asked quizzically, eying + Amory in the half dark. + </p> + <p> + Amory laughed quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “I think you’re my bad angel. I might have + been a pretty fair poet.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on, that’s rather hard. You chose to come to an Eastern college. + Either your eyes were opened to the mean scrambling quality of people, or + you’d have gone through blind, and you’d hate to have done that—been + like Marty Kaye.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he agreed, “you’re right. I wouldn’t have liked it. Still, it’s + hard to be made a cynic at twenty.” + </p> + <p> + “I was born one,” Amory murmured. “I’m a cynical idealist.” He paused and + wondered if that meant anything. + </p> + <p> + They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to ride + back. + </p> + <p> + “It’s good, this ride, isn’t it?” Tom said presently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; it’s a good finish, it’s knock-out; everything’s good to-night. Oh, + for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you and your Isabelle! I’ll bet she’s a simple one... let’s say some + poetry.” + </p> + <p> + So Amory declaimed “The Ode to a Nightingale” to the bushes they passed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll never be a poet,” said Amory as he finished. “I’m not enough of a + sensualist really; there are only a few obvious things that I notice as + primarily beautiful: women, spring evenings, music at night, the sea; I + don’t catch the subtle things like ‘silver-snarling trumpets.’ I may turn + out an intellectual, but I’ll never write anything but mediocre poetry.” + </p> + <p> + They rode into Princeton as the sun was making colored maps of the sky + behind the graduate school, and hurried to the refreshment of a shower + that would have to serve in place of sleep. By noon the bright-costumed + alumni crowded the streets with their bands and choruses, and in the tents + there was great reunion under the orange-and-black banners that curled and + strained in the wind. Amory looked long at one house which bore the legend + “Sixty-nine.” There a few gray-haired men sat and talked quietly while the + classes swept by in panorama of life. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + UNDER THE ARC-LIGHT + </p> + <p> + Then tragedy’s emerald eyes glared suddenly at Amory over the edge of + June. On the night after his ride to Lawrenceville a crowd sallied to New + York in quest of adventure, and started back to Princeton about twelve + o’clock in two machines. It had been a gay party and different stages of + sobriety were represented. Amory was in the car behind; they had taken the + wrong road and lost the way, and so were hurrying to catch up. + </p> + <p> + It was a clear night and the exhilaration of the road went to Amory’s + head. He had the ghost of two stanzas of a poem forming in his mind. ... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So the gray car crept nightward in the dark and there was no life + stirred as it went by.... As the still ocean paths before the + shark in starred and glittering waterways, beauty-high, the + moon-swathed trees divided, pair on pair, while flapping + nightbirds cried across the air.... + + A moment by an inn of lamps and shades, a yellow inn under a + yellow moon—then silence, where crescendo laughter fades... the + car swung out again to the winds of June, mellowed the shadows + where the distance grew, then crushed the yellow shadows into + blue.... +</pre> + <p> + They jolted to a stop, and Amory peered up, startled. A woman was standing + beside the road, talking to Alec at the wheel. Afterward he remembered the + harpy effect that her old kimono gave her, and the cracked hollowness of + her voice as she spoke: + </p> + <p> + “You Princeton boys?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there’s one of you killed here, and two others about dead.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>My God!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Look!” She pointed and they gazed in horror. Under the full light of a + roadside arc-light lay a form, face downward in a widening circle of + blood. + </p> + <p> + They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that head—that + hair—that hair... and then they turned the form over. + </p> + <p> + “It’s Dick—Dick Humbird!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Christ!” + </p> + <p> + “Feel his heart!” + </p> + <p> + Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking triumph: + </p> + <p> + “He’s quite dead, all right. The car turned over. Two of the men that + weren’t hurt just carried the others in, but this one’s no use.” + </p> + <p> + Amory rushed into the house and the rest followed with a limp mass that + they laid on the sofa in the shoddy little front parlor. Sloane, with his + shoulder punctured, was on another lounge. He was half delirious, and kept + calling something about a chemistry lecture at 8:10. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what happened,” said Ferrenby in a strained voice. “Dick was + driving and he wouldn’t give up the wheel; we told him he’d been drinking + too much—then there was this damn curve—oh, my <i>God!</i>...” + He threw himself face downward on the floor and broke into dry sobs. + </p> + <p> + The doctor had arrived, and Amory went over to the couch, where some one + handed him a sheet to put over the body. With a sudden hardness, he raised + one of the hands and let it fall back inertly. The brow was cold but the + face not expressionless. He looked at the shoe-laces—Dick had tied + them that morning. <i>He</i> had tied them—and now he was this heavy + white mass. All that remained of the charm and personality of the Dick + Humbird he had known—oh, it was all so horrible and unaristocratic + and close to the earth. All tragedy has that strain of the grotesque and + squalid—so useless, futile... the way animals die.... Amory was + reminded of a cat that had lain horribly mangled in some alley of his + childhood. + </p> + <p> + “Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby.” + </p> + <p> + Amory stepped outside the door and shivered slightly at the late night + wind—a wind that stirred a broken fender on the mass of bent metal + to a plaintive, tinny sound. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + CRESCENDO! + </p> + <p> + Next day, by a merciful chance, passed in a whirl. When Amory was by + himself his thoughts zigzagged inevitably to the picture of that red mouth + yawning incongruously in the white face, but with a determined effort he + piled present excitement upon the memory of it and shut it coldly away + from his mind. + </p> + <p> + Isabelle and her mother drove into town at four, and they rode up smiling + Prospect Avenue, through the gay crowd, to have tea at Cottage. The clubs + had their annual dinners that night, so at seven he loaned her to a + freshman and arranged to meet her in the gymnasium at eleven, when the + upper classmen were admitted to the freshman dance. She was all he had + expected, and he was happy and eager to make that night the centre of + every dream. At nine the upper classes stood in front of the clubs as the + freshman torchlight parade rioted past, and Amory wondered if the + dress-suited groups against the dark, stately backgrounds and under the + flare of the torches made the night as brilliant to the staring, cheering + freshmen as it had been to him the year before. + </p> + <p> + The next day was another whirl. They lunched in a gay party of six in a + private dining-room at the club, while Isabelle and Amory looked at each + other tenderly over the fried chicken and knew that their love was to be + eternal. They danced away the prom until five, and the stags cut in on + Isabelle with joyous abandon, which grew more and more enthusiastic as the + hour grew late, and their wines, stored in overcoat pockets in the coat + room, made old weariness wait until another day. The stag line is a most + homogeneous mass of men. It fairly sways with a single soul. A dark-haired + beauty dances by and there is a half-gasping sound as the ripple surges + forward and some one sleeker than the rest darts out and cuts in. Then + when the six-foot girl (brought by Kaye in your class, and to whom he has + been trying to introduce you all evening) gallops by, the line surges back + and the groups face about and become intent on far corners of the hall, + for Kaye, anxious and perspiring, appears elbowing through the crowd in + search of familiar faces. + </p> + <p> + “I say, old man, I’ve got an awfully nice—” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, Kaye, but I’m set for this one. I’ve got to cut in on a fella.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the next one?” + </p> + <p> + “What—ah—er—I swear I’ve got to go cut in—look me + up when she’s got a dance free.” + </p> + <p> + It delighted Amory when Isabelle suggested that they leave for a while and + drive around in her car. For a delicious hour that passed too soon they + glided the silent roads about Princeton and talked from the surface of + their hearts in shy excitement. Amory felt strangely ingenuous and made no + attempt to kiss her. + </p> + <p> + Next day they rode up through the Jersey country, had luncheon in New + York, and in the afternoon went to see a problem play at which Isabelle + wept all through the second act, rather to Amory’s embarrassment—though + it filled him with tenderness to watch her. He was tempted to lean over + and kiss away her tears, and she slipped her hand into his under cover of + darkness to be pressed softly. + </p> + <p> + Then at six they arrived at the Borges’ summer place on Long Island, and + Amory rushed up-stairs to change into a dinner coat. As he put in his + studs he realized that he was enjoying life as he would probably never + enjoy it again. Everything was hallowed by the haze of his own youth. He + had arrived, abreast of the best in his generation at Princeton. He was in + love and his love was returned. Turning on all the lights, he looked at + himself in the mirror, trying to find in his own face the qualities that + made him see clearer than the great crowd of people, that made him decide + firmly, and able to influence and follow his own will. There was little in + his life now that he would have changed. ... Oxford might have been a + bigger field. + </p> + <p> + Silently he admired himself. How conveniently well he looked, and how well + a dinner coat became him. He stepped into the hall and then waited at the + top of the stairs, for he heard footsteps coming. It was Isabelle, and + from the top of her shining hair to her little golden slippers she had + never seemed so beautiful. + </p> + <p> + “Isabelle!” he cried, half involuntarily, and held out his arms. As in the + story-books, she ran into them, and on that half-minute, as their lips + first touched, rested the high point of vanity, the crest of his young + egotism. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 3. The Egotist Considers + </h2> + <p> + “Ouch! Let me go!” + </p> + <p> + He dropped his arms to his sides. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Your shirt stud—it hurt me—look!” She was looking down at her + neck, where a little blue spot about the size of a pea marred its pallor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Isabelle,” he reproached himself, “I’m a goopher. Really, I’m sorry—I + shouldn’t have held you so close.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Amory, of course you couldn’t help it, and it didn’t hurt much; but + what <i>are</i> we going to do about it?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Do</i> about it?” he asked. “Oh—that spot; it’ll disappear in a + second.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t,” she said, after a moment of concentrated gazing, “it’s still + there—and it looks like Old Nick—oh, Amory, what’ll we do! + It’s <i>just</i> the height of your shoulder.” + </p> + <p> + “Massage it,” he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination to laugh. + </p> + <p> + She rubbed it delicately with the tips of her fingers, and then a tear + gathered in the corner of her eye, and slid down her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Amory,” she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic face, “I’ll + just make my whole neck <i>flame</i> if I rub it. What’ll I do?” + </p> + <p> + A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn’t resist repeating it + aloud. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand.” + </pre> + <p> + She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like ice. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not very sympathetic.” + </p> + <p> + Amory mistook her meaning. + </p> + <p> + “Isabelle, darling, I think it’ll—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t touch me!” she cried. “Haven’t I enough on my mind and you stand + there and <i>laugh!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Then he slipped again. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it <i>is</i> funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day + about a sense of humor being—” + </p> + <p> + She was looking at him with something that was not a smile, rather the + faint, mirthless echo of a smile, in the corners of her mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shut up!” she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway toward her + room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion. + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” + </p> + <p> + When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her shoulders, + and they descended the stairs in a silence that endured through dinner. + </p> + <p> + “Isabelle,” he began rather testily, as they arranged themselves in the + car, bound for a dance at the Greenwich Country Club, “you’re angry, and + I’ll be, too, in a minute. Let’s kiss and make up.” + </p> + <p> + Isabelle considered glumly. + </p> + <p> + “I hate to be laughed at,” she said finally. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t laugh any more. I’m not laughing now, am I?” + </p> + <p> + “You did.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t be so darned feminine.” + </p> + <p> + Her lips curled slightly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be anything I want.” + </p> + <p> + Amory kept his temper with difficulty. He became aware that he had not an + ounce of real affection for Isabelle, but her coldness piqued him. He + wanted to kiss her, kiss her a lot, because then he knew he could leave in + the morning and not care. On the contrary, if he didn’t kiss her, it would + worry him.... It would interfere vaguely with his idea of himself as a + conqueror. It wasn’t dignified to come off second best, <i>pleading</i>, + with a doughty warrior like Isabelle. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps she suspected this. At any rate, Amory watched the night that + should have been the consummation of romance glide by with great moths + overhead and the heavy fragrance of roadside gardens, but without those + broken words, those little sighs.... + </p> + <p> + Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil’s food in the pantry, and + Amory announced a decision. + </p> + <p> + “I’m leaving early in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” he countered. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no need.” + </p> + <p> + “However, I’m going.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you insist on being ridiculous—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t put it that way,” he objected. + </p> + <p> + “—just because I won’t let you kiss me. Do you think—” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Isabelle,” he interrupted, “you know it’s not that—even + suppose it is. We’ve reached the stage where we either ought to kiss—or—or—nothing. + It isn’t as if you were refusing on moral grounds.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know what to think about you,” she began, in a feeble, + perverse attempt at conciliation. “You’re so funny.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought you had a lot of self-confidence and all that; remember + you told me the other day that you could do anything you wanted, or get + anything you wanted?” + </p> + <p> + Amory flushed. He <i>had</i> told her a lot of things. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you didn’t seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you’re + just plain conceited.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not,” he hesitated. “At Princeton—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you and Princeton! You’d think that was the world, the way you talk! + Perhaps you <i>can</i> write better than anybody else on your old + Princetonian; maybe the freshmen <i>do</i> think you’re important—” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “I <i>do</i>, because you’re always talking + about yourself and I used to like it; now I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just the point,” insisted Isabelle. “You got all upset to-night. + You just sat and watched my eyes. Besides, I have to think all the time + I’m talking to you—you’re so critical.” + </p> + <p> + “I make you think, do I?” Amory repeated with a touch of vanity. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a nervous strain”—this emphatically—“and when you + analyze every little emotion and instinct I just don’t have ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “I know.” Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go.” She stood up. + </p> + <p> + He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “What train can I get?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s one about 9:11 if you really must go.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’ve got to go, really. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night.” + </p> + <p> + They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room he + thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent in her face. He + lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared—how much of + his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity—whether he was, after all, + temperamentally unfitted for romance. + </p> + <p> + When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of consciousness. The early wind + stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was idly puzzled not to + be in his room at Princeton with his school football picture over the + bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite. Then the grandfather’s + clock in the hall outside struck eight, and the memory of the night before + came to him. He was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get out + of the house before he saw Isabelle. What had seemed a melancholy + happening, now seemed a tiresome anticlimax. He was dressed at half past, + so he sat down by the window; felt that the sinews of his heart were + twisted somewhat more than he had thought. What an ironic mockery the + morning seemed!—bright and sunny, and full of the smell of the + garden; hearing Mrs. Borge’s voice in the sun-parlor below, he wondered + where was Isabelle. + </p> + <p> + There was a knock at the door. + </p> + <p> + “The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir.” + </p> + <p> + He returned to his contemplation of the outdoors, and began repeating over + and over, mechanically, a verse from Browning, which he had once quoted to + Isabelle in a letter: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Each life unfulfilled, you see, + It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; + We have not sighed deep, laughed free, + Starved, feasted, despaired—been happy.” + </pre> + <p> + But his life would not be unfulfilled. He took a sombre satisfaction in + thinking that perhaps all along she had been nothing except what he had + read into her; that this was her high point, that no one else would ever + make her think. Yet that was what she had objected to in him; and Amory + was suddenly tired of thinking, thinking! + </p> + <p> + “Damn her!” he said bitterly, “she’s spoiled my year!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + THE SUPERMAN GROWS CARELESS + </p> + <p> + On a dusty day in September Amory arrived in Princeton and joined the + sweltering crowd of conditioned men who thronged the streets. It seemed a + stupid way to commence his upper-class years, to spend four hours a + morning in the stuffy room of a tutoring school, imbibing the infinite + boredom of conic sections. Mr. Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the + class and smoked innumerable Pall Malls as he drew diagrams and worked + equations from six in the morning until midnight. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point be?” + </p> + <p> + Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material and tries + to concentrate. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—ah—I’m damned if I know, Mr. Rooney.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why of course, of course you can’t <i>use</i> that formula. <i>That’s</i> + what I wanted you to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, sure, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you see why?” + </p> + <p> + “You bet—I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t see, tell me. I’m here to show you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don’t mind, I wish you’d go over that again.” + </p> + <p> + “Gladly. Now here’s ‘A’...” + </p> + <p> + The room was a study in stupidity—two huge stands for paper, Mr. + Rooney in his shirt-sleeves in front of them, and slouched around on + chairs, a dozen men: Fred Sloane, the pitcher, who absolutely <i>had</i> + to get eligible; “Slim” Langueduc, who would beat Yale this fall, if only + he could master a poor fifty per cent; McDowell, gay young sophomore, who + thought it was quite a sporting thing to be tutoring here with all these + prominent athletes. + </p> + <p> + “Those poor birds who haven’t a cent to tutor, and have to study during + the term are the ones I pity,” he announced to Amory one day, with a + flaccid camaraderie in the droop of the cigarette from his pale lips. “I + should think it would be such a bore, there’s so much else to do in New + York during the term. I suppose they don’t know what they miss, anyhow.” + There was such an air of “you and I” about Mr. McDowell that Amory very + nearly pushed him out of the open window when he said this. ... Next + February his mother would wonder why he didn’t make a club and increase + his allowance... simple little nut.... + </p> + <p> + Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that filled the + room would come the inevitable helpless cry: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t get it! Repeat that, Mr. Rooney!” Most of them were so stupid or + careless that they wouldn’t admit when they didn’t understand, and Amory + was of the latter. He found it impossible to study conic sections; + something in their calm and tantalizing respectability breathing defiantly + through Mr. Rooney’s fetid parlors distorted their equations into + insoluble anagrams. He made a last night’s effort with the proverbial wet + towel, and then blissfully took the exam, wondering unhappily why all the + color and ambition of the spring before had faded out. Somehow, with the + defection of Isabelle the idea of undergraduate success had loosed its + grasp on his imagination, and he contemplated a possible failure to pass + off his condition with equanimity, even though it would arbitrarily mean + his removal from the Princetonian board and the slaughter of his chances + for the Senior Council. + </p> + <p> + There was always his luck. + </p> + <p> + He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered from the + room. + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t pass it,” said the newly arrived Alec as they sat on the + window-seat of Amory’s room and mused upon a scheme of wall decoration, + “you’re the world’s worst goopher. Your stock will go down like an + elevator at the club and on the campus.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?” + </p> + <p> + “’Cause you deserve it. Anybody that’d risk what you were in line for <i>ought</i> + to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, drop the subject,” Amory protested. “Watch and wait and shut up. I + don’t want every one at the club asking me about it, as if I were a prize + potato being fattened for a vegetable show.” One evening a week later + Amory stopped below his own window on the way to Renwick’s, and, seeing a + light, called up: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Tom, any mail?” + </p> + <p> + Alec’s head appeared against the yellow square of light. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, your result’s here.” + </p> + <p> + His heart clamored violently. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, blue or pink?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know. Better come up.” + </p> + <p> + He walked into the room and straight over to the table, and then suddenly + noticed that there were other people in the room. + </p> + <p> + “’Lo, Kerry.” He was most polite. “Ah, men of Princeton.” They seemed to + be mostly friends, so he picked up the envelope marked “Registrar’s + Office,” and weighed it nervously. + </p> + <p> + “We have here quite a slip of paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Open it, Amory.” + </p> + <p> + “Just to be dramatic, I’ll let you know that if it’s blue, my name is + withdrawn from the editorial board of the Prince, and my short career is + over.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and then saw for the first time Ferrenby’s eyes, wearing a + hungry look and watching him eagerly. Amory returned the gaze pointedly. + </p> + <p> + “Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emotions.” + </p> + <p> + He tore it open and held the slip up to the light. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Pink or blue?” + </p> + <p> + “Say what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “We’re all ears, Amory.” + </p> + <p> + “Smile or swear—or something.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause... a small crowd of seconds swept by... then he looked + again and another crowd went on into time. + </p> + <p> + “Blue as the sky, gentlemen....” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + AFTERMATH + </p> + <p> + What Amory did that year from early September to late in the spring was so + purposeless and inconsecutive that it seems scarcely worth recording. He + was, of course, immediately sorry for what he had lost. His philosophy of + success had tumbled down upon him, and he looked for the reasons. + </p> + <p> + “Your own laziness,” said Alec later. + </p> + <p> + “No—something deeper than that. I’ve begun to feel that I was meant + to lose this chance.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re rather off you at the club, you know; every man that doesn’t come + through makes our crowd just so much weaker.” + </p> + <p> + “I hate that point of view.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a comeback.” + </p> + <p> + “No—I’m through—as far as ever being a power in college is + concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Amory, honestly, what makes me the angriest isn’t the fact that you + won’t be chairman of the Prince and on the Senior Council, but just that + you didn’t get down and pass that exam.” + </p> + <p> + “Not me,” said Amory slowly; “I’m mad at the concrete thing. My own + idleness was quite in accord with my system, but the luck broke.” + </p> + <p> + “Your system broke, you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one quick, or just bum + around for two more years as a has-been?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know yet...” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Amory, buck up!” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe.” + </p> + <p> + Amory’s point of view, though dangerous, was not far from the true one. If + his reactions to his environment could be tabulated, the chart would have + appeared like this, beginning with his earliest years: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1. The fundamental Amory. + + 2. Amory plus Beatrice. + + 3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. +</pre> + <p> + Then St. Regis’ had pulled him to pieces and started him over again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 4. Amory plus St. Regis’. + + 5. Amory plus St. Regis’ plus Princeton. +</pre> + <p> + That had been his nearest approach to success through conformity. The + fundamental Amory, idle, imaginative, rebellious, had been nearly snowed + under. He had conformed, he had succeeded, but as his imagination was + neither satisfied nor grasped by his own success, he had listlessly, + half-accidentally chucked the whole thing and become again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 6. The fundamental Amory. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + FINANCIAL + </p> + <p> + His father died quietly and inconspicuously at Thanksgiving. The + incongruity of death with either the beauties of Lake Geneva or with his + mother’s dignified, reticent attitude diverted him, and he looked at the + funeral with an amused tolerance. He decided that burial was after all + preferable to cremation, and he smiled at his old boyhood choice, slow + oxidation in the top of a tree. The day after the ceremony he was amusing + himself in the great library by sinking back on a couch in graceful + mortuary attitudes, trying to determine whether he would, when his day + came, be found with his arms crossed piously over his chest (Monsignor + Darcy had once advocated this posture as being the most distinguished), or + with his hands clasped behind his head, a more pagan and Byronic attitude. + </p> + <p> + What interested him much more than the final departure of his father from + things mundane was a tri-cornered conversation between Beatrice, Mr. + Barton, of Barton and Krogman, their lawyers, and himself, that took place + several days after the funeral. For the first time he came into actual + cognizance of the family finances, and realized what a tidy fortune had + once been under his father’s management. He took a ledger labelled “1906” + and ran through it rather carefully. The total expenditure that year had + come to something over one hundred and ten thousand dollars. Forty + thousand of this had been Beatrice’s own income, and there had been no + attempt to account for it: it was all under the heading, “Drafts, checks, + and letters of credit forwarded to Beatrice Blaine.” The dispersal of the + rest was rather minutely itemized: the taxes and improvements on the Lake + Geneva estate had come to almost nine thousand dollars; the general + up-keep, including Beatrice’s electric and a French car, bought that year, + was over thirty-five thousand dollars. The rest was fully taken care of, + and there were invariably items which failed to balance on the right side + of the ledger. + </p> + <p> + In the volume for 1912 Amory was shocked to discover the decrease in the + number of bond holdings and the great drop in the income. In the case of + Beatrice’s money this was not so pronounced, but it was obvious that his + father had devoted the previous year to several unfortunate gambles in + oil. Very little of the oil had been burned, but Stephen Blaine had been + rather badly singed. The next year and the next and the next showed + similar decreases, and Beatrice had for the first time begun using her own + money for keeping up the house. Yet her doctor’s bill for 1913 had been + over nine thousand dollars. + </p> + <p> + About the exact state of things Mr. Barton was quite vague and confused. + There had been recent investments, the outcome of which was for the + present problematical, and he had an idea there were further speculations + and exchanges concerning which he had not been consulted. + </p> + <p> + It was not for several months that Beatrice wrote Amory the full + situation. The entire residue of the Blaine and O’Hara fortunes consisted + of the place at Lake Geneva and approximately a half million dollars, + invested now in fairly conservative six-per-cent holdings. In fact, + Beatrice wrote that she was putting the money into railroad and street-car + bonds as fast as she could conveniently transfer it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am quite sure,” she wrote to Amory, “that if there is one + thing we can be positive of, it is that people will not stay in + one place. This Ford person has certainly made the most of that + idea. So I am instructing Mr. Barton to specialize on such things + as Northern Pacific and these Rapid Transit Companies, as they + call the street-cars. I shall never forgive myself for not buying + Bethlehem Steel. I’ve heard the most fascinating stories. You + must go into finance, Amory. I’m sure you would revel in it. + You start as a messenger or a teller, I believe, and from that you + go up—almost indefinitely. I’m sure if I were a man I’d love the + handling of money; it has become quite a senile passion with me. + Before I get any farther I want to discuss something. A Mrs. Bispam, + an overcordial little lady whom I met at a tea the other day, + told me that her son, he is at Yale, wrote her that all the + boys there wore their summer underwear all during the winter, + and also went about with their heads wet and in low shoes on the + coldest days. Now, Amory, I don’t know whether that is a fad at + Princeton too, but I don’t want you to be so foolish. It not only + inclines a young man to pneumonia and infantile paralysis, but to + all forms of lung trouble, to which you are particularly + inclined. You cannot experiment with your health. I have found + that out. I will not make myself ridiculous as some mothers no + doubt do, by insisting that you wear overshoes, though I remember + one Christmas you wore them around constantly without a single + buckle latched, making such a curious swishing sound, and you + refused to buckle them because it was not the thing to do. The + very next Christmas you would not wear even rubbers, though I + begged you. You are nearly twenty years old now, dear, and I + can’t be with you constantly to find whether you are doing the + sensible thing. + + “This has been a very <i>practical</i> letter. I warned you in my last + that the lack of money to do the things one wants to makes one + quite prosy and domestic, but there is still plenty for + everything if we are not too extravagant. Take care of yourself, + my dear boy, and do try to write at least <i>once</i> a week, because I + imagine all sorts of horrible things if I don’t hear from you. + Affectionately, MOTHER.” + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM “PERSONAGE” + </p> + <p> + Monsignor Darcy invited Amory up to the Stuart palace on the Hudson for a + week at Christmas, and they had enormous conversations around the open + fire. Monsignor was growing a trifle stouter and his personality had + expanded even with that, and Amory felt both rest and security in sinking + into a squat, cushioned chair and joining him in the middle-aged sanity of + a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve felt like leaving college, Monsignor.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “All my career’s gone up in smoke; you think it’s petty and all that, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all petty. I think it’s most important. I want to hear the whole + thing. Everything you’ve been doing since I saw you last.” + </p> + <p> + Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his egotistic + highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had left his voice. + </p> + <p> + “What would you do if you left college?” asked Monsignor. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know. I’d like to travel, but of course this tiresome war prevents + that. Anyways, mother would hate not having me graduate. I’m just at sea. + Kerry Holiday wants me to go over with him and join the Lafayette + Esquadrille.” + </p> + <p> + “You know you wouldn’t like to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I would—to-night I’d go in a second.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’d have to be very much more tired of life than I think you are. + I know you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid you do,” agreed Amory reluctantly. “It just seemed an easy way + out of everything—when I think of another useless, draggy year.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I’m not worried about you; you + seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Amory objected. “I’ve lost half my personality in a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it!” scoffed Monsignor. “You’ve lost a great amount of + vanity and that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I’d gone through another fifth form at St. + Regis’s.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” Monsignor shook his head. “That was a misfortune; this has been a + good thing. Whatever worth while comes to you, won’t be through the + channels you were searching last year.” + </p> + <p> + “What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps in itself... but you’re developing. This has given you time to + think and you’re casting off a lot of your old luggage about success and + the superman and all. People like us can’t adopt whole theories, as you + did. If we can do the next thing, and have an hour a day to think in, we + can accomplish marvels, but as far as any high-handed scheme of blind + dominance is concerned—we’d just make asses of ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Monsignor, I can’t do the next thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Amory, between you and me, I have only just learned to do it myself. I + can do the one hundred things beyond the next thing, but I stub my toe on + that, just as you stubbed your toe on mathematics this fall.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of thing I + should do.” + </p> + <p> + “We have to do it because we’re not personalities, but personages.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a good line—what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “A personality is what you thought you were, what this Kerry and Sloane + you tell me of evidently are. Personality is a physical matter almost + entirely; it lowers the people it acts on—I’ve seen it vanish in a + long sickness. But while a personality is active, it overrides ‘the next + thing.’ Now a personage, on the other hand, gathers. He is never thought + of apart from what he’s done. He’s a bar on which a thousand things have + been hung—glittering things sometimes, as ours are; but he uses + those things with a cold mentality back of them.” + </p> + <p> + “And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off when I + needed them.” Amory continued the simile eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s it; when you feel that your garnered prestige and talents and + all that are hung out, you need never bother about anybody; you can cope + with them without difficulty.” + </p> + <p> + “But, on the other hand, if I haven’t my possessions, I’m helpless!” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s certainly an idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you’ve a clean start—a start Kerry or Sloane can + constitutionally never have. You brushed three or four ornaments down, + and, in a fit of pique, knocked off the rest of them. The thing now is to + collect some new ones, and the farther you look ahead in the collecting + the better. But remember, do the next thing!” + </p> + <p> + “How clear you can make things!” + </p> + <p> + So they talked, often about themselves, sometimes of philosophy and + religion, and life as respectively a game or a mystery. The priest seemed + to guess Amory’s thoughts before they were clear in his own head, so + closely related were their minds in form and groove. + </p> + <p> + “Why do I make lists?” Amory asked him one night. “Lists of all sorts of + things?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you’re a mediaevalist,” Monsignor answered. “We both are. It’s + the passion for classifying and finding a type.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a desire to get something definite.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the nucleus of scholastic philosophy.” + </p> + <p> + “I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up here. It + was a pose, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest pose of + all. Pose—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “But do the next thing.” + </p> + <p> + After Amory returned to college he received several letters from Monsignor + which gave him more egotistic food for consumption. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I am afraid that I gave you too much assurance of your inevitable + safety, and you must remember that I did that through faith in + your springs of effort; not in the silly conviction that you will + arrive without struggle. Some nuances of character you will have + to take for granted in yourself, though you must be careful in + confessing them to others. You are unsentimental, almost incapable + of affection, astute without being cunning and vain without being + proud. + + Don’t let yourself feel worthless; often through life you will + really be at your worst when you seem to think best of yourself; + and don’t worry about losing your “personality,” as you persist + in calling it; at fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, + at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of + the moon, and when you are my age you will give out, as I do, + the genial golden warmth of 4 P.M. + + If you write me letters, please let them be natural ones. Your + last, that dissertation on architecture, was perfectly awful— + so “highbrow” that I picture you living in an intellectual and + emotional vacuum; and beware of trying to classify people too + definitely into types; you will find that all through their youth + they will persist annoyingly in jumping from class to class, and + by pasting a supercilious label on every one you meet you are + merely packing a Jack-in-the-box that will spring up and leer at + you when you begin to come into really antagonistic contact with + the world. An idealization of some such a man as Leonardo da + Vinci would be a more valuable beacon to you at present. + + You are bound to go up and down, just as I did in my youth, but + do keep your clarity of mind, and if fools or sages dare to + criticise don’t blame yourself too much. + + You say that convention is all that really keeps you straight in + this “woman proposition”; but it’s more than that, Amory; it’s + the fear that what you begin you can’t stop; you would run amuck, + and I know whereof I speak; it’s that half-miraculous sixth sense + by which you detect evil, it’s the half-realized fear of God in + your heart. + + Whatever your metier proves to be—religion, architecture, + literature—I’m sure you would be much safer anchored to the + Church, but I won’t risk my influence by arguing with you even + though I am secretly sure that the “black chasm of Romanism” + yawns beneath you. Do write me soon. + + With affectionate regards, THAYER DARCY. +</pre> + <p> + Even Amory’s reading paled during this period; he delved further into the + misty side streets of literature: Huysmans, Walter Pater, Theophile + Gautier, and the racier sections of Rabelais, Boccaccio, Petronius, and + Suetonius. One week, through general curiosity, he inspected the private + libraries of his classmates and found Sloane’s as typical as any: sets of + Kipling, O. Henry, John Fox, Jr., and Richard Harding Davis; “What Every + Middle-Aged Woman Ought to Know,” “The Spell of the Yukon”; a “gift” copy + of James Whitcomb Riley, an assortment of battered, annotated schoolbooks, + and, finally, to his surprise, one of his own late discoveries, the + collected poems of Rupert Brooke. + </p> + <p> + Together with Tom D’Invilliers, he sought among the lights of Princeton + for some one who might found the Great American Poetic Tradition. + </p> + <p> + The undergraduate body itself was rather more interesting that year than + had been the entirely Philistine Princeton of two years before. Things had + livened surprisingly, though at the sacrifice of much of the spontaneous + charm of freshman year. In the old Princeton they would never have + discovered Tanaduke Wylie. Tanaduke was a sophomore, with tremendous ears + and a way of saying, “The earth swirls down through the ominous moons of + preconsidered generations!” that made them vaguely wonder why it did not + sound quite clear, but never question that it was the utterance of a + supersoul. At least so Tom and Amory took him. They told him in all + earnestness that he had a mind like Shelley’s, and featured his ultrafree + free verse and prose poetry in the Nassau Literary Magazine. But + Tanaduke’s genius absorbed the many colors of the age, and he took to the + Bohemian life, to their great disappointment. He talked of Greenwich + Village now instead of “noon-swirled moons,” and met winter muses, + unacademic, and cloistered by Forty-second Street and Broadway, instead of + the Shelleyan dream-children with whom he had regaled their expectant + appreciation. So they surrendered Tanaduke to the futurists, deciding that + he and his flaming ties would do better there. Tom gave him the final + advice that he should stop writing for two years and read the complete + works of Alexander Pope four times, but on Amory’s suggestion that Pope + for Tanaduke was like foot-ease for stomach trouble, they withdrew in + laughter, and called it a coin’s toss whether this genius was too big or + too petty for them. + </p> + <p> + Amory rather scornfully avoided the popular professors who dispensed easy + epigrams and thimblefuls of Chartreuse to groups of admirers every night. + He was disappointed, too, at the air of general uncertainty on every + subject that seemed linked with the pedantic temperament; his opinions + took shape in a miniature satire called “In a Lecture-Room,” which he + persuaded Tom to print in the Nassau Lit. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Good-morning, Fool... + Three times a week + You hold us helpless while you speak, + Teasing our thirsty souls with the + Sleek ‘yeas’ of your philosophy... + Well, here we are, your hundred sheep, + Tune up, play on, pour forth... we sleep... + You are a student, so they say; + You hammered out the other day + A syllabus, from what we know + Of some forgotten folio; + You’d sniffled through an era’s must, + Filling your nostrils up with dust, + And then, arising from your knees, + Published, in one gigantic sneeze... + But here’s a neighbor on my right, + An Eager Ass, considered bright; + Asker of questions.... How he’ll stand, + With earnest air and fidgy hand, + After this hour, telling you + He sat all night and burrowed through + Your book.... Oh, you’ll be coy and he + Will simulate precosity, + And pedants both, you’ll smile and smirk, + And leer, and hasten back to work.... + + ’Twas this day week, sir, you returned + A theme of mine, from which I learned + (Through various comment on the side + Which you had scrawled) that I defied + The <i>highest rules of criticism</i> + For <i>cheap</i> and <i>careless</i> witticism.... + ‘Are you quite sure that this could be?’ + And + ‘Shaw is no authority!’ + But Eager Ass, with what he’s sent, + Plays havoc with your best per cent. + + Still—still I meet you here and there... + When Shakespeare’s played you hold a chair, + And some defunct, moth-eaten star + Enchants the mental prig you are... + A radical comes down and shocks + The atheistic orthodox? + You’re representing Common Sense, + Mouth open, in the audience. + And, sometimes, even chapel lures + That conscious tolerance of yours, + That broad and beaming view of truth + (Including Kant and General Booth...) + And so from shock to shock you live, + A hollow, pale affirmative... + + The hour’s up... and roused from rest + One hundred children of the blest + Cheat you a word or two with feet + That down the noisy aisle-ways beat... + Forget on <i>narrow-minded earth</i> + The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth.” + </pre> + <p> + In April, Kerry Holiday left college and sailed for France to enroll in + the Lafayette Esquadrille. Amory’s envy and admiration of this step was + drowned in an experience of his own to which he never succeeded in giving + an appropriate value, but which, nevertheless, haunted him for three years + afterward. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + THE DEVIL + </p> + <p> + Healy’s they left at twelve and taxied to Bistolary’s. There were Axia + Marlowe and Phoebe Column, from the Summer Garden show, Fred Sloane and + Amory. The evening was so very young that they felt ridiculous with + surplus energy, and burst into the cafe like Dionysian revellers. + </p> + <p> + “Table for four in the middle of the floor,” yelled Phoebe. “Hurry, old + dear, tell ’em we’re here!” + </p> + <p> + “Tell ’em to play ‘Admiration’!” shouted Sloane. “You two order; Phoebe + and I are going to shake a wicked calf,” and they sailed off in the + muddled crowd. Axia and Amory, acquaintances of an hour, jostled behind a + waiter to a table at a point of vantage; there they took seats and + watched. + </p> + <p> + “There’s Findle Margotson, from New Haven!” she cried above the uproar. + “’Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Axia!” he shouted in salutation. “C’mon over to our table.” “No!” + Amory whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t do it, Findle; I’m with somebody else! Call me up to-morrow about + one o’clock!” + </p> + <p> + Findle, a nondescript man-about-Bisty’s, answered incoherently and turned + back to the brilliant blonde whom he was endeavoring to steer around the + room. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a natural damn fool,” commented Amory. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s all right. Here’s the old jitney waiter. If you ask me, I want a + double Daiquiri.” + </p> + <p> + “Make it four.” + </p> + <p> + The crowd whirled and changed and shifted. They were mostly from the + colleges, with a scattering of the male refuse of Broadway, and women of + two types, the higher of which was the chorus girl. On the whole it was a + typical crowd, and their party as typical as any. About three-fourths of + the whole business was for effect and therefore harmless, ended at the + door of the cafe, soon enough for the five-o’clock train back to Yale or + Princeton; about one-fourth continued on into the dimmer hours and + gathered strange dust from strange places. Their party was scheduled to be + one of the harmless kind. Fred Sloane and Phoebe Column were old friends; + Axia and Amory new ones. But strange things are prepared even in the dead + of night, and the unusual, which lurks least in the cafe, home of the + prosaic and inevitable, was preparing to spoil for him the waning romance + of Broadway. The way it took was so inexpressibly terrible, so + unbelievable, that afterward he never thought of it as experience; but it + was a scene from a misty tragedy, played far behind the veil, and that it + meant something definite he knew. + </p> + <p> + About one o’clock they moved to Maxim’s, and two found them in + Deviniere’s. Sloane had been drinking consecutively and was in a state of + unsteady exhilaration, but Amory was quite tiresomely sober; they had run + across none of those ancient, corrupt buyers of champagne who usually + assisted their New York parties. They were just through dancing and were + making their way back to their chairs when Amory became aware that some + one at a near-by table was looking at him. He turned and glanced + casually... a middle-aged man dressed in a brown sack suit, it was, + sitting a little apart at a table by himself and watching their party + intently. At Amory’s glance he smiled faintly. Amory turned to Fred, who + was just sitting down. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that pale fool watching us?” he complained indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” cried Sloane. “We’ll have him thrown out!” He rose to his feet + and swayed back and forth, clinging to his chair. “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + Axia and Phoebe suddenly leaned and whispered to each other across the + table, and before Amory realized it they found themselves on their way to + the door. + </p> + <p> + “Where now?” + </p> + <p> + “Up to the flat,” suggested Phoebe. “We’ve got brandy and fizz—and + everything’s slow down here to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Amory considered quickly. He hadn’t been drinking, and decided that if he + took no more, it would be reasonably discreet for him to trot along in the + party. In fact, it would be, perhaps, the thing to do in order to keep an + eye on Sloane, who was not in a state to do his own thinking. So he took + Axia’s arm and, piling intimately into a taxicab, they drove out over the + hundreds and drew up at a tall, white-stone apartment-house. ... Never + would he forget that street.... It was a broad street, lined on both sides + with just such tall, white-stone buildings, dotted with dark windows; they + stretched along as far as the eye could see, flooded with a bright + moonlight that gave them a calcium pallor. He imagined each one to have an + elevator and a colored hall-boy and a key-rack; each one to be eight + stories high and full of three and four room suites. He was rather glad to + walk into the cheeriness of Phoebe’s living-room and sink onto a sofa, + while the girls went rummaging for food. + </p> + <p> + “Phoebe’s great stuff,” confided Sloane, sotto voce. + </p> + <p> + “I’m only going to stay half an hour,” Amory said sternly. He wondered if + it sounded priggish. + </p> + <p> + “Hell y’ say,” protested Sloane. “We’re here now—don’t le’s rush.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like this place,” Amory said sulkily, “and I don’t want any + food.” + </p> + <p> + Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and four + glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Amory, pour ’em out,” she said, “and we’ll drink to Fred Sloane, who has + a rare, distinguished edge.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Axia, coming in, “and Amory. I like Amory.” She sat down + beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll pour,” said Sloane; “you use siphon, Phoebe.” + </p> + <p> + They filled the tray with glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Ready, here she goes!” + </p> + <p> + Amory hesitated, glass in hand. + </p> + <p> + There was a minute while temptation crept over him like a warm wind, and + his imagination turned to fire, and he took the glass from Phoebe’s hand. + That was all; for at the second that his decision came, he looked up and + saw, ten yards from him, the man who had been in the cafe, and with his + jump of astonishment the glass fell from his uplifted hand. There the man + half sat, half leaned against a pile of pillows on the corner divan. His + face was cast in the same yellow wax as in the cafe, neither the dull, + pasty color of a dead man—rather a sort of virile pallor—nor + unhealthy, you’d have called it; but like a strong man who’d worked in a + mine or done night shifts in a damp climate. Amory looked him over + carefully and later he could have drawn him after a fashion, down to the + merest details. His mouth was the kind that is called frank, and he had + steady gray eyes that moved slowly from one to the other of their group, + with just the shade of a questioning expression. Amory noticed his hands; + they weren’t fine at all, but they had versatility and a tenuous + strength... they were nervous hands that sat lightly along the cushions + and moved constantly with little jerky openings and closings. Then, + suddenly, Amory perceived the feet, and with a rush of blood to the head + he realized he was afraid. The feet were all wrong ... with a sort of + wrongness that he felt rather than knew.... It was like weakness in a good + woman, or blood on satin; one of those terrible incongruities that shake + little things in the back of the brain. He wore no shoes, but, instead, a + sort of half moccasin, pointed, though, like the shoes they wore in the + fourteenth century, and with the little ends curling up. They were a + darkish brown and his toes seemed to fill them to the end.... They were + unutterably terrible.... + </p> + <p> + He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia’s voice came + out of the void with a strange goodness. + </p> + <p> + “Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory’s sick—old head going ’round?” + </p> + <p> + “Look at that man!” cried Amory, pointing toward the corner divan. + </p> + <p> + “You mean that purple zebra!” shrieked Axia facetiously. “Ooo-ee! Amory’s + got a purple zebra watching him!” + </p> + <p> + Sloane laughed vacantly. + </p> + <p> + “Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence.... The man regarded Amory quizzically.... Then the + human voices fell faintly on his ear: + </p> + <p> + “Thought you weren’t drinking,” remarked Axia sardonically, but her voice + was good to hear; the whole divan that held the man was alive; alive like + heat waves over asphalt, like wriggling worms.... + </p> + <p> + “Come back! Come back!” Axia’s arm fell on his. “Amory, dear, you aren’t + going, Amory!” He was half-way to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Amory, stick ’th us!” + </p> + <p> + “Sick, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down a second!” + </p> + <p> + “Take some water.” + </p> + <p> + “Take a little brandy....” + </p> + <p> + The elevator was close, and the colored boy was half asleep, paled to a + livid bronze... Axia’s beseeching voice floated down the shaft. Those + feet... those feet... + </p> + <p> + As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the sickly + electric light of the paved hall. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + IN THE ALLEY + </p> + <p> + Down the long street came the moon, and Amory turned his back on it and + walked. Ten, fifteen steps away sounded the footsteps. They were like a + slow dripping, with just the slightest insistence in their fall. Amory’s + shadow lay, perhaps, ten feet ahead of him, and soft shoes was presumably + that far behind. With the instinct of a child Amory edged in under the + blue darkness of the white buildings, cleaving the moonlight for haggard + seconds, once bursting into a slow run with clumsy stumblings. After that + he stopped suddenly; he must keep hold, he thought. His lips were dry and + he licked them. + </p> + <p> + If he met any one good—were there any good people left in the world + or did they all live in white apartment-houses now? Was every one followed + in the moonlight? But if he met some one good who’d know what he meant and + hear this damned scuffle... then the scuffling grew suddenly nearer, and a + black cloud settled over the moon. When again the pale sheen skimmed the + cornices, it was almost beside him, and Amory thought he heard a quiet + breathing. Suddenly he realized that the footsteps were not behind, had + never been behind, they were ahead and he was not eluding but following... + following. He began to run, blindly, his heart knocking heavily, his hands + clinched. Far ahead a black dot showed itself, resolved slowly into a + human shape. But Amory was beyond that now; he turned off the street and + darted into an alley, narrow and dark and smelling of old rottenness. He + twisted down a long, sinuous blackness, where the moonlight was shut away + except for tiny glints and patches... then suddenly sank panting into a + corner by a fence, exhausted. The steps ahead stopped, and he could hear + them shift slightly with a continuous motion, like waves around a dock. + </p> + <p> + He put his face in his hands and covered eyes and ears as well as he + could. During all this time it never occurred to him that he was delirious + or drunk. He had a sense of reality such as material things could never + give him. His intellectual content seemed to submit passively to it, and + it fitted like a glove everything that had ever preceded it in his life. + It did not muddle him. It was like a problem whose answer he knew on + paper, yet whose solution he was unable to grasp. He was far beyond + horror. He had sunk through the thin surface of that, now moved in a + region where the feet and the fear of white walls were real, living + things, things he must accept. Only far inside his soul a little fire + leaped and cried that something was pulling him down, trying to get him + inside a door and slam it behind him. After that door was slammed there + would be only footfalls and white buildings in the moonlight, and perhaps + he would be one of the footfalls. + </p> + <p> + During the five or ten minutes he waited in the shadow of the fence, there + was somehow this fire... that was as near as he could name it afterward. + He remembered calling aloud: + </p> + <p> + “I want some one stupid. Oh, send some one stupid!” This to the black + fence opposite him, in whose shadows the footsteps shuffled ... shuffled. + He supposed “stupid” and “good” had become somehow intermingled through + previous association. When he called thus it was not an act of will at all—will + had turned him away from the moving figure in the street; it was almost + instinct that called, just the pile on pile of inherent tradition or some + wild prayer from way over the night. Then something clanged like a low + gong struck at a distance, and before his eyes a face flashed over the two + feet, a face pale and distorted with a sort of infinite evil that twisted + it like flame in the wind; <i>but he knew, for the half instant that the + gong tanged and hummed, that it was the face of Dick Humbird.</i> + </p> + <p> + Minutes later he sprang to his feet, realizing dimly that there was no + more sound, and that he was alone in the graying alley. It was cold, and + he started on a steady run for the light that showed the street at the + other end. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + AT THE WINDOW + </p> + <p> + It was late morning when he woke and found the telephone beside his bed in + the hotel tolling frantically, and remembered that he had left word to be + called at eleven. Sloane was snoring heavily, his clothes in a pile by his + bed. They dressed and ate breakfast in silence, and then sauntered out to + get some air. Amory’s mind was working slowly, trying to assimilate what + had happened and separate from the chaotic imagery that stacked his memory + the bare shreds of truth. If the morning had been cold and gray he could + have grasped the reins of the past in an instant, but it was one of those + days that New York gets sometimes in May, when the air on Fifth Avenue is + a soft, light wine. How much or how little Sloane remembered Amory did not + care to know; he apparently had none of the nervous tension that was + gripping Amory and forcing his mind back and forth like a shrieking saw. + </p> + <p> + Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the painted + faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, let’s go back! Let’s get off of this—this place!” + </p> + <p> + Sloane looked at him in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “This street, it’s ghastly! Come on! let’s get back to the Avenue!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say,” said Sloane stolidly, “that ’cause you had some sort + of indigestion that made you act like a maniac last night, you’re never + coming on Broadway again?” + </p> + <p> + Simultaneously Amory classed him with the crowd, and he seemed no longer + Sloane of the debonair humor and the happy personality, but only one of + the evil faces that whirled along the turbid stream. + </p> + <p> + “Man!” he shouted so loud that the people on the corner turned and + followed them with their eyes, “it’s filthy, and if you can’t see it, + you’re filthy, too!” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help it,” said Sloane doggedly. “What’s the matter with you? Old + remorse getting you? You’d be in a fine state if you’d gone through with + our little party.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going, Fred,” said Amory slowly. His knees were shaking under him, + and he knew that if he stayed another minute on this street he would keel + over where he stood. “I’ll be at the Vanderbilt for lunch.” And he strode + rapidly off and turned over to Fifth Avenue. Back at the hotel he felt + better, but as he walked into the barber-shop, intending to get a head + massage, the smell of the powders and tonics brought back Axia’s sidelong, + suggestive smile, and he left hurriedly. In the doorway of his room a + sudden blackness flowed around him like a divided river. + </p> + <p> + When he came to himself he knew that several hours had passed. He pitched + onto the bed and rolled over on his face with a deadly fear that he was + going mad. He wanted people, people, some one sane and stupid and good. He + lay for he knew not how long without moving. He could feel the little hot + veins on his forehead standing out, and his terror had hardened on him + like plaster. He felt he was passing up again through the thin crust of + horror, and now only could he distinguish the shadowy twilight he was + leaving. He must have fallen asleep again, for when he next recollected + himself he had paid the hotel bill and was stepping into a taxi at the + door. It was raining torrents. + </p> + <p> + On the train for Princeton he saw no one he knew, only a crowd of + fagged-looking Philadelphians. The presence of a painted woman across the + aisle filled him with a fresh burst of sickness and he changed to another + car, tried to concentrate on an article in a popular magazine. He found + himself reading the same paragraphs over and over, so he abandoned this + attempt and leaning over wearily pressed his hot forehead against the damp + window-pane. The car, a smoker, was hot and stuffy with most of the smells + of the state’s alien population; he opened a window and shivered against + the cloud of fog that drifted in over him. The two hours’ ride were like + days, and he nearly cried aloud with joy when the towers of Princeton + loomed up beside him and the yellow squares of light filtered through the + blue rain. + </p> + <p> + Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting a + cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing him. + </p> + <p> + “Had a hell of a dream about you last night,” came in the cracked voice + through the cigar smoke. “I had an idea you were in some trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell me about it!” Amory almost shrieked. “Don’t say a word; I’m + tired and pepped out.” + </p> + <p> + Tom looked at him queerly and then sank into a chair and opened his + Italian note-book. Amory threw his coat and hat on the floor, loosened his + collar, and took a Wells novel at random from the shelf. “Wells is sane,” + he thought, “and if he won’t do I’ll read Rupert Brooke.” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour passed. Outside the wind came up, and Amory started as the + wet branches moved and clawed with their finger-nails at the window-pane. + Tom was deep in his work, and inside the room only the occasional scratch + of a match or the rustle of leather as they shifted in their chairs broke + the stillness. Then like a zigzag of lightning came the change. Amory sat + bolt upright, frozen cold in his chair. Tom was looking at him with his + mouth drooping, eyes fixed. + </p> + <p> + “God help us!” Amory cried. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my heavens!” shouted Tom, “look behind!” Quick as a flash Amory + whirled around. He saw nothing but the dark window-pane. “It’s gone now,” + came Tom’s voice after a second in a still terror. “Something was looking + at you.” + </p> + <p> + Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair again. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to tell you,” he said. “I’ve had one hell of an experience. I + think I’ve—I’ve seen the devil or—something like him. What + face did you just see?—or no,” he added quickly, “don’t tell me!” + </p> + <p> + And he gave Tom the story. It was midnight when he finished, and after + that, with all lights burning, two sleepy, shivering boys read to each + other from “The New Machiavelli,” until dawn came up out of Witherspoon + Hall, and the Princetonian fell against the door, and the May birds hailed + the sun on last night’s rain. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 4. Narcissus Off Duty + </h2> + <p> + During Princeton’s transition period, that is, during Amory’s last two + years there, while he saw it change and broaden and live up to its Gothic + beauty by better means than night parades, certain individuals arrived who + stirred it to its plethoric depths. Some of them had been freshmen, and + wild freshmen, with Amory; some were in the class below; and it was in the + beginning of his last year and around small tables at the Nassau Inn that + they began questioning aloud the institutions that Amory and countless + others before him had questioned so long in secret. First, and partly by + accident, they struck on certain books, a definite type of biographical + novel that Amory christened “quest” books. In the “quest” book the hero + set off in life armed with the best weapons and avowedly intending to use + them as such weapons are usually used, to push their possessors ahead as + selfishly and blindly as possible, but the heroes of the “quest” books + discovered that there might be a more magnificent use for them. “None + Other Gods,” “Sinister Street,” and “The Research Magnificent” were + examples of such books; it was the latter of these three that gripped + Burne Holiday and made him wonder in the beginning of senior year how much + it was worth while being a diplomatic autocrat around his club on Prospect + Avenue and basking in the high lights of class office. It was distinctly + through the channels of aristocracy that Burne found his way. Amory, + through Kerry, had had a vague drifting acquaintance with him, but not + until January of senior year did their friendship commence. + </p> + <p> + “Heard the latest?” said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening with that + triumphant air he always wore after a successful conversational bout. + </p> + <p> + “No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going to resign + from their clubs.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + “Actual fact!” + </p> + <p> + “Why!” + </p> + <p> + “Spirit of reform and all that. Burne Holiday is behind it. The club + presidents are holding a meeting to-night to see if they can find a joint + means of combating it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what’s the idea of the thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, clubs injurious to Princeton democracy; cost a lot; draw social + lines, take time; the regular line you get sometimes from disappointed + sophomores. Woodrow thought they should be abolished and all that.” + </p> + <p> + “But this is the real thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. I think it’ll go through.” + </p> + <p> + “For Pete’s sake, tell me more about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” began Tom, “it seems that the idea developed simultaneously in + several heads. I was talking to Burne awhile ago, and he claims that it’s + a logical result if an intelligent person thinks long enough about the + social system. They had a ‘discussion crowd’ and the point of abolishing + the clubs was brought up by some one—everybody there leaped at it—it + had been in each one’s mind, more or less, and it just needed a spark to + bring it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine! I swear I think it’ll be most entertaining. How do they feel up at + Cap and Gown?” + </p> + <p> + “Wild, of course. Every one’s been sitting and arguing and swearing and + getting mad and getting sentimental and getting brutal. It’s the same at + all the clubs; I’ve been the rounds. They get one of the radicals in the + corner and fire questions at him.” + </p> + <p> + “How do the radicals stand up?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, moderately well. Burne’s a damn good talker, and so obviously sincere + that you can’t get anywhere with him. It’s so evident that resigning from + his club means so much more to him than preventing it does to us that I + felt futile when I argued; finally took a position that was brilliantly + neutral. In fact, I believe Burne thought for a while that he’d converted + me.” + </p> + <p> + “And you say almost a third of the junior class are going to resign?” + </p> + <p> + “Call it a fourth and be safe.” + </p> + <p> + “Lord—who’d have thought it possible!” + </p> + <p> + There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in. “Hello, + Amory—hello, Tom.” + </p> + <p> + Amory rose. + </p> + <p> + “’Evening, Burne. Don’t mind if I seem to rush; I’m going to Renwick’s.” + </p> + <p> + Burne turned to him quickly. + </p> + <p> + “You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn’t a bit + private. I wish you’d stay.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d be glad to.” Amory sat down again, and as Burne perched on a table + and launched into argument with Tom, he looked at this revolutionary more + carefully than he ever had before. Broad-browed and strong-chinned, with a + fineness in the honest gray eyes that were like Kerry’s, Burne was a man + who gave an immediate impression of bigness and security—stubborn, + that was evident, but his stubbornness wore no stolidity, and when he had + talked for five minutes Amory knew that this keen enthusiasm had in it no + quality of dilettantism. + </p> + <p> + The intense power Amory felt later in Burne Holiday differed from the + admiration he had had for Humbird. This time it began as purely a mental + interest. With other men of whom he had thought as primarily first-class, + he had been attracted first by their personalities, and in Burne he missed + that immediate magnetism to which he usually swore allegiance. But that + night Amory was struck by Burne’s intense earnestness, a quality he was + accustomed to associate only with the dread stupidity, and by the great + enthusiasm that struck dead chords in his heart. Burne stood vaguely for a + land Amory hoped he was drifting toward—and it was almost time that + land was in sight. Tom and Amory and Alec had reached an impasse; never + did they seem to have new experiences in common, for Tom and Alec had been + as blindly busy with their committees and boards as Amory had been blindly + idling, and the things they had for dissection—college, contemporary + personality and the like—they had hashed and rehashed for many a + frugal conversational meal. + </p> + <p> + That night they discussed the clubs until twelve, and, in the main, they + agreed with Burne. To the roommates it did not seem such a vital subject + as it had in the two years before, but the logic of Burne’s objections to + the social system dovetailed so completely with everything they had + thought, that they questioned rather than argued, and envied the sanity + that enabled this man to stand out so against all traditions. + </p> + <p> + Then Amory branched off and found that Burne was deep in other things as + well. Economics had interested him and he was turning socialist. Pacifism + played in the back of his mind, and he read The Masses and Lyoff Tolstoi + faithfully. + </p> + <p> + “How about religion?” Amory asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know. I’m in a muddle about a lot of things—I’ve just + discovered that I’ve a mind, and I’m starting to read.” + </p> + <p> + “Read what?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything. I have to pick and choose, of course, but mostly things to + make me think. I’m reading the four gospels now, and the ‘Varieties of + Religious Experience.’” + </p> + <p> + “What chiefly started you?” + </p> + <p> + “Wells, I guess, and Tolstoi, and a man named Edward Carpenter. I’ve been + reading for over a year now—on a few lines, on what I consider the + essential lines.” + </p> + <p> + “Poetry?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, frankly, not what you call poetry, or for your reasons—you + two write, of course, and look at things differently. Whitman is the man + that attracts me.” + </p> + <p> + “Whitman?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he’s a definite ethical force.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m ashamed to say that I’m a blank on the subject of Whitman. How + about you, Tom?” + </p> + <p> + Tom nodded sheepishly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” continued Burne, “you may strike a few poems that are tiresome, + but I mean the mass of his work. He’s tremendous—like Tolstoi. They + both look things in the face, and, somehow, different as they are, stand + for somewhat the same things.” + </p> + <p> + “You have me stumped, Burne,” Amory admitted. “I’ve read ‘Anna Karenina’ + and the ‘Kreutzer Sonata’ of course, but Tolstoi is mostly in the original + Russian as far as I’m concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s the greatest man in hundreds of years,” cried Burne + enthusiastically. “Did you ever see a picture of that shaggy old head of + his?” + </p> + <p> + They talked until three, from biology to organized religion, and when + Amory crept shivering into bed it was with his mind aglow with ideas and a + sense of shock that some one else had discovered the path he might have + followed. Burne Holiday was so evidently developing—and Amory had + considered that he was doing the same. He had fallen into a deep cynicism + over what had crossed his path, plotted the imperfectability of man and + read Shaw and Chesterton enough to keep his mind from the edges of + decadence—now suddenly all his mental processes of the last year and + a half seemed stale and futile—a petty consummation of himself... + and like a sombre background lay that incident of the spring before, that + filled half his nights with a dreary terror and made him unable to pray. + He was not even a Catholic, yet that was the only ghost of a code that he + had, the gaudy, ritualistic, paradoxical Catholicism whose prophet was + Chesterton, whose claqueurs were such reformed rakes of literature as + Huysmans and Bourget, whose American sponsor was Ralph Adams Cram, with + his adulation of thirteenth-century cathedrals—a Catholicism which + Amory found convenient and ready-made, without priest or sacraments or + sacrifice. + </p> + <p> + He could not sleep, so he turned on his reading-lamp and, taking down the + “Kreutzer Sonata,” searched it carefully for the germs of Burne’s + enthusiasm. Being Burne was suddenly so much realler than being clever. + Yet he sighed... here were other possible clay feet. + </p> + <p> + He thought back through two years, of Burne as a hurried, nervous + freshman, quite submerged in his brother’s personality. Then he remembered + an incident of sophomore year, in which Burne had been suspected of the + leading role. + </p> + <p> + Dean Hollister had been heard by a large group arguing with a taxi-driver, + who had driven him from the junction. In the course of the altercation the + dean remarked that he “might as well buy the taxicab.” He paid and walked + off, but next morning he entered his private office to find the taxicab + itself in the space usually occupied by his desk, bearing a sign which + read “Property of Dean Hollister. Bought and Paid for.”... It took two + expert mechanics half a day to dissemble it into its minutest parts and + remove it, which only goes to prove the rare energy of sophomore humor + under efficient leadership. + </p> + <p> + Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensation. A certain + Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom-trotter, had failed to get her + yearly invitation to the Harvard-Princeton game. + </p> + <p> + Jesse Ferrenby had brought her to a smaller game a few weeks before, and + had pressed Burne into service—to the ruination of the latter’s + misogyny. + </p> + <p> + “Are you coming to the Harvard game?” Burne had asked indiscreetly, merely + to make conversation. + </p> + <p> + “If you ask me,” cried Phyllis quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do,” said Burne feebly. He was unversed in the arts of + Phyllis, and was sure that this was merely a vapid form of kidding. Before + an hour had passed he knew that he was indeed involved. Phyllis had pinned + him down and served him up, informed him the train she was arriving by, + and depressed him thoroughly. Aside from loathing Phyllis, he had + particularly wanted to stag that game and entertain some Harvard friends. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll see,” he informed a delegation who arrived in his room to josh + him. “This will be the last game she ever persuades any young innocent to + take her to!” + </p> + <p> + “But, Burne—why did you <i>invite</i> her if you didn’t want her?” + </p> + <p> + “Burne, you <i>know</i> you’re secretly mad about her—that’s the <i>real</i> + trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “What can <i>you</i> do, Burne? What can <i>you</i> do against Phyllis?” + </p> + <p> + But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which consisted largely + of the phrase: “She’ll see, she’ll see!” + </p> + <p> + The blithesome Phyllis bore her twenty-five summers gayly from the train, + but on the platform a ghastly sight met her eyes. There were Burne and + Fred Sloane arrayed to the last dot like the lurid figures on college + posters. They had bought flaring suits with huge peg-top trousers and + gigantic padded shoulders. On their heads were rakish college hats, pinned + up in front and sporting bright orange-and-black bands, while from their + celluloid collars blossomed flaming orange ties. They wore black arm-bands + with orange “P’s,” and carried canes flying Princeton pennants, the effect + completed by socks and peeping handkerchiefs in the same color motifs. On + a clanking chain they led a large, angry tom-cat, painted to represent a + tiger. + </p> + <p> + A good half of the station crowd was already staring at them, torn between + horrified pity and riotous mirth, and as Phyllis, with her svelte jaw + dropping, approached, the pair bent over and emitted a college cheer in + loud, far-carrying voices, thoughtfully adding the name “Phyllis” to the + end. She was vociferously greeted and escorted enthusiastically across the + campus, followed by half a hundred village urchins—to the stifled + laughter of hundreds of alumni and visitors, half of whom had no idea that + this was a practical joke, but thought that Burne and Fred were two + varsity sports showing their girl a collegiate time. + </p> + <p> + Phyllis’s feelings as she was paraded by the Harvard and Princeton stands, + where sat dozens of her former devotees, can be imagined. She tried to + walk a little ahead, she tried to walk a little behind—but they + stayed close, that there should be no doubt whom she was with, talking in + loud voices of their friends on the football team, until she could almost + hear her acquaintances whispering: + </p> + <p> + “Phyllis Styles must be <i>awfully hard up</i> to have to come with <i>those + two</i>.” + </p> + <p> + That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. From + that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to orient with + progress.... + </p> + <p> + So the weeks passed and March came and the clay feet that Amory looked for + failed to appear. About a hundred juniors and seniors resigned from their + clubs in a final fury of righteousness, and the clubs in helplessness + turned upon Burne their finest weapon: ridicule. Every one who knew him + liked him—but what he stood for (and he began to stand for more all + the time) came under the lash of many tongues, until a frailer man than he + would have been snowed under. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you mind losing prestige?” asked Amory one night. They had taken to + exchanging calls several times a week. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I don’t. What’s prestige, at best?” + </p> + <p> + “Some people say that you’re just a rather original politician.” + </p> + <p> + He roared with laughter. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it coming.” + </p> + <p> + One afternoon they dipped into a subject that had interested Amory for a + long time—the matter of the bearing of physical attributes on a + man’s make-up. Burne had gone into the biology of this, and then: + </p> + <p> + “Of course health counts—a healthy man has twice the chance of being + good,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree with you—I don’t believe in ‘muscular Christianity.’” + </p> + <p> + “I do—I believe Christ had great physical vigor.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” Amory protested. “He worked too hard for that. I imagine that + when he died he was a broken-down man—and the great saints haven’t + been strong.” + </p> + <p> + “Half of them have.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, even granting that, I don’t think health has anything to do with + goodness; of course, it’s valuable to a great saint to be able to stand + enormous strains, but this fad of popular preachers rising on their toes + in simulated virility, bellowing that calisthenics will save the world—no, + Burne, I can’t go that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let’s waive it—we won’t get anywhere, and besides I haven’t + quite made up my mind about it myself. Now, here’s something I <i>do</i> + know—personal appearance has a lot to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Coloring?” Amory asked eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what Tom and I figured,” Amory agreed. “We took the year-books for + the last ten years and looked at the pictures of the senior council. I + know you don’t think much of that august body, but it does represent + success here in a general way. Well, I suppose only about thirty-five per + cent of every class here are blonds, are really light—yet <i>two-thirds</i> + of every senior council are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of + them, mind you; that means that out of every <i>fifteen</i> light-haired + men in the senior class <i>one</i> is on the senior council, and of the + dark-haired men it’s only one in <i>fifty</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s true,” Burne agreed. “The light-haired man <i>is</i> a higher type, + generally speaking. I worked the thing out with the Presidents of the + United States once, and found that way over half of them were light-haired—yet + think of the preponderant number of brunettes in the race.” + </p> + <p> + “People unconsciously admit it,” said Amory. “You’ll notice a blond person + is <i>expected</i> to talk. If a blond girl doesn’t talk we call her a + ‘doll’; if a light-haired man is silent he’s considered stupid. Yet the + world is full of ‘dark silent men’ and ‘languorous brunettes’ who haven’t + a brain in their heads, but somehow are never accused of the dearth.” + </p> + <p> + “And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose undoubtedly make + the superior face.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not so sure.” Amory was all for classical features. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—I’ll show you,” and Burne pulled out of his desk a + photographic collection of heavily bearded, shaggy celebrities—Tolstoi, + Whitman, Carpenter, and others. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t they wonderful?” + </p> + <p> + Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. + </p> + <p> + “Burne, I think they’re the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came across. They + look like an old man’s home.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi’s eyes.” His + tone was reproachful. + </p> + <p> + Amory shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you want—but ugly they + certainly are.” + </p> + <p> + Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious foreheads, and + piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. + </p> + <p> + Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he + persuaded Amory to accompany him. + </p> + <p> + “I hate the dark,” Amory objected. “I didn’t use to—except when I + was particularly imaginative, but now, I really do—I’m a regular + fool about it.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s useless, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite possibly.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll go east,” Burne suggested, “and down that string of roads through + the woods.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t sound very appealing to me,” admitted Amory reluctantly, “but + let’s go.” + </p> + <p> + They set off at a good gait, and for an hour swung along in a brisk + argument until the lights of Princeton were luminous white blots behind + them. + </p> + <p> + “Any person with any imagination is bound to be afraid,” said Burne + earnestly. “And this very walking at night is one of the things I was + afraid about. I’m going to tell you why I can walk anywhere now and not be + afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” Amory urged eagerly. They were striding toward the woods, Burne’s + nervous, enthusiastic voice warming to his subject. + </p> + <p> + “I used to come out here alone at night, oh, three months ago, and I + always stopped at that cross-road we just passed. There were the woods + looming up ahead, just as they do now, there were dogs howling and the + shadows and no human sound. Of course, I peopled the woods with everything + ghastly, just like you do; don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” Amory admitted. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I began analyzing it—my imagination persisted in sticking + horrors into the dark—so I stuck my imagination into the dark + instead, and let it look out at me—I let it play stray dog or + escaped convict or ghost, and then saw myself coming along the road. That + made it all right—as it always makes everything all right to project + yourself completely into another’s place. I knew that if I were the dog or + the convict or the ghost I wouldn’t be a menace to Burne Holiday any more + than he was a menace to me. Then I thought of my watch. I’d better go back + and leave it and then essay the woods. No; I decided, it’s better on the + whole that I should lose a watch than that I should turn back—and I + did go into them—not only followed the road through them, but walked + into them until I wasn’t frightened any more—did it until one night + I sat down and dozed off in there; then I knew I was through being afraid + of the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “Lordy,” Amory breathed. “I couldn’t have done that. I’d have come out + half-way, and the first time an automobile passed and made the dark + thicker when its lamps disappeared, I’d have come in.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Burne said suddenly, after a few moments’ silence, “we’re half-way + through, let’s turn back.” + </p> + <p> + On the return he launched into a discussion of will. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the whole thing,” he asserted. “It’s the one dividing line between + good and evil. I’ve never met a man who led a rotten life and didn’t have + a weak will.” + </p> + <p> + “How about great criminals?” + </p> + <p> + “They’re usually insane. If not, they’re weak. There is no such thing as a + strong, sane criminal.” + </p> + <p> + “Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about the superman?” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s evil, I think, yet he’s strong and sane.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never met him. I’ll bet, though, that he’s stupid or insane.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve met him over and over and he’s neither. That’s why I think you’re + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I’m not—and so I don’t believe in imprisonment except for + the insane.” + </p> + <p> + On this point Amory could not agree. It seemed to him that life and + history were rife with the strong criminal, keen, but often self-deluding; + in politics and business one found him and among the old statesmen and + kings and generals; but Burne never agreed and their courses began to + split on that point. + </p> + <p> + Burne was drawing farther and farther away from the world about him. He + resigned the vice-presidency of the senior class and took to reading and + walking as almost his only pursuits. He voluntarily attended graduate + lectures in philosophy and biology, and sat in all of them with a rather + pathetically intent look in his eyes, as if waiting for something the + lecturer would never quite come to. Sometimes Amory would see him squirm + in his seat; and his face would light up; he was on fire to debate a + point. + </p> + <p> + He grew more abstracted on the street and was even accused of becoming a + snob, but Amory knew it was nothing of the sort, and once when Burne + passed him four feet off, absolutely unseeingly, his mind a thousand miles + away, Amory almost choked with the romantic joy of watching him. Burne + seemed to be climbing heights where others would be forever unable to get + a foothold. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you,” Amory declared to Tom, “he’s the first contemporary I’ve + ever met whom I’ll admit is my superior in mental capacity.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a bad time to admit it—people are beginning to think he’s + odd.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s way over their heads—you know you think so yourself when you + talk to him—Good Lord, Tom, you <i>used</i> to stand out against + ‘people.’ Success has completely conventionalized you.” + </p> + <p> + Tom grew rather annoyed. + </p> + <p> + “What’s he trying to do—be excessively holy?” + </p> + <p> + “No! not like anybody you’ve ever seen. Never enters the Philadelphian + Society. He has no faith in that rot. He doesn’t believe that public + swimming-pools and a kind word in time will right the wrongs of the world; + moreover, he takes a drink whenever he feels like it.” + </p> + <p> + “He certainly is getting in wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you talked to him lately?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you haven’t any conception of him.” + </p> + <p> + The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how the + sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus. + </p> + <p> + “It’s odd,” Amory said to Tom one night when they had grown more amicable + on the subject, “that the people who violently disapprove of Burne’s + radicalism are distinctly the Pharisee class—I mean they’re the + best-educated men in college—the editors of the papers, like + yourself and Ferrenby, the younger professors.... The illiterate athletes + like Langueduc think he’s getting eccentric, but they just say, ‘Good old + Burne has got some queer ideas in his head,’ and pass on—the + Pharisee class—Gee! they ridicule him unmercifully.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a + recitation. + </p> + <p> + “Whither bound, Tsar?” + </p> + <p> + “Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby,” he waved a copy of the + morning’s Princetonian at Amory. “He wrote this editorial.” + </p> + <p> + “Going to flay him alive?” + </p> + <p> + “No—but he’s got me all balled up. Either I’ve misjudged him or he’s + suddenly become the world’s worst radical.” + </p> + <p> + Burne hurried on, and it was several days before Amory heard an account of + the ensuing conversation. Burne had come into the editor’s sanctum + displaying the paper cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Jesse.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello there, Savonarola.” + </p> + <p> + “I just read your editorial.” + </p> + <p> + “Good boy—didn’t know you stooped that low.” + </p> + <p> + “Jesse, you startled me.” + </p> + <p> + “How so?” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you afraid the faculty’ll get after you if you pull this + irreligious stuff?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Like this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “What the devil—that editorial was on the coaching system.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but that quotation—” + </p> + <p> + Jesse sat up. + </p> + <p> + “What quotation?” + </p> + <p> + “You know: ‘He who is not with me is against me.’” + </p> + <p> + “Well—what about it?” + </p> + <p> + Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you say here—let me see.” Burne opened the paper and read: “‘<i>He + who is not with me is against me</i>, as that gentleman said who was + notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and puerile + generalities.’” + </p> + <p> + “What of it?” Ferrenby began to look alarmed. “Oliver Cromwell said it, + didn’t he? or was it Washington, or one of the saints? Good Lord, I’ve + forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + Burne roared with laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse.” + </p> + <p> + “Who said it, for Pete’s sake?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Burne, recovering his voice, “St. Matthew attributes it to + Christ.” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the waste-basket. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + AMORY WRITES A POEM + </p> + <p> + The weeks tore by. Amory wandered occasionally to New York on the chance + of finding a new shining green auto-bus, that its stick-of-candy glamour + might penetrate his disposition. One day he ventured into a stock-company + revival of a play whose name was faintly familiar. The curtain rose—he + watched casually as a girl entered. A few phrases rang in his ear and + touched a faint chord of memory. Where—? When—? + </p> + <p> + Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very soft, vibrant + voice: “Oh, I’m such a poor little fool; <i>do</i> tell me when I do + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of Isabelle. + </p> + <p> + He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble rapidly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here in the figured dark I watch once more, + There, with the curtain, roll the years away; + Two years of years—there was an idle day + Of ours, when happy endings didn’t bore + Our unfermented souls; I could adore + Your eager face beside me, wide-eyed, gay, + Smiling a repertoire while the poor play + Reached me as a faint ripple reaches shore. + + “Yawning and wondering an evening through, + I watch alone... and chatterings, of course, + Spoil the one scene which, somehow, <i>did</i> have charms; + You wept a bit, and I grew sad for you + Right here! Where Mr. X defends divorce + And What’s-Her-Name falls fainting in his arms.” + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + STILL CALM + </p> + <p> + “Ghosts are such dumb things,” said Alec, “they’re slow-witted. I can + always outguess a ghost.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” asked Tom. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use <i>any</i> + discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, s’pose you think there’s maybe a ghost in your bedroom—what + measures do you take on getting home at night?” demanded Amory, + interested. + </p> + <p> + “Take a stick” answered Alec, with ponderous reverence, “one about the + length of a broom-handle. Now, the first thing to do is to get the room <i>cleared</i>—to + do this you rush with your eyes closed into your study and turn on the + lights—next, approaching the closet, carefully run the stick in the + door three or four times. Then, if nothing happens, you can look in. <i>Always, + always</i> run the stick in viciously first—<i>never</i> look + first!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, that’s the ancient Celtic school,” said Tom gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to + clear the closets and also for behind all doors—” + </p> + <p> + “And the bed,” Amory suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Amory, no!” cried Alec in horror. “That isn’t the way—the bed + requires different tactics—let the bed alone, as you value your + reason—if there is a ghost in the room and that’s only about a third + of the time, it is <i>almost always</i> under the bed.” + </p> + <p> + “Well” Amory began. + </p> + <p> + Alec waved him into silence. + </p> + <p> + “Of <i>course</i> you never look. You stand in the middle of the floor and + before he knows what you’re going to do make a sudden leap for the bed—never + walk near the bed; to a ghost your ankle is your most vulnerable part—once + in bed, you’re safe; he may lie around under the bed all night, but you’re + safe as daylight. If you still have doubts pull the blanket over your + head.” + </p> + <p> + “All that’s very interesting, Tom.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it?” Alec beamed proudly. “All my own, too—the Sir Oliver + Lodge of the new world.” + </p> + <p> + Amory was enjoying college immensely again. The sense of going forward in + a direct, determined line had come back; youth was stirring and shaking + out a few new feathers. He had even stored enough surplus energy to sally + into a new pose. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the idea of all this ‘distracted’ stuff, Amory?” asked Alec one + day, and then as Amory pretended to be cramped over his book in a daze: + “Oh, don’t try to act Burne, the mystic, to me.” + </p> + <p> + Amory looked up innocently. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” mimicked Alec. “Are you trying to read yourself into a rhapsody + with—let’s see the book.” + </p> + <p> + He snatched it; regarded it derisively. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Amory a little stiffly. + </p> + <p> + “‘The Life of St. Teresa,’” read Alec aloud. “Oh, my gosh!” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Alec.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Does it bother you?” + </p> + <p> + “Does what bother me?” + </p> + <p> + “My acting dazed and all that?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no—of course it doesn’t <i>bother</i> me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, don’t spoil it. If I enjoy going around telling people + guilelessly that I think I’m a genius, let me do it.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re getting a reputation for being eccentric,” said Alec, laughing, + “if that’s what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + Amory finally prevailed, and Alec agreed to accept his face value in the + presence of others if he was allowed rest periods when they were alone; so + Amory “ran it out” at a great rate, bringing the most eccentric characters + to dinner, wild-eyed grad students, preceptors with strange theories of + God and government, to the cynical amazement of the supercilious Cottage + Club. + </p> + <p> + As February became slashed by sun and moved cheerfully into March, Amory + went several times to spend week-ends with Monsignor; once he took Burne, + with great success, for he took equal pride and delight in displaying them + to each other. Monsignor took him several times to see Thornton Hancock, + and once or twice to the house of a Mrs. Lawrence, a type of Rome-haunting + American whom Amory liked immediately. + </p> + <p> + Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an interesting + P. S.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Do you know,” it ran, “that your third cousin, Clara Page, + widowed six months and very poor, is living in Philadelphia? + I don’t think you’ve ever met her, but I wish, as a favor to me, + you’d go to see her. To my mind, she’s rather a remarkable woman, + and just about your age.” + </pre> + <p> + Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + CLARA + </p> + <p> + She was immemorial.... Amory wasn’t good enough for Clara, Clara of ripply + golden hair, but then no man was. Her goodness was above the prosy morals + of the husband-seeker, apart from the dull literature of female virtue. + </p> + <p> + Sorrow lay lightly around her, and when Amory found her in Philadelphia he + thought her steely blue eyes held only happiness; a latent strength, a + realism, was brought to its fullest development by the facts that she was + compelled to face. She was alone in the world, with two small children, + little money, and, worst of all, a host of friends. He saw her that winter + in Philadelphia entertaining a houseful of men for an evening, when he + knew she had not a servant in the house except the little colored girl + guarding the babies overhead. He saw one of the greatest libertines in + that city, a man who was habitually drunk and notorious at home and + abroad, sitting opposite her for an evening, discussing <i>girls’ + boarding-schools</i> with a sort of innocent excitement. What a twist + Clara had to her mind! She could make fascinating and almost brilliant + conversation out of the thinnest air that ever floated through a + drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + The idea that the girl was poverty-stricken had appealed to Amory’s sense + of situation. He arrived in Philadelphia expecting to be told that 921 Ark + Street was in a miserable lane of hovels. He was even disappointed when it + proved to be nothing of the sort. It was an old house that had been in her + husband’s family for years. An elderly aunt, who objected to having it + sold, had put ten years’ taxes with a lawyer and pranced off to Honolulu, + leaving Clara to struggle with the heating-problem as best she could. So + no wild-haired woman with a hungry baby at her breast and a sad + Amelia-like look greeted him. Instead, Amory would have thought from his + reception that she had not a care in the world. + </p> + <p> + A calm virility and a dreamy humor, marked contrasts to her + level-headedness—into these moods she slipped sometimes as a refuge. + She could do the most prosy things (though she was wise enough never to + stultify herself with such “household arts” as <i>knitting</i> and <i>embroidery</i>), + yet immediately afterward pick up a book and let her imagination rove as a + formless cloud with the wind. Deepest of all in her personality was the + golden radiance that she diffused around her. As an open fire in a dark + room throws romance and pathos into the quiet faces at its edge, so she + cast her lights and shadows around the rooms that held her, until she made + of her prosy old uncle a man of quaint and meditative charm, metamorphosed + the stray telegraph boy into a Puck-like creature of delightful + originality. At first this quality of hers somehow irritated Amory. He + considered his own uniqueness sufficient, and it rather embarrassed him + when she tried to read new interests into him for the benefit of what + other adorers were present. He felt as if a polite but insistent + stage-manager were attempting to make him give a new interpretation of a + part he had conned for years. + </p> + <p> + But Clara talking, Clara telling a slender tale of a hatpin and an + inebriated man and herself.... People tried afterward to repeat her + anecdotes but for the life of them they could make them sound like nothing + whatever. They gave her a sort of innocent attention and the best smiles + many of them had smiled for long; there were few tears in Clara, but + people smiled misty-eyed at her. + </p> + <p> + Very occasionally Amory stayed for little half-hours after the rest of the + court had gone, and they would have bread and jam and tea late in the + afternoon or “maple-sugar lunches,” as she called them, at night. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>are</i> remarkable, aren’t you!” Amory was becoming trite from + where he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six o’clock. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit,” she answered. She was searching out napkins in the sideboard. + “I’m really most humdrum and commonplace. One of those people who have no + interest in anything but their children.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell that to somebody else,” scoffed Amory. “You know you’re perfectly + effulgent.” He asked her the one thing that he knew might embarrass her. + It was the remark that the first bore made to Adam. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about yourself.” And she gave the answer that Adam must have + given. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing to tell.” + </p> + <p> + But eventually Adam probably told the bore all the things he thought about + at night when the locusts sang in the sandy grass, and he must have + remarked patronizingly how <i>different</i> he was from Eve, forgetting + how different she was from him... at any rate, Clara told Amory much about + herself that evening. She had had a harried life from sixteen on, and her + education had stopped sharply with her leisure. Browsing in her library, + Amory found a tattered gray book out of which fell a yellow sheet that he + impudently opened. It was a poem that she had written at school about a + gray convent wall on a gray day, and a girl with her cloak blown by the + wind sitting atop of it and thinking about the many-colored world. As a + rule such sentiment bored him, but this was done with so much simplicity + and atmosphere, that it brought a picture of Clara to his mind, of Clara + on such a cool, gray day with her keen blue eyes staring out, trying to + see her tragedies come marching over the gardens outside. He envied that + poem. How he would have loved to have come along and seen her on the wall + and talked nonsense or romance to her, perched above him in the air. He + began to be frightfully jealous of everything about Clara: of her past, of + her babies, of the men and women who flocked to drink deep of her cool + kindness and rest their tired minds as at an absorbing play. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Nobody</i> seems to bore you,” he objected. + </p> + <p> + “About half the world do,” she admitted, “but I think that’s a pretty good + average, don’t you?” and she turned to find something in Browning that + bore on the subject. She was the only person he ever met who could look up + passages and quotations to show him in the middle of the conversation, and + yet not be irritating to distraction. She did it constantly, with such a + serious enthusiasm that he grew fond of watching her golden hair bent over + a book, brow wrinkled ever so little at hunting her sentence. + </p> + <p> + Through early March he took to going to Philadelphia for week-ends. Almost + always there was some one else there and she seemed not anxious to see him + alone, for many occasions presented themselves when a word from her would + have given him another delicious half-hour of adoration. But he fell + gradually in love and began to speculate wildly on marriage. Though this + design flowed through his brain even to his lips, still he knew afterward + that the desire had not been deeply rooted. Once he dreamt that it had + come true and woke up in a cold panic, for in his dream she had been a + silly, flaxen Clara, with the gold gone out of her hair and platitudes + falling insipidly from her changeling tongue. But she was the first fine + woman he ever knew and one of the few good people who ever interested him. + She made her goodness such an asset. Amory had decided that most good + people either dragged theirs after them as a liability, or else distorted + it to artificial geniality, and of course there were the ever-present prig + and Pharisee—(but Amory never included <i>them</i> as being among + the saved). + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + ST. CECILIA + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Over her gray and velvet dress, + Under her molten, beaten hair, + Color of rose in mock distress + Flushes and fades and makes her fair; + Fills the air from her to him + With light and languor and little sighs, + Just so subtly he scarcely knows... + Laughing lightning, color of rose.” + </pre> + <p> + “Do you like me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do,” said Clara seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are spontaneous in + each of us—or were originally.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re implying that I haven’t used myself very well?” + </p> + <p> + Clara hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can’t judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot more, and + I’ve been sheltered.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t stall, please, Clara,” Amory interrupted; “but do talk about me + a little, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely, I’d adore to.” She didn’t smile. + </p> + <p> + “That’s sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully + conceited?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—no, you have tremendous vanity, but it’ll amuse the people who + notice its preponderance.” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re really humble at heart. You sink to the third hell of depression + when you think you’ve been slighted. In fact, you haven’t much + self-respect.” + </p> + <p> + “Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let me say a + word.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not—I can never judge a man while he’s talking. But I’m + not through; the reason you have so little real self-confidence, even + though you gravely announce to the occasional philistine that you think + you’re a genius, is that you’ve attributed all sorts of atrocious faults + to yourself and are trying to live up to them. For instance, you’re always + saying that you are a slave to high-balls.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am, potentially.” + </p> + <p> + “And you say you’re a weak character, that you’ve no will.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of will—I’m a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my + hatred of boredom, to most of my desires—” + </p> + <p> + “You are not!” She brought one little fist down onto the other. “You’re a + slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your + imagination.” + </p> + <p> + “You certainly interest me. If this isn’t boring you, go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I notice that when you want to stay over an extra day from college you go + about it in a sure way. You never decide at first while the merits of + going or staying are fairly clear in your mind. You let your imagination + shinny on the side of your desires for a few hours, and then you decide. + Naturally your imagination, after a little freedom, thinks up a million + reasons why you should stay, so your decision when it comes isn’t true. + It’s biassed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” objected Amory, “but isn’t it lack of will-power to let my + imagination shinny on the wrong side?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, there’s your big mistake. This has nothing to do with + will-power; that’s a crazy, useless word, anyway; you lack judgment—the + judgment to decide at once when you know your imagination will play you + false, given half a chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Amory in surprise, “that’s the last + thing I expected.” + </p> + <p> + Clara didn’t gloat. She changed the subject immediately. But she had + started him thinking and he believed she was partly right. He felt like a + factory-owner who after accusing a clerk of dishonesty finds that his own + son, in the office, is changing the books once a week. His poor, + mistreated will that he had been holding up to the scorn of himself and + his friends, stood before him innocent, and his judgment walked off to + prison with the unconfinable imp, imagination, dancing in mocking glee + beside him. Clara’s was the only advice he ever asked without dictating + the answer himself—except, perhaps, in his talks with Monsignor + Darcy. + </p> + <p> + How he loved to do any sort of thing with Clara! Shopping with her was a + rare, epicurean dream. In every store where she had ever traded she was + whispered about as the beautiful Mrs. Page. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bet she won’t stay single long.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don’t scream it out. She ain’t lookin’ for no advice.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ain’t</i> she beautiful!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Enter a floor-walker—silence till he moves forward, smirking.) +</pre> + <p> + “Society person, ain’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee! girls, <i>ain’t</i> she some kid!” + </p> + <p> + And Clara beamed on all alike. Amory believed that tradespeople gave her + discounts, sometimes to her knowledge and sometimes without it. He knew + she dressed very well, had always the best of everything in the house, and + was inevitably waited upon by the head floor-walker at the very least. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes they would go to church together on Sunday and he would walk + beside her and revel in her cheeks moist from the soft water in the new + air. She was very devout, always had been, and God knows what heights she + attained and what strength she drew down to herself when she knelt and + bent her golden hair into the stained-glass light. + </p> + <p> + “St. Cecelia,” he cried aloud one day, quite involuntarily, and the people + turned and peered, and the priest paused in his sermon and Clara and Amory + turned to fiery red. + </p> + <p> + That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it all that night. He + couldn’t help it. + </p> + <p> + They were walking through the March twilight where it was as warm as June, + and the joy of youth filled his soul so that he felt he must speak. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” he said and his voice trembled, “that if I lost faith in you + I’d lose faith in God.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with such a startled face that he asked her the matter. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” she said slowly, “only this: five men have said that to me + before, and it frightens me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Clara, is that your fate!” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose love to you is—” he began. + </p> + <p> + She turned like a flash. + </p> + <p> + “I have never been in love.” + </p> + <p> + They walked along, and he realized slowly how much she had told him... + never in love.... She seemed suddenly a daughter of light alone. His + entity dropped out of her plane and he longed only to touch her dress with + almost the realization that Joseph must have had of Mary’s eternal + significance. But quite mechanically he heard himself saying: + </p> + <p> + “And I love you—any latent greatness that I’ve got is... oh, I can’t + talk, but Clara, if I come back in two years in a position to marry you—” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said; “I’d never marry again. I’ve got my two children and I + want myself for them. I like you—I like all clever men, you more + than any—but you know me well enough to know that I’d never marry a + clever man—” She broke off suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Amory.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did you?” + </p> + <p> + “It was the twilight,” he said wonderingly. “I didn’t feel as though I + were speaking aloud. But I love you—or adore you—or worship + you—” + </p> + <p> + “There you go—running through your catalogue of emotions in five + seconds.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled unwillingly. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t make me out such a light-weight, Clara; you <i>are</i> depressing + sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a light-weight, of all things,” she said intently, taking his + arm and opening wide her eyes—he could see their kindliness in the + fading dusk. “A light-weight is an eternal nay.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s so much spring in the air—there’s so much lazy sweetness in + your heart.” + </p> + <p> + She dropped his arm. + </p> + <p> + “You’re all fine now, and I feel glorious. Give me a cigarette. You’ve + never seen me smoke, have you? Well, I do, about once a month.” + </p> + <p> + And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like two mad + children gone wild with pale-blue twilight. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to the country for to-morrow,” she announced, as she stood + panting, safe beyond the flare of the corner lamp-post. “These days are + too magnificent to miss, though perhaps I feel them more in the city.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Clara!” Amory said; “what a devil you could have been if the Lord had + just bent your soul a little the other way!” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe,” she answered; “but I think not. I’m never really wild and never + have been. That little outburst was pure spring.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are, too,” said he. + </p> + <p> + They were walking along now. + </p> + <p> + “No—you’re wrong again, how can a person of your own self-reputed + brains be so constantly wrong about me? I’m the opposite of everything + spring ever stood for. It’s unfortunate, if I happen to look like what + pleased some soppy old Greek sculptor, but I assure you that if it weren’t + for my face I’d be a quiet nun in the convent without”—then she + broke into a run and her raised voice floated back to him as he followed—“my + precious babies, which I must go back and see.” + </p> + <p> + She was the only girl he ever knew with whom he could understand how + another man might be preferred. Often Amory met wives whom he had known as + debutantes, and looking intently at them imagined that he found something + in their faces which said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if I could only have gotten <i>you!</i>” Oh, the enormous conceit of + the man! + </p> + <p> + But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara’s bright soul + still gleamed on the ways they had trod. + </p> + <p> + “Golden, golden is the air—” he chanted to the little pools of + water. ... “Golden is the air, golden notes from golden mandolins, golden + frets of golden violins, fair, oh, wearily fair.... Skeins from braided + basket, mortals may not hold; oh, what young extravagant God, who would + know or ask it?... who could give such gold...” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + AMORY IS RESENTFUL + </p> + <p> + Slowly and inevitably, yet with a sudden surge at the last, while Amory + talked and dreamed, war rolled swiftly up the beach and washed the sands + where Princeton played. Every night the gymnasium echoed as platoon after + platoon swept over the floor and shuffled out the basket-ball markings. + When Amory went to Washington the next week-end he caught some of the + spirit of crisis which changed to repulsion in the Pullman car coming + back, for the berths across from him were occupied by stinking aliens—Greeks, + he guessed, or Russians. He thought how much easier patriotism had been to + a homogeneous race, how much easier it would have been to fight as the + Colonies fought, or as the Confederacy fought. And he did no sleeping that + night, but listened to the aliens guffaw and snore while they filled the + car with the heavy scent of latest America. + </p> + <p> + In Princeton every one bantered in public and told themselves privately + that their deaths at least would be heroic. The literary students read + Rupert Brooke passionately; the lounge-lizards worried over whether the + government would permit the English-cut uniform for officers; a few of the + hopelessly lazy wrote to the obscure branches of the War Department, + seeking an easy commission and a soft berth. + </p> + <p> + Then, after a week, Amory saw Burne and knew at once that argument would + be futile—Burne had come out as a pacifist. The socialist magazines, + a great smattering of Tolstoi, and his own intense longing for a cause + that would bring out whatever strength lay in him, had finally decided him + to preach peace as a subjective ideal. + </p> + <p> + “When the German army entered Belgium,” he began, “if the inhabitants had + gone peaceably about their business, the German army would have been + disorganized in—” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” Amory interrupted, “I’ve heard it all. But I’m not going to talk + propaganda with you. There’s a chance that you’re right—but even so + we’re hundreds of years before the time when non-resistance can touch us + as a reality.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Amory, listen—” + </p> + <p> + “Burne, we’d just argue—” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Just one thing—I don’t ask you to think of your family or friends, + because I know they don’t count a picayune with you beside your sense of + duty—but, Burne, how do you know that the magazines you read and the + societies you join and these idealists you meet aren’t just plain <i>German?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Some of them are, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know they aren’t <i>all</i> pro-German—just a lot of + weak ones—with German-Jewish names.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the chance, of course,” he said slowly. “How much or how little + I’m taking this stand because of propaganda I’ve heard, I don’t know; + naturally I think that it’s my most innermost conviction—it seems a + path spread before me just now.” + </p> + <p> + Amory’s heart sank. + </p> + <p> + “But think of the cheapness of it—no one’s really going to martyr + you for being a pacifist—it’s just going to throw you in with the + worst—” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt it,” he interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what you mean, and that’s why I’m not sure I’ll agitate.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re one man, Burne—going to talk to people who won’t listen—with + all God’s given you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what Stephen must have thought many years ago. But he preached his + sermon and they killed him. He probably thought as he was dying what a + waste it all was. But you see, I’ve always felt that Stephen’s death was + the thing that occurred to Paul on the road to Damascus, and sent him to + preach the word of Christ all over the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all—this is my particular duty. Even if right now I’m just a + pawn—just sacrificed. God! Amory—you don’t think I like the + Germans!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can’t say anything else—I get to the end of all the logic + about non-resistance, and there, like an excluded middle, stands the huge + spectre of man as he is and always will be. And this spectre stands right + beside the one logical necessity of Tolstoi’s, and the other logical + necessity of Nietzsche’s—” Amory broke off suddenly. “When are you + going?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going next week.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll see you, of course.” + </p> + <p> + As he walked away it seemed to Amory that the look in his face bore a + great resemblance to that in Kerry’s when he had said good-by under Blair + Arch two years before. Amory wondered unhappily why he could never go into + anything with the primal honesty of those two. + </p> + <p> + “Burne’s a fanatic,” he said to Tom, “and he’s dead wrong and, I’m + inclined to think, just an unconscious pawn in the hands of anarchistic + publishers and German-paid rag wavers—but he haunts me—just + leaving everything worth while—” + </p> + <p> + Burne left in a quietly dramatic manner a week later. He sold all his + possessions and came down to the room to say good-by, with a battered old + bicycle, on which he intended to ride to his home in Pennsylvania. + </p> + <p> + “Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal Richelieu,” suggested Alec, + who was lounging in the window-seat as Burne and Amory shook hands. + </p> + <p> + But Amory was not in a mood for that, and as he saw Burne’s long legs + propel his ridiculous bicycle out of sight beyond Alexander Hall, he knew + he was going to have a bad week. Not that he doubted the war—Germany + stood for everything repugnant to him; for materialism and the direction + of tremendous licentious force; it was just that Burne’s face stayed in + his memory and he was sick of the hysteria he was beginning to hear. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth is the use of suddenly running down Goethe,” he declared to + Alec and Tom. “Why write books to prove he started the war—or that + that stupid, overestimated Schiller is a demon in disguise?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever read anything of theirs?” asked Tom shrewdly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” Amory admitted. + </p> + <p> + “Neither have I,” he said laughing. + </p> + <p> + “People will shout,” said Alec quietly, “but Goethe’s on his same old + shelf in the library—to bore any one that wants to read him!” + </p> + <p> + Amory subsided, and the subject dropped. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do, Amory?” + </p> + <p> + “Infantry or aviation, I can’t make up my mind—I hate mechanics, but + then of course aviation’s the thing for me—” + </p> + <p> + “I feel as Amory does,” said Tom. “Infantry or aviation—aviation + sounds like the romantic side of the war, of course—like cavalry + used to be, you know; but like Amory I don’t know a horse-power from a + piston-rod.” + </p> + <p> + Somehow Amory’s dissatisfaction with his lack of enthusiasm culminated in + an attempt to put the blame for the whole war on the ancestors of his + generation... all the people who cheered for Germany in 1870.... All the + materialists rampant, all the idolizers of German science and efficiency. + So he sat one day in an English lecture and heard “Locksley Hall” quoted + and fell into a brown study with contempt for Tennyson and all he stood + for—for he took him as a representative of the Victorians. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep + Who sowed the bitter harvest that your children go to reap— +</pre> + <p> + scribbled Amory in his note-book. The lecturer was saying something about + Tennyson’s solidity and fifty heads were bent to take notes. Amory turned + over to a fresh page and began scrawling again. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin was about, + They shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried out—” + </pre> + <p> + But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that out. + </p> + <p> + “And entitled A Song in the Time of Order,” came the professor’s voice, + droning far away. “Time of Order”—Good Lord! Everything crammed in + the box and the Victorians sitting on the lid smiling serenely.... With + Browning in his Italian villa crying bravely: “All’s for the best.” Amory + scribbled again. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, + You thanked him for your ‘glorious gains’—reproached him for + ‘Cathay.’” + </pre> + <p> + Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time? Now he needed + something to rhyme with: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong + before...” + </pre> + <p> + Well, anyway.... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You met your children in your home—‘I’ve fixed it up!’ you cried, + Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuously—died.” + </pre> + <p> + “That was to a great extent Tennyson’s idea,” came the lecturer’s voice. + “Swinburne’s Song in the Time of Order might well have been Tennyson’s + title. He idealized order against chaos, against waste.” + </p> + <p> + At last Amory had it. He turned over another page and scrawled vigorously + for the twenty minutes that was left of the hour. Then he walked up to the + desk and deposited a page torn out of his note-book. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a poem to the Victorians, sir,” he said coldly. + </p> + <p> + The professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly through + the door. + </p> + <p> + Here is what he had written: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Songs in the time of order + You left for us to sing, + Proofs with excluded middles, + Answers to life in rhyme, + Keys of the prison warder + And ancient bells to ring, + Time was the end of riddles, + We were the end of time... + + Here were domestic oceans + And a sky that we might reach, + Guns and a guarded border, + Gantlets—but not to fling, + Thousands of old emotions + And a platitude for each, + Songs in the time of order— + And tongues, that we might sing.” + </pre> + <hr /> + <p> + THE END OF MANY THINGS + </p> + <p> + Early April slipped by in a haze—a haze of long evenings on the club + veranda with the graphophone playing “Poor Butterfly” inside... for “Poor + Butterfly” had been the song of that last year. The war seemed scarcely to + touch them and it might have been one of the senior springs of the past, + except for the drilling every other afternoon, yet Amory realized + poignantly that this was the last spring under the old regime. + </p> + <p> + “This is the great protest against the superman,” said Amory. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” Alec agreed. + </p> + <p> + “He’s absolutely irreconcilable with any Utopia. As long as he occurs, + there’s trouble and all the latent evil that makes a crowd list and sway + when he talks.” + </p> + <p> + “And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral sense.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all. I think the worst thing to contemplate is this—it’s all + happened before, how soon will it happen again? Fifty years after Waterloo + Napoleon was as much a hero to English school children as Wellington. How + do we know our grandchildren won’t idolize Von Hindenburg the same way?” + </p> + <p> + “What brings it about?” + </p> + <p> + “Time, damn it, and the historian. If we could only learn to look on evil + as evil, whether it’s clothed in filth or monotony or magnificence.” + </p> + <p> + “God! Haven’t we raked the universe over the coals for four years?” + </p> + <p> + Then the night came that was to be the last. Tom and Amory, bound in the + morning for different training-camps, paced the shadowy walks as usual and + seemed still to see around them the faces of the men they knew. + </p> + <p> + “The grass is full of ghosts to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “The whole campus is alive with them.” + </p> + <p> + They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver of the + slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” whispered Tom, “what we feel now is the sense of all the + gorgeous youth that has rioted through here in two hundred years.” + </p> + <p> + A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch—broken voices for + some long parting. + </p> + <p> + “And what we leave here is more than this class; it’s the whole heritage + of youth. We’re just one generation—we’re breaking all the links + that seemed to bind us here to top-booted and high-stocked generations. + We’ve walked arm and arm with Burr and Light-Horse Harry Lee through half + these deep-blue nights.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what they are,” Tom tangented off, “deep blue—a bit of color + would spoil them, make them exotic. Spires, against a sky that’s a promise + of dawn, and blue light on the slate roofs—it hurts... rather—” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Aaron Burr,” Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, “you and + I knew strange corners of life.” + </p> + <p> + His voice echoed in the stillness. + </p> + <p> + “The torches are out,” whispered Tom. “Ah, Messalina, the long shadows are + building minarets on the stadium—” + </p> + <p> + For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and then + they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” + </p> + <p> + The last light fades and drifts across the land—the low, long land, + the sunny land of spires; the ghosts of evening tune again their lyres and + wander singing in a plaintive band down the long corridors of trees; pale + fires echo the night from tower top to tower: Oh, sleep that dreams, and + dream that never tires, press from the petals of the lotus flower + something of this to keep, the essence of an hour. + </p> + <p> + No more to wait the twilight of the moon in this sequestered vale of star + and spire, for one eternal morning of desire passes to time and earthy + afternoon. Here, Heraclitus, did you find in fire and shifting things the + prophecy you hurled down the dead years; this midnight my desire will see, + shadowed among the embers, furled in flame, the splendor and the sadness + of the world. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTERLUDE + </h2> + <h3> + May, 1917-February, 1919 + </h3> + <p> + A letter dated January, 1918, written by Monsignor Darcy to Amory, who is + a second lieutenant in the 171st Infantry, Port of Embarkation, Camp + Mills, Long Island. + </p> + <p> + MY DEAR BOY: + </p> + <p> + All you need tell me of yourself is that you still are; for the rest I + merely search back in a restive memory, a thermometer that records only + fevers, and match you with what I was at your age. But men will chatter + and you and I will still shout our futilities to each other across the + stage until the last silly curtain falls <i>plump!</i> upon our bobbing + heads. But you are starting the spluttering magic-lantern show of life + with much the same array of slides as I had, so I need to write you if + only to shriek the colossal stupidity of people.... + </p> + <p> + This is the end of one thing: for better or worse you will never again be + quite the Amory Blaine that I knew, never again will we meet as we have + met, because your generation is growing hard, much harder than mine ever + grew, nourished as they were on the stuff of the nineties. + </p> + <p> + Amory, lately I reread Aeschylus and there in the divine irony of the + “Agamemnon” I find the only answer to this bitter age—all the world + tumbled about our ears, and the closest parallel ages back in that + hopeless resignation. There are times when I think of the men out there as + Roman legionaries, miles from their corrupt city, stemming back the + hordes... hordes a little more menacing, after all, than the corrupt + city... another blind blow at the race, furies that we passed with + ovations years ago, over whose corpses we bleated triumphantly all through + the Victorian era.... + </p> + <p> + And afterward an out-and-out materialistic world—and the Catholic + Church. I wonder where you’ll fit in. Of one thing I’m sure—Celtic + you’ll live and Celtic you’ll die; so if you don’t use heaven as a + continual referendum for your ideas you’ll find earth a continual recall + to your ambitions. + </p> + <p> + Amory, I’ve discovered suddenly that I’m an old man. Like all old men, + I’ve had dreams sometimes and I’m going to tell you of them. I’ve enjoyed + imagining that you were my son, that perhaps when I was young I went into + a state of coma and begat you, and when I came to, had no recollection of + it... it’s the paternal instinct, Amory—celibacy goes deeper than + the flesh.... + </p> + <p> + Sometimes I think that the explanation of our deep resemblance is some + common ancestor, and I find that the only blood that the Darcys and the + O’Haras have in common is that of the O’Donahues... Stephen was his name, + I think.... + </p> + <p> + When the lightning strikes one of us it strikes both: you had hardly + arrived at the port of embarkation when I got my papers to start for Rome, + and I am waiting every moment to be told where to take ship. Even before + you get this letter I shall be on the ocean; then will come your turn. You + went to war as a gentleman should, just as you went to school and college, + because it was the thing to do. It’s better to leave the blustering and + tremulo-heroism to the middle classes; they do it so much better. + </p> + <p> + Do you remember that week-end last March when you brought Burne Holiday + from Princeton to see me? What a magnificent boy he is! It gave me a + frightful shock afterward when you wrote that he thought me splendid; how + could he be so deceived? Splendid is the one thing that neither you nor I + are. We are many other things—we’re extraordinary, we’re clever, we + could be said, I suppose, to be brilliant. We can attract people, we can + make atmosphere, we can almost lose our Celtic souls in Celtic subtleties, + we can almost always have our own way; but splendid—rather not! + </p> + <p> + I am going to Rome with a wonderful dossier and letters of introduction + that cover every capital in Europe, and there will be “no small stir” when + I get there. How I wish you were with me! This sounds like a rather + cynical paragraph, not at all the sort of thing that a middle-aged + clergyman should write to a youth about to depart for the war; the only + excuse is that the middle-aged clergyman is talking to himself. There are + deep things in us and you know what they are as well as I do. We have + great faith, though yours at present is uncrystallized; we have a terrible + honesty that all our sophistry cannot destroy and, above all, a childlike + simplicity that keeps us from ever being really malicious. + </p> + <p> + I have written a keen for you which follows. I am sorry your cheeks are + not up to the description I have written of them, but you <i>will</i> + smoke and read all night— + </p> + <p> + At any rate here it is: + </p> + <p> + A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to the War Against the King of + Foreign. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ochone + He is gone from me the son of my mind + And he in his golden youth like Angus Oge + Angus of the bright birds + And his mind strong and subtle like the mind of Cuchulin on + Muirtheme. + + Awirra sthrue + His brow is as white as the milk of the cows of Maeve + And his cheeks like the cherries of the tree + And it bending down to Mary and she feeding the Son of God. + + Aveelia Vrone + His hair is like the golden collar of the Kings at Tara + And his eyes like the four gray seas of Erin. + And they swept with the mists of rain. + + Mavrone go Gudyo + He to be in the joyful and red battle + Amongst the chieftains and they doing great deeds of valor + His life to go from him + It is the chords of my own soul would be loosed. + + A Vich Deelish + My heart is in the heart of my son + And my life is in his life surely + A man can be twice young + In the life of his sons only. + + Jia du Vaha Alanav + May the Son of God be above him and beneath him, before him and + behind him + May the King of the elements cast a mist over the eyes of the + King of Foreign, + May the Queen of the Graces lead him by the hand the way he can + go through the midst of his enemies and they not seeing him + + May Patrick of the Gael and Collumb of the Churches and the five + thousand Saints of Erin be better than a shield to him + And he got into the fight. + Och Ochone.” + </pre> + <p> + Amory—Amory—I feel, somehow, that this is all; one or both of + us is not going to last out this war.... I’ve been trying to tell you how + much this reincarnation of myself in you has meant in the last few + years... curiously alike we are... curiously unlike. Good-by, dear boy, + and God be with you. THAYER DARCY. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + EMBARKING AT NIGHT + </p> + <p> + Amory moved forward on the deck until he found a stool under an electric + light. He searched in his pocket for note-book and pencil and then began + to write, slowly, laboriously: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We leave to-night... + Silent, we filled the still, deserted street, + A column of dim gray, + And ghosts rose startled at the muffled beat + Along the moonless way; + The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet + That turned from night and day. + + And so we linger on the windless decks, + See on the spectre shore + Shades of a thousand days, poor gray-ribbed wrecks... + Oh, shall we then deplore + Those futile years! + See how the sea is white! + The clouds have broken and the heavens burn + To hollow highways, paved with gravelled light + The churning of the waves about the stern + Rises to one voluminous nocturne, + ... We leave to-night.” + </pre> + <p> + A letter from Amory, headed “Brest, March 11th, 1919,” to Lieutenant T. P. + D’Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga. + </p> + <p> + DEAR BAUDELAIRE:— + </p> + <p> + We meet in Manhattan on the 30th of this very mo.; we then proceed to take + a very sporty apartment, you and I and Alec, who is at me elbow as I + write. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I have a vague dream of going + into politics. Why is it that the pick of the young Englishmen from Oxford + and Cambridge go into politics and in the U. S. A. we leave it to the + muckers?—raised in the ward, educated in the assembly and sent to + Congress, fat-paunched bundles of corruption, devoid of “both ideas and + ideals” as the debaters used to say. Even forty years ago we had good men + in politics, but we, we are brought up to pile up a million and “show what + we are made of.” Sometimes I wish I’d been an Englishman; American life is + so damned dumb and stupid and healthy. + </p> + <p> + Since poor Beatrice died I’ll probably have a little money, but very darn + little. I can forgive mother almost everything except the fact that in a + sudden burst of religiosity toward the end, she left half of what remained + to be spent in stained-glass windows and seminary endowments. Mr. Barton, + my lawyer, writes me that my thousands are mostly in street railways and + that the said Street R.R. s are losing money because of the five-cent + fares. Imagine a salary list that gives $350 a month to a man that can’t + read and write!—yet I believe in it, even though I’ve seen what was + once a sizable fortune melt away between speculation, extravagance, the + democratic administration, and the income tax—modern, that’s me all + over, Mabel. + </p> + <p> + At any rate we’ll have really knock-out rooms—you can get a job on + some fashion magazine, and Alec can go into the Zinc Company or whatever + it is that his people own—he’s looking over my shoulder and he says + it’s a brass company, but I don’t think it matters much, do you? There’s + probably as much corruption in zinc-made money as brass-made money. As for + the well-known Amory, he would write immortal literature if he were sure + enough about anything to risk telling any one else about it. There is no + more dangerous gift to posterity than a few cleverly turned platitudes. + </p> + <p> + Tom, why don’t you become a Catholic? Of course to be a good one you’d + have to give up those violent intrigues you used to tell me about, but + you’d write better poetry if you were linked up to tall golden + candlesticks and long, even chants, and even if the American priests are + rather burgeois, as Beatrice used to say, still you need only go to the + sporty churches, and I’ll introduce you to Monsignor Darcy who really is a + wonder. + </p> + <p> + Kerry’s death was a blow, so was Jesse’s to a certain extent. And I have a + great curiosity to know what queer corner of the world has swallowed + Burne. Do you suppose he’s in prison under some false name? I confess that + the war instead of making me orthodox, which is the correct reaction, has + made me a passionate agnostic. The Catholic Church has had its wings + clipped so often lately that its part was timidly negligible, and they + haven’t any good writers any more. I’m sick of Chesterton. + </p> + <p> + I’ve only discovered one soldier who passed through the much-advertised + spiritual crisis, like this fellow, Donald Hankey, and the one I knew was + already studying for the ministry, so he was ripe for it. I honestly think + that’s all pretty much rot, though it seemed to give sentimental comfort + to those at home; and may make fathers and mothers appreciate their + children. This crisis-inspired religion is rather valueless and fleeting + at best. I think four men have discovered Paris to one that discovered + God. + </p> + <p> + But us—you and me and Alec—oh, we’ll get a Jap butler and + dress for dinner and have wine on the table and lead a contemplative, + emotionless life until we decide to use machine-guns with the property + owners—or throw bombs with the Bolshevik God! Tom, I hope something + happens. I’m restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or + falling in love and growing domestic. + </p> + <p> + The place at Lake Geneva is now for rent but when I land I’m going West to + see Mr. Barton and get some details. Write me care of the Blackstone, + Chicago. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S’ever, dear Boswell, + + SAMUEL JOHNSON. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK TWO—The Education of a Personage + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 1. The Debutante + </h2> + <p> + The time is February. The place is a large, dainty bedroom in the Connage + house on Sixty-eighth Street, New York. A girl’s room: pink walls and + curtains and a pink bedspread on a cream-colored bed. Pink and cream are + the motifs of the room, but the only article of furniture in full view is + a luxurious dressing-table with a glass top and a three-sided mirror. On + the walls there is an expensive print of “Cherry Ripe,” a few polite dogs + by Landseer, and the “King of the Black Isles,” by Maxfield Parrish. + </p> + <p> + Great disorder consisting of the following items: (1) seven or eight empty + cardboard boxes, with tissue-paper tongues hanging panting from their + mouths; (2) an assortment of street dresses mingled with their sisters of + the evening, all upon the table, all evidently new; (3) a roll of tulle, + which has lost its dignity and wound itself tortuously around everything + in sight, and (4) upon the two small chairs, a collection of lingerie that + beggars description. One would enjoy seeing the bill called forth by the + finery displayed and one is possessed by a desire to see the princess for + whose benefit—Look! There’s some one! Disappointment! This is only a + maid hunting for something—she lifts a heap from a chair—Not + there; another heap, the dressing-table, the chiffonier drawers. She + brings to light several beautiful chemises and an amazing pajama but this + does not satisfy her—she goes out. + </p> + <p> + An indistinguishable mumble from the next room. + </p> + <p> + Now, we are getting warm. This is Alec’s mother, Mrs. Connage, ample, + dignified, rouged to the dowager point and quite worn out. Her lips move + significantly as she looks for IT. Her search is less thorough than the + maid’s but there is a touch of fury in it, that quite makes up for its + sketchiness. She stumbles on the tulle and her “damn” is quite audible. + She retires, empty-handed. + </p> + <p> + More chatter outside and a girl’s voice, a very spoiled voice, says: “Of + all the stupid people—” + </p> + <p> + After a pause a third seeker enters, not she of the spoiled voice, but a + younger edition. This is Cecelia Connage, sixteen, pretty, shrewd, and + constitutionally good-humored. She is dressed for the evening in a gown + the obvious simplicity of which probably bores her. She goes to the + nearest pile, selects a small pink garment and holds it up appraisingly. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Pink? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes! + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: <i>Very</i> snappy? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Yes! + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: I’ve got it! + </p> + <p> + (She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and commences to + shimmy enthusiastically.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Outside) What are you doing—trying it on? + </p> + <p> + (CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right shoulder. + </p> + <p> + From the other door, enters ALEC CONNAGE. He looks around quickly and in a + huge voice shouts: Mama! There is a chorus of protest from next door and + encouraged he starts toward it, but is repelled by another chorus.) + </p> + <p> + ALEC: So <i>that’s</i> where you all are! Amory Blaine is here. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Oh, he <i>is</i> down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him I’m sorry + that I can’t meet him now. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: He’s heard a lot about you all. I wish you’d hurry. Father’s telling + him all about the war and he’s restless. He’s sort of temperamental. + </p> + <p> + (This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.) + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How do you mean—temperamental? + You used to say that about him in letters. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Does he play the piano? + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Don’t think so. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink? + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Yes—nothing queer about him. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Money? + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Good Lord—ask him, he used to have a lot, and he’s got some + income now. + </p> + <p> + (MRS. CONNAGE appears.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we’re glad to have any friend of yours— + </p> + <p> + ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Of course, I want to. But I think it’s so childish of you to + leave a perfectly good home to go and live with two other boys in some + impossible apartment. I hope it isn’t in order that you can all drink as + much as you want. (She pauses.) He’ll be a little neglected to-night. This + is Rosalind’s week, you see. When a girl comes out, she needs <i>all</i> + the attention. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming here and hooking me. + </p> + <p> + (MRS. CONNAGE goes.) + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Rosalind hasn’t changed a bit. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: (In a lower tone) She’s awfully spoiled. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: She’ll meet her match to-night. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Who—Mr. Amory Blaine? + </p> + <p> + (ALEC nods.) + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Well, Rosalind has still to meet the man she can’t outdistance. + Honestly, Alec, she treats men terribly. She abuses them and cuts them and + breaks dates with them and yawns in their faces—and they come back + for more. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: They love it. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: They hate it. She’s a—she’s a sort of vampire, I think—and + she can make girls do what she wants usually—only she hates girls. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Personality runs in our family. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got to me. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself? + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Not particularly well. Oh, she’s average—smokes sometimes, + drinks punch, frequently kissed—Oh, yes—common knowledge—one + of the effects of the war, you know. + </p> + <p> + (Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind’s almost finished so I can go down and meet your + friend. + </p> + <p> + (ALEC and his mother go out.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother— + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Mother’s gone down. + </p> + <p> + (And now ROSALIND enters. ROSALIND is—utterly ROSALIND. She is one + of those girls who need never make the slightest effort to have men fall + in love with them. Two types of men seldom do: dull men are usually afraid + of her cleverness and intellectual men are usually afraid of her beauty. + All others are hers by natural prerogative. + </p> + <p> + If ROSALIND could be spoiled the process would have been complete by this + time, and as a matter of fact, her disposition is not all it should be; + she wants what she wants when she wants it and she is prone to make every + one around her pretty miserable when she doesn’t get it—but in the + true sense she is not spoiled. Her fresh enthusiasm, her will to grow and + learn, her endless faith in the inexhaustibility of romance, her courage + and fundamental honesty—these things are not spoiled. + </p> + <p> + There are long periods when she cordially loathes her whole family. She is + quite unprincipled; her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez + faire for others. She loves shocking stories: she has that coarse streak + that usually goes with natures that are both fine and big. She wants + people to like her, but if they do not it never worries her or changes + her. She is by no means a model character. + </p> + <p> + The education of all beautiful women is the knowledge of men. ROSALIND had + been disappointed in man after man as individuals, but she had great faith + in man as a sex. Women she detested. They represented qualities that she + felt and despised in herself—incipient meanness, conceit, cowardice, + and petty dishonesty. She once told a roomful of her mother’s friends that + the only excuse for women was the necessity for a disturbing element among + men. She danced exceptionally well, drew cleverly but hastily, and had a + startling facility with words, which she used only in love-letters. + </p> + <p> + But all criticism of ROSALIND ends in her beauty. There was that shade of + glorious yellow hair, the desire to imitate which supports the dye + industry. There was the eternal kissable mouth, small, slightly sensual, + and utterly disturbing. There were gray eyes and an unimpeachable skin + with two spots of vanishing color. She was slender and athletic, without + underdevelopment, and it was a delight to watch her move about a room, + walk along a street, swing a golf club, or turn a “cartwheel.” + </p> + <p> + A last qualification—her vivid, instant personality escaped that + conscious, theatrical quality that AMORY had found in ISABELLE. MONSIGNOR + DARCY would have been quite up a tree whether to call her a personality or + a personage. She was perhaps the delicious, inexpressible, + once-in-a-century blend. + </p> + <p> + On the night of her debut she is, for all her strange, stray wisdom, quite + like a happy little girl. Her mother’s maid has just done her hair, but + she has decided impatiently that she can do a better job herself. She is + too nervous just now to stay in one place. To that we owe her presence in + this littered room. She is going to speak. ISABELLE’S alto tones had been + like a violin, but if you could hear ROSALIND, you would say her voice was + musical as a waterfall.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Honestly, there are only two costumes in the world that I really + enjoy being in—(Combing her hair at the dressing-table.) One’s a + hoop skirt with pantaloons; the other’s a one-piece bathing-suit. I’m + quite charming in both of them. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Glad you’re coming out? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Yes; aren’t you? + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: (Cynically) You’re glad so you can get married and live on Long + Island with the <i>fast younger married set</i>. You want life to be a + chain of flirtation with a man for every link. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: <i>Want</i> it to be one! You mean I’ve <i>found</i> it one. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Ha! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Cecelia, darling, you don’t know what a trial it is to be—like + me. I’ve got to keep my face like steel in the street to keep men from + winking at me. If I laugh hard from a front row in the theatre, the + comedian plays to me for the rest of the evening. If I drop my voice, my + eyes, my handkerchief at a dance, my partner calls me up on the ’phone + every day for a week. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: It must be an awful strain. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: The unfortunate part is that the only men who interest me at all + are the totally ineligible ones. Now—if I were poor I’d go on the + stage. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting you do. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Sometimes when I’ve felt particularly radiant I’ve thought, why + should this be wasted on one man? + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Often when you’re particularly sulky, I’ve wondered why it should + all be wasted on just one family. (Getting up.) I think I’ll go down and + meet Mr. Amory Blaine. I like temperamental men. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: There aren’t any. Men don’t know how to be really angry or + really happy—and the ones that do, go to pieces. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Well, I’m glad I don’t have all your worries. I’m engaged. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (With a scornful smile) Engaged? Why, you little lunatic! If + mother heard you talking like that she’d send you off to boarding-school, + where you belong. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: You won’t tell her, though, because I know things I could tell—and + you’re too selfish! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (A little annoyed) Run along, little girl! Who are you engaged + to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store? + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Cheap wit—good-by, darling, I’ll see you later. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, be <i>sure</i> and do that—you’re such a help. + </p> + <p> + (Exit CECELIA. ROSALIND finished her hair and rises, humming. She goes up + to the mirror and starts to dance in front of it on the soft carpet. She + watches not her feet, but her eyes—never casually but always + intently, even when she smiles. The door suddenly opens and then slams + behind AMORY, very cool and handsome as usual. He melts into instant + confusion.) + </p> + <p> + HE: Oh, I’m sorry. I thought— + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you’re Amory Blaine, aren’t you? + </p> + <p> + HE: (Regarding her closely) And you’re Rosalind? + </p> + <p> + SHE: I’m going to call you Amory—oh, come in—it’s all right—mother’ll + be right in—(under her breath) unfortunately. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for me. + </p> + <p> + SHE: This is No Man’s Land. + </p> + <p> + HE: This is where you—you—(pause) + </p> + <p> + SHE: Yes—all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) See, here’s + my rouge—eye pencils. + </p> + <p> + HE: I didn’t know you were that way. + </p> + <p> + SHE: What did you expect? + </p> + <p> + HE: I thought you’d be sort of—sort of—sexless, you know, swim + and play golf. + </p> + <p> + SHE: Oh, I do—but not in business hours. + </p> + <p> + HE: Business? + </p> + <p> + SHE: Six to two—strictly. + </p> + <p> + HE: I’d like to have some stock in the corporation. + </p> + <p> + SHE: Oh, it’s not a corporation—it’s just “Rosalind, Unlimited.” + Fifty-one shares, name, good-will, and everything goes at $25,000 a year. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition. + </p> + <p> + SHE: Well, Amory, you don’t mind—do you? When I meet a man that + doesn’t bore me to death after two weeks, perhaps it’ll be different. + </p> + <p> + HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on women. + </p> + <p> + SHE: I’m not really feminine, you know—in my mind. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Interested) Go on. + </p> + <p> + SHE: No, you—you go on—you’ve made me talk about myself. + That’s against the rules. + </p> + <p> + HE: Rules? + </p> + <p> + SHE: My own rules—but you—Oh, Amory, I hear you’re brilliant. + The family expects <i>so</i> much of you. + </p> + <p> + HE: How encouraging! + </p> + <p> + SHE: Alec said you’d taught him to think. Did you? I didn’t believe any + one could. + </p> + <p> + HE: No. I’m really quite dull. + </p> + <p> + (He evidently doesn’t intend this to be taken seriously.) + </p> + <p> + SHE: Liar. + </p> + <p> + HE: I’m—I’m religious—I’m literary. I’ve—I’ve even + written poems. + </p> + <p> + SHE: Vers libre—splendid! (She declaims.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The trees are green, + The birds are singing in the trees, + The girl sips her poison + The bird flies away the girl dies.” + </pre> + <p> + HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind. + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Suddenly) I like you. + </p> + <p> + HE: Don’t. + </p> + <p> + SHE: Modest too— + </p> + <p> + HE: I’m afraid of you. I’m always afraid of a girl—until I’ve kissed + her. + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over. + </p> + <p> + HE: So I’ll always be afraid of you. + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will. + </p> + <p> + (A slight hesitation on both their parts.) + </p> + <p> + HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing to ask. + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Knowing what’s coming) After five minutes. + </p> + <p> + HE: But will you—kiss me? Or are you afraid? + </p> + <p> + SHE: I’m never afraid—but your reasons are so poor. + </p> + <p> + HE: Rosalind, I really <i>want</i> to kiss you. + </p> + <p> + SHE: So do I. + </p> + <p> + (They kiss—definitely and thoroughly.) + </p> + <p> + HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity satisfied? + </p> + <p> + SHE: Is yours? + </p> + <p> + HE: No, it’s only aroused. + </p> + <p> + (He looks it.) + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Dreamily) I’ve kissed dozens of men. I suppose I’ll kiss dozens + more. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could—like that. + </p> + <p> + SHE: Most people like the way I kiss. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, Rosalind. + </p> + <p> + SHE: No—my curiosity is generally satisfied at one. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Discouraged) Is that a rule? + </p> + <p> + SHE: I make rules to fit the cases. + </p> + <p> + HE: You and I are somewhat alike—except that I’m years older in + experience. + </p> + <p> + SHE: How old are you? + </p> + <p> + HE: Almost twenty-three. You? + </p> + <p> + SHE: Nineteen—just. + </p> + <p> + HE: I suppose you’re the product of a fashionable school. + </p> + <p> + SHE: No—I’m fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence—I’ve + forgotten why. + </p> + <p> + HE: What’s your general trend? + </p> + <p> + SHE: Oh, I’m bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond of + admiration— + </p> + <p> + HE: (Suddenly) I don’t want to fall in love with you— + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love your mouth. + </p> + <p> + SHE: Hush! Please don’t fall in love with my mouth—hair, eyes, + shoulders, slippers—but <i>not</i> my mouth. Everybody falls in love + with my mouth. + </p> + <p> + HE: It’s quite beautiful. + </p> + <p> + SHE: It’s too small. + </p> + <p> + HE: No it isn’t—let’s see. + </p> + <p> + (He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.) + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Rather moved) Say something sweet. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Frightened) Lord help me. + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don’t—if it’s so hard. + </p> + <p> + HE: Shall we pretend? So soon? + </p> + <p> + SHE: We haven’t the same standards of time as other people. + </p> + <p> + HE: Already it’s—other people. + </p> + <p> + SHE: Let’s pretend. + </p> + <p> + HE: No—I can’t—it’s sentiment. + </p> + <p> + SHE: You’re not sentimental? + </p> + <p> + HE: No, I’m romantic—a sentimental person thinks things will last—a + romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t. Sentiment is + emotional. + </p> + <p> + SHE: And you’re not? (With her eyes half-closed.) You probably flatter + yourself that that’s a superior attitude. + </p> + <p> + HE: Well—Rosalind, Rosalind, don’t argue—kiss me again. + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Quite chilly now) No—I have no desire to kiss you. + </p> + <p> + HE: (Openly taken aback) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago. + </p> + <p> + SHE: This is now. + </p> + <p> + HE: I’d better go. + </p> + <p> + SHE: I suppose so. + </p> + <p> + (He goes toward the door.) + </p> + <p> + SHE: Oh! + </p> + <p> + (He turns.) + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Laughing) Score—Home Team: One hundred—Opponents: Zero. + </p> + <p> + (He starts back.) + </p> + <p> + SHE: (Quickly) Rain—no game. + </p> + <p> + (He goes out.) + </p> + <p> + (She goes quietly to the chiffonier, takes out a cigarette-case and hides + it in the side drawer of a desk. Her mother enters, note-book in hand.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Good—I’ve been wanting to speak to you alone before we + go down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Heavens! you frighten me! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you’ve been a very expensive proposition. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Resignedly) Yes. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn’t what he once had. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don’t talk about money. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: You can’t do anything without it. This is our last year in + this house—and unless things change Cecelia won’t have the + advantages you’ve had. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Well—what is it? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: So I ask you to please mind me in several things I’ve put + down in my note-book. The first one is: don’t disappear with young men. + There may be a time when it’s valuable, but at present I want you on the + dance-floor where I can find you. There are certain men I want to have you + meet and I don’t like finding you in some corner of the conservatory + exchanging silliness with any one—or listening to it. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it <i>is</i> better. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: And don’t waste a lot of time with the college set—little + boys nineteen and twenty years old. I don’t mind a prom or a football + game, but staying away from advantageous parties to eat in little cafes + down-town with Tom, Dick, and Harry— + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Offering her code, which is, in its way, quite as high as her + mother’s) Mother, it’s done—you can’t run everything now the way you + did in the early nineties. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor friends of + your father’s that I want you to meet to-night—youngish men. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, <i>quite</i> all right—they know life and are so + adorably tired looking (shakes her head)—but they <i>will</i> dance. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: I haven’t met Mr. Blaine—but I don’t think you’ll care + for him. He doesn’t sound like a money-maker. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Mother, I never <i>think</i> about money. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to think about it. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I’ll marry a ton of it—out + of sheer boredom. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: (Referring to note-book) I had a wire from Hartford. Dawson + Ryder is coming up. Now there’s a young man I like, and he’s floating in + money. It seems to me that since you seem tired of Howard Gillespie you + might give Mr. Ryder some encouragement. This is the third time he’s been + up in a month. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. They’re all + wrong. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you to-night. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Don’t you think I’m beautiful? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. + </p> + <p> + (From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of a + drum. MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Come! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: One minute! + </p> + <p> + (Her mother leaves. ROSALIND goes to the glass where she gazes at herself + with great satisfaction. She kisses her hand and touches her mirrored + mouth with it. Then she turns out the lights and leaves the room. Silence + for a moment. A few chords from the piano, the discreet patter of faint + drums, the rustle of new silk, all blend on the staircase outside and + drift in through the partly opened door. Bundled figures pass in the + lighted hall. The laughter heard below becomes doubled and multiplied. + Then some one comes in, closes the door, and switches on the lights. It is + CECELIA. She goes to the chiffonier, looks in the drawers, hesitates—then + to the desk whence she takes the cigarette-case and extracts one. She + lights it and then, puffing and blowing, walks toward the mirror.) + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming out is <i>such</i> + a farce nowadays, you know. One really plays around so much before one is + seventeen, that it’s positively anticlimax. (Shaking hands with a + visionary middle-aged nobleman.) Yes, your grace—I b’lieve I’ve + heard my sister speak of you. Have a puff—they’re very good. They’re—they’re + Coronas. You don’t smoke? What a pity! The king doesn’t allow it, I + suppose. Yes, I’ll dance. + </p> + <p> + (So she dances around the room to a tune from down-stairs, her arms + outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand.) + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + SEVERAL HOURS LATER + </p> + <p> + The corner of a den down-stairs, filled by a very comfortable leather + lounge. A small light is on each side above, and in the middle, over the + couch hangs a painting of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period + 1860. Outside the music is heard in a fox-trot. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND is seated on the lounge and on her left is HOWARD GILLESPIE, a + vapid youth of about twenty-four. He is obviously very unhappy, and she is + quite bored. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I’ve changed. I feel the same toward + you. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: But you don’t look the same to me. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I was + so blasé, so indifferent—I still am. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown eyes + and thin legs. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They’re still thin and brown. You’re a vampire, + that’s all. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: The only thing I know about vamping is what’s on the piano + score. What confuses men is that I’m perfectly natural. I used to think + you were never jealous. Now you follow me with your eyes wherever I go. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: I love you. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: And you haven’t kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that + after a girl was kissed she was—was—won. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time + you see me. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: Are you serious? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: About as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when + girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now + there’s a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones + of the nineties bragged he’d kissed a girl, every one knew he was through + with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same every one knows it’s because + he can’t kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man + nowadays. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment, when + he’s interested. There is a moment—Oh, just before the first kiss, a + whispered word—something that makes it worth while. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: And then? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty soon he + thinks of nothing but being alone with you—he sulks, he won’t fight, + he doesn’t want to play—Victory! + </p> + <p> + (Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, a + bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.) + </p> + <p> + RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven’t got too + much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie. + </p> + <p> + (They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.) + </p> + <p> + RYDER: Your party is certainly a success. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Is it—I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary—Do you + mind sitting out a minute? + </p> + <p> + RYDER: Mind—I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing" idea. + See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Dawson! + </p> + <p> + RYDER: What? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me. + </p> + <p> + RYDER: (Startled) What—Oh—you know you’re remarkable! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Because you know I’m an awful proposition. Any one who marries + me will have his hands full. I’m mean—mighty mean. + </p> + <p> + RYDER: Oh, I wouldn’t say that. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, yes, I am—especially to the people nearest to me. (She + rises.) Come, let’s go. I’ve changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother + is probably having a fit. + </p> + <p> + (Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.) + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: (Gloomily) I’ll go if you want me to. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Good heavens, no—with whom would I begin the next dance? + (Sighs.) There’s no color in a dance since the French officers went back. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don’t want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: I did, but since seeing these girls—I don’t know. I’m awfully + attached to Amory. He’s sensitive and I don’t want him to break his heart + over somebody who doesn’t care about him. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: He’s very good looking. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won’t marry him, but a girl doesn’t have to + marry a man to break his heart. + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It’s lucky for some that the + Lord gave you a pug nose. + </p> + <p> + (Enter MRS. CONNAGE.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind? + </p> + <p> + ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you’ve come to the best people to find out. + She’d naturally be with us. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to + meet her. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: I’m perfectly serious—for all I know she may be at the + Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her debut. You + look left and I’ll— + </p> + <p> + ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn’t you better send the butler through the cellar? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don’t think she’d be there? + </p> + <p> + CECELIA: He’s only joking, mother. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high + hurdler. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Let’s look right away. + </p> + <p> + (They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.) + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: Rosalind—Once more I ask you. Don’t you care a blessed + thing about me? + </p> + <p> + (AMORY walks in briskly.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: My dance. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: I’ve met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren’t you? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Yes. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I’ve been there. It’s in the—the Middle + West, isn’t it? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I’d rather be + provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning. + </p> + <p> + GILLESPIE: What! + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Oh, no offense. + </p> + <p> + (GILLESPIE bows and leaves.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: He’s too much <i>people</i>. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: I was in love with a <i>people</i> once. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: So? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Oh, yes—her name was Isabelle—nothing at all to her + except what I read into her. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: What happened? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was—then + she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, you know. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Oh—drive a car, but can’t change a tire. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: What are you going to do? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Can’t say—run for President, write— + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Greenwich Village? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Good heavens, no—I said write—not drink. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: I feel as if I’d known you for ages. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: No—I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you + were one of my—my—(Changing his tone.) Suppose—we fell + in love. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I’ve suggested pretending. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: If we did it would be very big. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Why? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great + loves. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend. + </p> + <p> + (Very deliberately they kiss.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: I can’t say sweet things. But you <i>are</i> beautiful. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Not that. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: What then? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing—only I want sentiment, real sentiment—and + I never find it. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: I never find anything else in the world—and I loathe it. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic taste. + </p> + <p> + (Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the room. + ROSALIND rises.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Listen! they’re playing “Kiss Me Again.” + </p> + <p> + (He looks at her.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Well? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Well? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (Softly—the battle lost) I love you. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I love you—now. + </p> + <p> + (They kiss.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don’t talk. Kiss me again. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: I don’t know why or how, but I love you—from the moment I saw + you. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Me too—I—I—oh, to-night’s to-night. + </p> + <p> + (Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: “Oh, excuse + me,” and goes.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don’t let me go—I don’t care + who knows what I do. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Say it! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I love you—now. (They part.) Oh—I am very youthful, + thank God—and rather beautiful, thank God—and happy, thank + God, thank God—(She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, + adds) Poor Amory! + </p> + <p> + (He kisses her again.) + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + KISMET + </p> + <p> + Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately in love. + The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of them a dozen romances + were dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over them. + </p> + <p> + “It may be an insane love-affair,” she told her anxious mother, “but it’s + not inane.” + </p> + <p> + The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March, where he + alternated between astonishing bursts of rather exceptional work and wild + dreams of becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind. + </p> + <p> + They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly every + evening—always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they feared that + any minute the spell would break and drop them out of this paradise of + rose and flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase from day + to day; they began to talk of marrying in July—in June. All life was + transmitted into terms of their love, all experience, all desires, all + ambitions, were nullified—their senses of humor crawled into corners + to sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely + regretted juvenalia. + </p> + <p> + For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement + and was hurrying into line with his generation. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A LITTLE INTERLUDE + </p> + <p> + Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as inevitably + his—the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets ... it + seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last and stepped + into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these countless + lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing—he moved in a + half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying + toward him with eager feet from every corner.... How the unforgettable + faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand + overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more + drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even his dreams + now were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the summer air. + </p> + <p> + The room was in darkness except for the faint glow of Tom’s cigarette + where he lounged by the open window. As the door shut behind him, Amory + stood a moment with his back against it. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business to-day?” + </p> + <p> + Amory sprawled on a couch. + </p> + <p> + “I loathed it as usual!” The momentary vision of the bustling agency was + displaced quickly by another picture. + </p> + <p> + “My God! She’s wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + Tom sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you,” repeated Amory, “just how wonderful she is. I don’t + want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.” + </p> + <p> + Another sigh came from the window—quite a resigned sigh. + </p> + <p> + “She’s life and hope and happiness, my whole world now.” + </p> + <p> + He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>Golly</i>, Tom!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + BITTER SWEET + </p> + <p> + “Sit like we do,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle + inside them. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you’d come to-night,” she said softly, “like summer, just when I + needed you most... darling... darling...” + </p> + <p> + His lips moved lazily over her face. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>taste</i> so good,” he sighed. + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean, lover?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just sweet, just sweet...” he held her closer. + </p> + <p> + “Amory,” she whispered, “when you’re ready for me I’ll marry you.” + </p> + <p> + “We won’t have much at first.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t!” she cried. “It hurts when you reproach yourself for what you + can’t give me. I’ve got your precious self—and that’s enough for + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me...” + </p> + <p> + “You know, don’t you? Oh, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I want to hear you say it.” + </p> + <p> + “I love you, Amory, with all my heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Always, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “All my life—Oh, Amory—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to + have your babies.” + </p> + <p> + “But I haven’t any people.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do what you want,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’ll do what <i>you</i> want. We’re <i>you</i>—not me. Oh, + you’re so much a part, so much all of me...” + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I’m so happy that I’m frightened. Wouldn’t it be awful if this was—was + the high point?...” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him dreamily. + </p> + <p> + “Beauty and love pass, I know.... Oh, there’s sadness, too. I suppose all + great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then + the death of roses—” + </p> + <p> + “Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony....” + </p> + <p> + “And, Amory, we’re beautiful, I know. I’m sure God loves us—” + </p> + <p> + “He loves you. You’re his most precious possession.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not his, I’m yours. Amory, I belong to you. For the first time I + regret all the other kisses; now I know how much a kiss can mean.” + </p> + <p> + Then they would smoke and he would tell her about his day at the office—and + where they might live. Sometimes, when he was particularly loquacious, she + went to sleep in his arms, but he loved that Rosalind—all Rosalinds—as + he had never in the world loved any one else. Intangibly fleeting, + unrememberable hours. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + AQUATIC INCIDENT + </p> + <p> + One day Amory and Howard Gillespie meeting by accident down-town took + lunch together, and Amory heard a story that delighted him. Gillespie + after several cocktails was in a talkative mood; he began by telling Amory + that he was sure Rosalind was slightly eccentric. + </p> + <p> + He had gone with her on a swimming party up in Westchester County, and + some one mentioned that Annette Kellerman had been there one day on a + visit and had dived from the top of a rickety, thirty-foot summer-house. + Immediately Rosalind insisted that Howard should climb up with her to see + what it looked like. + </p> + <p> + A minute later, as he sat and dangled his feet on the edge, a form shot by + him; Rosalind, her arms spread in a beautiful swan dive, had sailed + through the air into the clear water. + </p> + <p> + “Of course <i>I</i> had to go, after that—and I nearly killed + myself. I thought I was pretty good to even try it. Nobody else in the + party tried it. Well, afterward Rosalind had the nerve to ask me why I + stooped over when I dove. ‘It didn’t make it any easier,’ she said, ‘it + just took all the courage out of it.’ I ask you, what can a man do with a + girl like that? Unnecessary, I call it.” + </p> + <p> + Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly all + through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow optimists. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + FIVE WEEKS LATER + </p> + <p> + Again the library of the Connage house. ROSALIND is alone, sitting on the + lounge staring very moodily and unhappily at nothing. She has changed + perceptibly—she is a trifle thinner for one thing; the light in her + eyes is not so bright; she looks easily a year older. + </p> + <p> + Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in ROSALIND with + a nervous glance. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night? + </p> + <p> + (ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Alec is coming up to take me to this Barrie play, “Et tu, + Brutus.” (She perceives that she is talking to herself.) Rosalind! I asked + you who is coming to-night? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh—what—oh—Amory— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so <i>many</i> admirers lately that + I couldn’t imagine <i>which</i> one. (ROSALIND doesn’t answer.) Dawson + Ryder is more patient than I thought he’d be. You haven’t given him an + evening this week. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her face.) + Mother—please— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, <i>I</i> won’t interfere. You’ve already wasted over two + months on a theoretical genius who hasn’t a penny to his name, but <i>go</i> + ahead, waste your life on him. <i>I</i> won’t interfere. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (As if repeating a tiresome lesson) You know he has a little + income—and you know he’s earning thirty-five dollars a week in + advertising— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: And it wouldn’t buy your clothes. (She pauses but ROSALIND + makes no reply.) I have your best interests at heart when I tell you not + to take a step you’ll spend your days regretting. It’s not as if your + father could help you. Things have been hard for him lately and he’s an + old man. You’d be dependent absolutely on a dreamer, a nice, well-born + boy, but a dreamer—merely <i>clever</i>. (She implies that this + quality in itself is rather vicious.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: For heaven’s sake, mother— + </p> + <p> + (A maid appears, announces Mr. Blaine who follows immediately. AMORY’S + friends have been telling him for ten days that he “looks like the wrath + of God,” and he does. As a matter of fact he has not been able to eat a + mouthful in the last thirty-six hours.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory. + </p> + <p> + (AMORY and ROSALIND exchange glances—and ALEC comes in. ALEC’S + attitude throughout has been neutral. He believes in his heart that the + marriage would make AMORY mediocre and ROSALIND miserable, but he feels a + great sympathy for both of them.) + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Hi, Amory! + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he’d meet you at the theatre. + </p> + <p> + ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How’s the advertising to-day? Write some + brilliant copy? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Oh, it’s about the same. I got a raise—(Every one looks at + him rather eagerly)—of two dollars a week. (General collapse.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car. + </p> + <p> + (A good night, rather chilly in sections. After MRS. CONNAGE and ALEC go + out there is a pause. ROSALIND still stares moodily at the fireplace. + AMORY goes to her and puts his arm around her.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Darling girl. + </p> + <p> + (They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it with + kisses and holds it to her breast.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Sadly) I love your hands, more than anything. I see them often + when you’re away from me—so tired; I know every line of them. Dear + hands! + </p> + <p> + (Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry—a tearless + sobbing.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Rosalind! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, we’re so darned pitiful! + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Rosalind! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die! + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Rosalind, another night of this and I’ll go to pieces. You’ve been + this way four days now. You’ve got to be more encouraging or I can’t work + or eat or sleep. (He looks around helplessly as if searching for new words + to clothe an old, shopworn phrase.) We’ll have to make a start. I like + having to make a start together. (His forced hopefulness fades as he sees + her unresponsive.) What’s the matter? (He gets up suddenly and starts to + pace the floor.) It’s Dawson Ryder, that’s what it is. He’s been working + on your nerves. You’ve been with him every afternoon for a week. People + come and tell me they’ve seen you together, and I have to smile and nod + and pretend it hasn’t the slightest significance for me. And you won’t + tell me anything as it develops. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Amory, if you don’t sit down I’ll scream. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don’t you? + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Yes. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: You know I’ll always love you— + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Don’t talk that way; you frighten me. It sounds as if we weren’t + going to have each other. (She cries a little and rising from the couch + goes to the armchair.) I’ve felt all afternoon that things were worse. I + nearly went wild down at the office—couldn’t write a line. Tell me + everything. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: There’s nothing to tell, I say. I’m just nervous. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Rosalind, you’re playing with the idea of marrying Dawson Ryder. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (After a pause) He’s been asking me to all day. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Well, he’s got his nerve! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Don’t say that. It hurts me. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Don’t be a silly idiot. You know you’re the only man I’ve ever + loved, ever will love. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let’s get married—next week. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: We can’t. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Why not? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, we can’t. I’d be your squaw—in some horrible place. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: We’ll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month all told. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Darling, I don’t even do my own hair, usually. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: I’ll do it for you. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Rosalind, you <i>can’t</i> be thinking of marrying some one else. + Tell me! You leave me in the dark. I can help you fight it out if you’ll + only tell me. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: It’s just—us. We’re pitiful, that’s all. The very + qualities I love you for are the ones that will always make you a failure. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (Grimly) Go on. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh—it <i>is</i> Dawson Ryder. He’s so reliable, I almost + feel that he’d be a—a background. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: You don’t love him. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he’s a good man and a strong one. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes—he’s that. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Well—here’s one little thing. There was a little poor boy + we met in Rye Tuesday afternoon—and, oh, Dawson took him on his lap + and talked to him and promised him an Indian suit—and next day he + remembered and bought it—and, oh, it was so sweet and I couldn’t + help thinking he’d be so nice to—to our children—take care of + them—and I wouldn’t have to worry. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don’t look so consciously suffering. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Commencing to sob again) It’s been so perfect—you and I. + So like a dream that I’d longed for and never thought I’d find. The first + real unselfishness I’ve ever felt in my life. And I can’t see it fade out + in a colorless atmosphere! + </p> + <p> + AMORY: It won’t—it won’t! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I’d rather keep it as a beautiful memory—tucked away in my + heart. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Yes, women can do that—but not men. I’d remember always, not + the beauty of it while it lasted, but just the bitterness, the long + bitterness. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Don’t! + </p> + <p> + AMORY: All the years never to see you, never to kiss you, just a gate shut + and barred—you don’t dare be my wife. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: No—no—I’m taking the hardest course, the strongest + course. Marrying you would be a failure and I never fail—if you + don’t stop walking up and down I’ll scream! + </p> + <p> + (Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Come over here and kiss me. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: No. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Don’t you <i>want</i> to kiss me? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly and coolly. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: The beginning of the end. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (With a burst of insight) Amory, you’re young. I’m young. People + excuse us now for our poses and vanities, for treating people like Sancho + and yet getting away with it. They excuse us now. But you’ve got a lot of + knocks coming to you— + </p> + <p> + AMORY: And you’re afraid to take them with me. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere—you’ll say + Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh—but listen: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For this is wisdom—to love and live, + To take what fate or the gods may give, + To ask no question, to make no prayer, + To kiss the lips and caress the hair, + Speed passion’s ebb as we greet its flow, + To have and to hold, and, in time—let go.” + </pre> + <p> + AMORY: But we haven’t had. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Amory, I’m yours—you know it. There have been times in the + last month I’d have been completely yours if you’d said so. But I can’t + marry you and ruin both our lives. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: We’ve got to take our chance for happiness. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Dawson says I’d learn to love him. + </p> + <p> + (AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life seems + suddenly gone out of him.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can’t do with you, and I can’t imagine life + without you. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Rosalind, we’re on each other’s nerves. It’s just that we’re both + high-strung, and this week— + </p> + <p> + (His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his face in her + hands, kisses him.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I can’t, Amory. I can’t be shut away from the trees and flowers, + cooped up in a little flat, waiting for you. You’d hate me in a narrow + atmosphere. I’d make you hate me. + </p> + <p> + (Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Rosalind— + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go—Don’t make it harder! I can’t stand it— + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what you’re + saying? Do you mean forever? + </p> + <p> + (There is a difference somehow in the quality of their suffering.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Can’t you see— + </p> + <p> + AMORY: I’m afraid I can’t if you love me. You’re afraid of taking two + years’ knocks with me. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I wouldn’t be the Rosalind you love. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can’t give you up! I can’t, that’s all! + I’ve got to have you! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You’re being a baby now. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (Wildly) I don’t care! You’re spoiling our lives! + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: I’m doing the wise thing, the only thing. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder? + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, don’t ask me. You know I’m old in some ways—in others—well, + I’m just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness—and + I dread responsibility. I don’t want to think about pots and kitchens and + brooms. I want to worry whether my legs will get slick and brown when I + swim in the summer. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: And you love me. + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: That’s just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. We can’t + have any more scenes like this. + </p> + <p> + (She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their eyes blind + again with tears.) + </p> + <p> + AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don’t! Keep it, please—oh, + don’t break my heart! + </p> + <p> + (She presses the ring softly into his hand.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You’d better go. + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Good-by— + </p> + <p> + (She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite sadness.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Don’t ever forget me, Amory— + </p> + <p> + AMORY: Good-by— + </p> + <p> + (He goes to the door, fumbles for the knob, finds it—she sees him + throw back his head—and he is gone. Gone—she half starts from + the lounge and then sinks forward on her face into the pillows.) + </p> + <p> + ROSALIND: Oh, God, I want to die! (After a moment she rises and with her + eyes closed feels her way to the door. Then she turns and looks once more + at the room. Here they had sat and dreamed: that tray she had so often + filled with matches for him; that shade that they had discreetly lowered + one long Sunday afternoon. Misty-eyed she stands and remembers; she speaks + aloud.) Oh, Amory, what have I done to you? + </p> + <p> + (And deep under the aching sadness that will pass in time, Rosalind feels + that she has lost something, she knows not what, she knows not why.) + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 2. Experiments in Convalescence + </h2> + <p> + The Knickerbocker Bar, beamed upon by Maxfield Parrish’s jovial, colorful + “Old King Cole,” was well crowded. Amory stopped in the entrance and + looked at his wrist-watch; he wanted particularly to know the time, for + something in his mind that catalogued and classified liked to chip things + off cleanly. Later it would satisfy him in a vague way to be able to think + “that thing ended at exactly twenty minutes after eight on Thursday, June + 10, 1919.” This was allowing for the walk from her house—a walk + concerning which he had afterward not the faintest recollection. + </p> + <p> + He was in rather grotesque condition: two days of worry and nervousness, + of sleepless nights, of untouched meals, culminating in the emotional + crisis and Rosalind’s abrupt decision—the strain of it had drugged + the foreground of his mind into a merciful coma. As he fumbled clumsily + with the olives at the free-lunch table, a man approached and spoke to + him, and the olives dropped from his nervous hands. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Amory...” + </p> + <p> + It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the name. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, old boy—” he heard himself saying. + </p> + <p> + “Name’s Jim Wilson—you’ve forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Going to reunion?” + </p> + <p> + “You know!” Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to reunion. + </p> + <p> + “Get overseas?” + </p> + <p> + Amory nodded, his eyes staring oddly. Stepping back to let some one pass, + he knocked the dish of olives to a crash on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Too bad,” he muttered. “Have a drink?” + </p> + <p> + Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on the back. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve had plenty, old boy.” + </p> + <p> + Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + “Plenty, hell!” said Amory finally. “I haven’t had a drink to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Wilson looked incredulous. + </p> + <p> + “Have a drink or not?” cried Amory rudely. + </p> + <p> + Together they sought the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Rye high.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll just take a Bronx.” + </p> + <p> + Wilson had another; Amory had several more. They decided to sit down. At + ten o’clock Wilson was displaced by Carling, class of ’15. Amory, his head + spinning gorgeously, layer upon layer of soft satisfaction setting over + the bruised spots of his spirit, was discoursing volubly on the war. + </p> + <p> + “’S a mental was’e,” he insisted with owl-like wisdom. “Two years my life + spent inalleshual vacuity. Los’ idealism, got be physcal anmal,” he shook + his fist expressively at Old King Cole, “got be Prussian ’bout ev’thing, + women ’specially. Use’ be straight ’bout women college. Now don’givadam.” + He expressed his lack of principle by sweeping a seltzer bottle with a + broad gesture to noisy extinction on the floor, but this did not interrupt + his speech. “Seek pleasure where find it for to-morrow die. ’At’s + philos’phy for me now on.” + </p> + <p> + Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued: + </p> + <p> + “Use’ wonder ’bout things—people satisfied compromise, fif’y-fif’y + att’tude on life. Now don’ wonder, don’ wonder—” He became so + emphatic in impressing on Carling the fact that he didn’t wonder that he + lost the thread of his discourse and concluded by announcing to the bar at + large that he was a “physcal anmal.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you celebrating, Amory?” + </p> + <p> + Amory leaned forward confidentially. + </p> + <p> + “Cel’brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can’t tell you ’bout + it—” + </p> + <p> + He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender: + </p> + <p> + “Give him a bromo-seltzer.” + </p> + <p> + Amory shook his head indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “None that stuff!” + </p> + <p> + “But listen, Amory, you’re making yourself sick. You’re white as a ghost.” + </p> + <p> + Amory considered the question. He tried to look at himself in the mirror + but even by squinting up one eye could only see as far as the row of + bottles behind the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Like som’n solid. We go get some—some salad.” + </p> + <p> + He settled his coat with an attempt at nonchalance, but letting go of the + bar was too much for him, and he slumped against a chair. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll go over to Shanley’s,” suggested Carling, offering an elbow. + </p> + <p> + With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion enough to + propel him across Forty-second Street. + </p> + <p> + Shanley’s was very dim. He was conscious that he was talking in a loud + voice, very succinctly and convincingly, he thought, about a desire to + crush people under his heel. He consumed three club sandwiches, devouring + each as though it were no larger than a chocolate-drop. Then Rosalind + began popping into his mind again, and he found his lips forming her name + over and over. Next he was sleepy, and he had a hazy, listless sense of + people in dress suits, probably waiters, gathering around the table.... + </p> + <p> + ... He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a knot in his + shoe-lace. + </p> + <p> + “Nemmine,” he managed to articulate drowsily. “Sleep in ’em....” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + STILL ALCOHOLIC + </p> + <p> + He awoke laughing and his eyes lazily roamed his surroundings, evidently a + bedroom and bath in a good hotel. His head was whirring and picture after + picture was forming and blurring and melting before his eyes, but beyond + the desire to laugh he had no entirely conscious reaction. He reached for + the ’phone beside his bed. + </p> + <p> + “Hello—what hotel is this—? + </p> + <p> + “Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high-balls—” + </p> + <p> + He lay for a moment and wondered idly whether they’d send up a bottle or + just two of those little glass containers. Then, with an effort, he + struggled out of bed and ambled into the bathroom. + </p> + <p> + When he emerged, rubbing himself lazily with a towel, he found the bar boy + with the drinks and had a sudden desire to kid him. On reflection he + decided that this would be undignified, so he waved him away. + </p> + <p> + As the new alcohol tumbled into his stomach and warmed him, the isolated + pictures began slowly to form a cinema reel of the day before. Again he + saw Rosalind curled weeping among the pillows, again he felt her tears + against his cheek. Her words began ringing in his ears: “Don’t ever forget + me, Amory—don’t ever forget me—” + </p> + <p> + “Hell!” he faltered aloud, and then he choked and collapsed on the bed in + a shaken spasm of grief. After a minute he opened his eyes and regarded + the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + “Damned fool!” he exclaimed in disgust, and with a voluminous sigh rose + and approached the bottle. After another glass he gave way loosely to the + luxury of tears. Purposely he called up into his mind little incidents of + the vanished spring, phrased to himself emotions that would make him react + even more strongly to sorrow. + </p> + <p> + “We were so happy,” he intoned dramatically, “so very happy.” Then he gave + way again and knelt beside the bed, his head half-buried in the pillow. + </p> + <p> + “My own girl—my own—Oh—” + </p> + <p> + He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh... my baby girl, all I had, all I wanted!... Oh, my girl, come back, + come back! I need you... need you... we’re so pitiful ... just misery we + brought each other.... She’ll be shut away from me.... I can’t see her; I + can’t be her friend. It’s got to be that way—it’s got to be—” + </p> + <p> + And then again: + </p> + <p> + “We’ve been so happy, so very happy....” + </p> + <p> + He rose to his feet and threw himself on the bed in an ecstasy of + sentiment, and then lay exhausted while he realized slowly that he had + been very drunk the night before, and that his head was spinning again + wildly. He laughed, rose, and crossed again to Lethe.... + </p> + <p> + At noon he ran into a crowd in the Biltmore bar, and the riot began again. + He had a vague recollection afterward of discussing French poetry with a + British officer who was introduced to him as “Captain Corn, of his + Majesty’s Foot,” and he remembered attempting to recite “Clair de Lune” at + luncheon; then he slept in a big, soft chair until almost five o’clock + when another crowd found and woke him; there followed an alcoholic + dressing of several temperaments for the ordeal of dinner. They selected + theatre tickets at Tyson’s for a play that had a four-drink programme—a + play with two monotonous voices, with turbid, gloomy scenes, and lighting + effects that were hard to follow when his eyes behaved so amazingly. He + imagined afterward that it must have been “The Jest.”... + </p> + <p> + ... Then the Cocoanut Grove, where Amory slept again on a little balcony + outside. Out in Shanley’s, Yonkers, he became almost logical, and by a + careful control of the number of high-balls he drank, grew quite lucid and + garrulous. He found that the party consisted of five men, two of whom he + knew slightly; he became righteous about paying his share of the expense + and insisted in a loud voice on arranging everything then and there to the + amusement of the tables around him.... + </p> + <p> + Some one mentioned that a famous cabaret star was at the next table, so + Amory rose and, approaching gallantly, introduced himself... this involved + him in an argument, first with her escort and then with the headwaiter—Amory’s + attitude being a lofty and exaggerated courtesy... he consented, after + being confronted with irrefutable logic, to being led back to his own + table. + </p> + <p> + “Decided to commit suicide,” he announced suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “When? Next year?” + </p> + <p> + “Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, get into a + hot bath and open a vein.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s getting morbid!” + </p> + <p> + “You need another rye, old boy!” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll all talk it over to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever get that way?” he demanded confidentially fortaccio. + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” + </p> + <p> + “Often?” + </p> + <p> + “My chronic state.” + </p> + <p> + This provoked discussion. One man said that he got so depressed sometimes + that he seriously considered it. Another agreed that there was nothing to + live for. “Captain Corn,” who had somehow rejoined the party, said that in + his opinion it was when one’s health was bad that one felt that way most. + Amory’s suggestion was that they should each order a Bronx, mix broken + glass in it, and drink it off. To his relief no one applauded the idea, so + having finished his high-ball, he balanced his chin in his hand and his + elbow on the table—a most delicate, scarcely noticeable sleeping + position, he assured himself—and went into a deep stupor.... + </p> + <p> + He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown, + disarranged hair and dark blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Take me home!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” said Amory, blinking. + </p> + <p> + “I like you,” she announced tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “I like you too.” + </p> + <p> + He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of + his party was arguing with him. + </p> + <p> + “Fella I was with’s a damn fool,” confided the blue-eyed woman. “I hate + him. I want to go home with you.” + </p> + <p> + “You drunk?” queried Amory with intense wisdom. + </p> + <p> + She nodded coyly. + </p> + <p> + “Go home with him,” he advised gravely. “He brought you.” + </p> + <p> + At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his + detainers and approached. + </p> + <p> + “Say!” he said fiercely. “I brought this girl out here and you’re butting + in!” + </p> + <p> + Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer. + </p> + <p> + “You let go that girl!” cried the noisy man. + </p> + <p> + Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. + </p> + <p> + “You go to hell!” he directed finally, and turned his attention to the + girl. + </p> + <p> + “Love first sight,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “I love you,” she breathed and nestled close to him. She <i>did</i> have + beautiful eyes. + </p> + <p> + Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory’s ear. + </p> + <p> + “That’s just Margaret Diamond. She’s drunk and this fellow here brought + her. Better let her go.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him take care of her, then!” shouted Amory furiously. “I’m no W. Y. + C. A. worker, am I?—am I?” + </p> + <p> + “Let her go!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s <i>her</i> hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!” + </p> + <p> + The crowd around the table thickened. For an instant a brawl threatened, + but a sleek waiter bent back Margaret Diamond’s fingers until she released + her hold on Amory, whereupon she slapped the waiter furiously in the face + and flung her arms about her raging original escort. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord!” cried Amory. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go!” + </p> + <p> + “Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!” + </p> + <p> + “Check, waiter.” + </p> + <p> + “C’mon, Amory. Your romance is over.” + </p> + <p> + Amory laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know how true you spoke. No idea. ’At’s the whole trouble.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION + </p> + <p> + Two mornings later he knocked at the president’s door at Bascome and + Barlow’s advertising agency. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” + </p> + <p> + Amory entered unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “’Morning, Mr. Barlow.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his mouth + slightly ajar that he might better listen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven’t seen you for several days.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Amory. “I’m quitting.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—well—this is—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like it here.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry. I thought our relations had been quite—ah—pleasant. + You seemed to be a hard worker—a little inclined perhaps to write + fancy copy—” + </p> + <p> + “I just got tired of it,” interrupted Amory rudely. “It didn’t matter a + damn to me whether Harebell’s flour was any better than any one else’s. In + fact, I never ate any of it. So I got tired of telling people about it—oh, + I know I’ve been drinking—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barlow’s face steeled by several ingots of expression. + </p> + <p> + “You asked for a position—” + </p> + <p> + Amory waved him to silence. + </p> + <p> + “And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a week—less + than a good carpenter.” + </p> + <p> + “You had just started. You’d never worked before,” said Mr. Barlow coolly. + </p> + <p> + “But it took about ten thousand dollars to educate me where I could write + your darned stuff for you. Anyway, as far as length of service goes, + you’ve got stenographers here you’ve paid fifteen a week for five years.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going to argue with you, sir,” said Mr. Barlow rising. + </p> + <p> + “Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I’m quitting.” + </p> + <p> + They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and then Amory + turned and left the office. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A LITTLE LULL + </p> + <p> + Four days after that he returned at last to the apartment. Tom was engaged + on a book review for The New Democracy on the staff of which he was + employed. They regarded each other for a moment in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, Amory, where’d you get the black eye—and the jaw?” + </p> + <p> + Amory laughed. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a mere nothing.” + </p> + <p> + He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” + </p> + <p> + Tom emitted a low whistle. + </p> + <p> + “What hit you?” + </p> + <p> + Amory laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a lot of people. I got beaten up. Fact.” He slowly replaced his + shirt. “It was bound to come sooner or later and I wouldn’t have missed it + for anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there were some waiters and a couple of sailors and a few stray + pedestrians, I guess. It’s the strangest feeling. You ought to get beaten + up just for the experience of it. You fall down after a while and + everybody sort of slashes in at you before you hit the ground—then + they kick you.” + </p> + <p> + Tom lighted a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “I spent a day chasing you all over town, Amory. But you always kept a + little ahead of me. I’d say you’ve been on some party.” + </p> + <p> + Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “You sober now?” asked Tom quizzically. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty sober. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home and live, + so he—” + </p> + <p> + A spasm of pain shook Amory. + </p> + <p> + “Too bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is too bad. We’ll have to get some one else if we’re going to + stay here. The rent’s going up.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. Get anybody. I’ll leave it to you, Tom.” + </p> + <p> + Amory walked into his bedroom. The first thing that met his glance was a + photograph of Rosalind that he had intended to have framed, propped up + against a mirror on his dresser. He looked at it unmoved. After the vivid + mental pictures of her that were his portion at present, the portrait was + curiously unreal. He went back into the study. + </p> + <p> + “Got a cardboard box?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Tom, puzzled. “Why should I have? Oh, yes—there may + be one in Alec’s room.” + </p> + <p> + Eventually Amory found what he was looking for and, returning to his + dresser, opened a drawer full of letters, notes, part of a chain, two + little handkerchiefs, and some snap-shots. As he transferred them + carefully to the box his mind wandered to some place in a book where the + hero, after preserving for a year a cake of his lost love’s soap, finally + washed his hands with it. He laughed and began to hum “After you’ve gone” + ... ceased abruptly... + </p> + <p> + The string broke twice, and then he managed to secure it, dropped the + package into the bottom of his trunk, and having slammed the lid returned + to the study. + </p> + <p> + “Going out?” Tom’s voice held an undertone of anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Uh-huh.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t say, old keed.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s have dinner together.” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I’d eat with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh.” + </p> + <p> + “By-by.” + </p> + <p> + Amory crossed the street and had a high-ball; then he walked to Washington + Square and found a top seat on a bus. He disembarked at Forty-third Street + and strolled to the Biltmore bar. + </p> + <p> + “Hi, Amory!” + </p> + <p> + “What’ll you have?” + </p> + <p> + “Yo-ho! Waiter!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + TEMPERATURE NORMAL + </p> + <p> + The advent of prohibition with the “thirsty-first” put a sudden stop to + the submerging of Amory’s sorrows, and when he awoke one morning to find + that the old bar-to-bar days were over, he had neither remorse for the + past three weeks nor regret that their repetition was impossible. He had + taken the most violent, if the weakest, method to shield himself from the + stabs of memory, and while it was not a course he would have prescribed + for others, he found in the end that it had done its business: he was over + the first flush of pain. + </p> + <p> + Don’t misunderstand! Amory had loved Rosalind as he would never love + another living person. She had taken the first flush of his youth and + brought from his unplumbed depths tenderness that had surprised him, + gentleness and unselfishness that he had never given to another creature. + He had later love-affairs, but of a different sort: in those he went back + to that, perhaps, more typical frame of mind, in which the girl became the + mirror of a mood in him. Rosalind had drawn out what was more than + passionate admiration; he had a deep, undying affection for Rosalind. + </p> + <p> + But there had been, near the end, so much dramatic tragedy, culminating in + the arabesque nightmare of his three weeks’ spree, that he was emotionally + worn out. The people and surroundings that he remembered as being cool or + delicately artificial, seemed to promise him a refuge. He wrote a cynical + story which featured his father’s funeral and despatched it to a magazine, + receiving in return a check for sixty dollars and a request for more of + the same tone. This tickled his vanity, but inspired him to no further + effort. + </p> + <p> + He read enormously. He was puzzled and depressed by “A Portrait of the + Artist as a Young Man”; intensely interested by “Joan and Peter” and “The + Undying Fire,” and rather surprised by his discovery through a critic + named Mencken of several excellent American novels: “Vandover and the + Brute,” “The Damnation of Theron Ware,” and “Jennie Gerhardt.” Mackenzie, + Chesterton, Galsworthy, Bennett, had sunk in his appreciation from + sagacious, life-saturated geniuses to merely diverting contemporaries. + Shaw’s aloof clarity and brilliant consistency and the gloriously + intoxicated efforts of H. G. Wells to fit the key of romantic symmetry + into the elusive lock of truth, alone won his rapt attention. + </p> + <p> + He wanted to see Monsignor Darcy, to whom he had written when he landed, + but he had not heard from him; besides he knew that a visit to Monsignor + would entail the story of Rosalind, and the thought of repeating it turned + him cold with horror. + </p> + <p> + In his search for cool people he remembered Mrs. Lawrence, a very + intelligent, very dignified lady, a convert to the church, and a great + devotee of Monsignor’s. + </p> + <p> + He called her on the ’phone one day. Yes, she remembered him perfectly; + no, Monsignor wasn’t in town, was in Boston she thought; he’d promised to + come to dinner when he returned. Couldn’t Amory take luncheon with her? + </p> + <p> + “I thought I’d better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence,” he said rather ambiguously + when he arrived. + </p> + <p> + “Monsignor was here just last week,” said Mrs. Lawrence regretfully. “He + was very anxious to see you, but he’d left your address at home.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he think I’d plunged into Bolshevism?” asked Amory, interested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s having a frightful time.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity.” + </p> + <p> + “So?” + </p> + <p> + “He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was greatly + distressed because the receiving committee, when they rode in an + automobile, <i>would</i> put their arms around the President.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t blame him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in the army? + You look a great deal older.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s from another, more disastrous battle,” he answered, smiling in + spite of himself. “But the army—let me see—well, I discovered + that physical courage depends to a great extent on the physical shape a + man is in. I found that I was as brave as the next man—it used to + worry me before.” + </p> + <p> + “What else?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the idea that men can stand anything if they get used to it, and + the fact that I got a high mark in the psychological examination.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lawrence laughed. Amory was finding it a great relief to be in this + cool house on Riverside Drive, away from more condensed New York and the + sense of people expelling great quantities of breath into a little space. + Mrs. Lawrence reminded him vaguely of Beatrice, not in temperament, but in + her perfect grace and dignity. The house, its furnishings, the manner in + which dinner was served, were in immense contrast to what he had met in + the great places on Long Island, where the servants were so obtrusive that + they had positively to be bumped out of the way, or even in the houses of + more conservative “Union Club” families. He wondered if this air of + symmetrical restraint, this grace, which he felt was continental, was + distilled through Mrs. Lawrence’s New England ancestry or acquired in long + residence in Italy and Spain. + </p> + <p> + Two glasses of sauterne at luncheon loosened his tongue, and he talked, + with what he felt was something of his old charm, of religion and + literature and the menacing phenomena of the social order. Mrs. Lawrence + was ostensibly pleased with him, and her interest was especially in his + mind; he wanted people to like his mind again—after a while it might + be such a nice place in which to live. + </p> + <p> + “Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you’re his reincarnation, that your + faith will eventually clarify.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” he assented. “I’m rather pagan at present. It’s just that + religion doesn’t seem to have the slightest bearing on life at my age.” + </p> + <p> + When he left her house he walked down Riverside Drive with a feeling of + satisfaction. It was amusing to discuss again such subjects as this young + poet, Stephen Vincent Benet, or the Irish Republic. Between the rancid + accusations of Edward Carson and Justice Cohalan he had completely tired + of the Irish question; yet there had been a time when his own Celtic + traits were pillars of his personal philosophy. + </p> + <p> + There seemed suddenly to be much left in life, if only this revival of old + interests did not mean that he was backing away from it again—backing + away from life itself. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + RESTLESSNESS + </p> + <p> + “I’m tres old and tres bored, Tom,” said Amory one day, stretching himself + at ease in the comfortable window-seat. He always felt most natural in a + recumbent position. + </p> + <p> + “You used to be entertaining before you started to write,” he continued. + “Now you save any idea that you think would do to print.” + </p> + <p> + Existence had settled back to an ambitionless normality. They had decided + that with economy they could still afford the apartment, which Tom, with + the domesticity of an elderly cat, had grown fond of. The old English + hunting prints on the wall were Tom’s, and the large tapestry by courtesy, + a relic of decadent days in college, and the great profusion of orphaned + candlesticks and the carved Louis XV chair in which no one could sit more + than a minute without acute spinal disorders—Tom claimed that this + was because one was sitting in the lap of Montespan’s wraith—at any + rate, it was Tom’s furniture that decided them to stay. + </p> + <p> + They went out very little: to an occasional play, or to dinner at the Ritz + or the Princeton Club. With prohibition the great rendezvous had received + their death wounds; no longer could one wander to the Biltmore bar at + twelve or five and find congenial spirits, and both Tom and Amory had + outgrown the passion for dancing with mid-Western or New Jersey debbies at + the Club-de-Vingt (surnamed the “Club de Gink”) or the Plaza Rose Room—besides + even that required several cocktails “to come down to the intellectual + level of the women present,” as Amory had once put it to a horrified + matron. + </p> + <p> + Amory had lately received several alarming letters from Mr. Barton—the + Lake Geneva house was too large to be easily rented; the best rent + obtainable at present would serve this year to little more than pay for + the taxes and necessary improvements; in fact, the lawyer suggested that + the whole property was simply a white elephant on Amory’s hands. + Nevertheless, even though it might not yield a cent for the next three + years, Amory decided with a vague sentimentality that for the present, at + any rate, he would not sell the house. + </p> + <p> + This particular day on which he announced his ennui to Tom had been quite + typical. He had risen at noon, lunched with Mrs. Lawrence, and then ridden + abstractedly homeward atop one of his beloved buses. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t you be bored,” yawned Tom. “Isn’t that the conventional + frame of mind for the young man of your age and condition?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Amory speculatively, “but I’m more than bored; I am restless.” + </p> + <p> + “Love and war did for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Amory considered, “I’m not sure that the war itself had any great + effect on either you or me—but it certainly ruined the old + backgrounds, sort of killed individualism out of our generation.” + </p> + <p> + Tom looked up in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Yes it did,” insisted Amory. “I’m not sure it didn’t kill it out of the + whole world. Oh, Lord, what a pleasure it used to be to dream I might be a + really great dictator or writer or religious or political leader—and + now even a Leonardo da Vinci or Lorenzo de Medici couldn’t be a real + old-fashioned bolt in the world. Life is too huge and complex. The world + is so overgrown that it can’t lift its own fingers, and I was planning to + be such an important finger—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree with you,” Tom interrupted. “There never were men placed in + such egotistic positions since—oh, since the French Revolution.” + </p> + <p> + Amory disagreed violently. + </p> + <p> + “You’re mistaking this period when every nut is an individualist for a + period of individualism. Wilson has only been powerful when he has + represented; he’s had to compromise over and over again. Just as soon as + Trotsky and Lenin take a definite, consistent stand they’ll become merely + two-minute figures like Kerensky. Even Foch hasn’t half the significance + of Stonewall Jackson. War used to be the most individualistic pursuit of + man, and yet the popular heroes of the war had neither authority nor + responsibility: Guynemer and Sergeant York. How could a schoolboy make a + hero of Pershing? A big man has no time really to do anything but just sit + and be big.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t think there will be any more permanent world heroes?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—in history—not in life. Carlyle would have difficulty + getting material for a new chapter on ‘The Hero as a Big Man.’” + </p> + <p> + “Go on. I’m a good listener to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “People try so hard to believe in leaders now, pitifully hard. But we no + sooner get a popular reformer or politician or soldier or writer or + philosopher—a Roosevelt, a Tolstoi, a Wood, a Shaw, a Nietzsche, + than the cross-currents of criticism wash him away. My Lord, no man can + stand prominence these days. It’s the surest path to obscurity. People get + sick of hearing the same name over and over.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you blame it on the press?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. Look at you; you’re on The New Democracy, considered the most + brilliant weekly in the country, read by the men who do things and all + that. What’s your business? Why, to be as clever, as interesting, and as + brilliantly cynical as possible about every man, doctrine, book, or policy + that is assigned you to deal with. The more strong lights, the more + spiritual scandal you can throw on the matter, the more money they pay + you, the more the people buy the issue. You, Tom d’Invilliers, a blighted + Shelley, changing, shifting, clever, unscrupulous, represent the critical + consciousness of the race—Oh, don’t protest, I know the stuff. I + used to write book reviews in college; I considered it rare sport to refer + to the latest honest, conscientious effort to propound a theory or a + remedy as a ‘welcome addition to our light summer reading.’ Come on now, + admit it.” + </p> + <p> + Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “We <i>want</i> to believe. Young students try to believe in older + authors, constituents try to believe in their Congressmen, countries try + to believe in their statesmen, but they <i>can’t</i>. Too many voices, too + much scattered, illogical, ill-considered criticism. It’s worse in the + case of newspapers. Any rich, unprogressive old party with that + particularly grasping, acquisitive form of mentality known as financial + genius can own a paper that is the intellectual meat and drink of + thousands of tired, hurried men, men too involved in the business of + modern living to swallow anything but predigested food. For two cents the + voter buys his politics, prejudices, and philosophy. A year later there is + a new political ring or a change in the paper’s ownership, consequence: + more confusion, more contradiction, a sudden inrush of new ideas, their + tempering, their distillation, the reaction against them—” + </p> + <p> + He paused only to get his breath. + </p> + <p> + “And that is why I have sworn not to put pen to paper until my ideas + either clarify or depart entirely; I have quite enough sins on my soul + without putting dangerous, shallow epigrams into people’s heads; I might + cause a poor, inoffensive capitalist to have a vulgar liaison with a bomb, + or get some innocent little Bolshevik tangled up with a machine-gun bullet—” + </p> + <p> + Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of his connection with The + New Democracy. + </p> + <p> + “What’s all this got to do with your being bored?” + </p> + <p> + Amory considered that it had much to do with it. + </p> + <p> + “How’ll I fit in?” he demanded. “What am I for? To propagate the race? + According to the American novels we are led to believe that the ‘healthy + American boy’ from nineteen to twenty-five is an entirely sexless animal. + As a matter of fact, the healthier he is the less that’s true. The only + alternative to letting it get you is some violent interest. Well, the war + is over; I believe too much in the responsibilities of authorship to write + just now; and business, well, business speaks for itself. It has no + connection with anything in the world that I’ve ever been interested in, + except a slim, utilitarian connection with economics. What I’d see of it, + lost in a clerkship, for the next and best ten years of my life would have + the intellectual content of an industrial movie.” + </p> + <p> + “Try fiction,” suggested Tom. + </p> + <p> + “Trouble is I get distracted when I start to write stories—get + afraid I’m doing it instead of living—get thinking maybe life is + waiting for me in the Japanese gardens at the Ritz or at Atlantic City or + on the lower East Side. + </p> + <p> + “Anyway,” he continued, “I haven’t the vital urge. I wanted to be a + regular human being but the girl couldn’t see it that way.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find another.” + </p> + <p> + “God! Banish the thought. Why don’t you tell me that ‘if the girl had been + worth having she’d have waited for you’? No, sir, the girl really worth + having won’t wait for anybody. If I thought there’d be another I’d lose my + remaining faith in human nature. Maybe I’ll play—but Rosalind was + the only girl in the wide world that could have held me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” yawned Tom, “I’ve played confidant a good hour by the clock. + Still, I’m glad to see you’re beginning to have violent views again on + something.” + </p> + <p> + “I am,” agreed Amory reluctantly. “Yet when I see a happy family it makes + me sick at my stomach—” + </p> + <p> + “Happy families try to make people feel that way,” said Tom cynically. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + TOM THE CENSOR + </p> + <p> + There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, wreathed in + smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American literature. Words failed him. + </p> + <p> + “Fifty thousand dollars a year,” he would cry. “My God! Look at them, look + at them—Edna Ferber, Gouverneur Morris, Fanny Hurst, Mary Roberts + Rinehart—not producing among ’em one story or novel that will last + ten years. This man Cobb—I don’t tink he’s either clever or amusing—and + what’s more, I don’t think very many people do, except the editors. He’s + just groggy with advertising. And—oh Harold Bell Wright oh Zane Grey—” + </p> + <p> + “They try.” + </p> + <p> + “No, they don’t even try. Some of them <i>can</i> write, but they won’t + sit down and do one honest novel. Most of them <i>can’t</i> write, I’ll + admit. I believe Rupert Hughes tries to give a real, comprehensive picture + of American life, but his style and perspective are barbarous. Ernest + Poole and Dorothy Canfield try but they’re hindered by their absolute lack + of any sense of humor; but at least they crowd their work instead of + spreading it thin. Every author ought to write every book as if he were + going to be beheaded the day he finished it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that double entente?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t slow me up! Now there’s a few of ’em that seem to have some + cultural background, some intelligence and a good deal of literary + felicity but they just simply won’t write honestly; they’d all claim there + was no public for good stuff. Then why the devil is it that Wells, Conrad, + Galsworthy, Shaw, Bennett, and the rest depend on America for over half + their sales?” + </p> + <p> + “How does little Tommy like the poets?” + </p> + <p> + Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely beside the + chair and emitted faint grunts. + </p> + <p> + “I’m writing a satire on ’em now, calling it ‘Boston Bards and Hearst + Reviewers.’” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s hear it,” said Amory eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve only got the last few lines done.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very modern. Let’s hear ’em, if they’re funny.” + </p> + <p> + Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud, pausing at + intervals so that Amory could see that it was free verse: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “So + Walter Arensberg, + Alfred Kreymborg, + Carl Sandburg, + Louis Untermeyer, + Eunice Tietjens, + Clara Shanafelt, + James Oppenheim, + Maxwell Bodenheim, + Richard Glaenzer, + Scharmel Iris, + Conrad Aiken, + I place your names here + So that you may live + If only as names, + Sinuous, mauve-colored names, + In the Juvenalia + Of my collected editions.” + </pre> + <p> + Amory roared. + </p> + <p> + “You win the iron pansy. I’ll buy you a meal on the arrogance of the last + two lines.” + </p> + <p> + Amory did not entirely agree with Tom’s sweeping damnation of American + novelists and poets. He enjoyed both Vachel Lindsay and Booth Tarkington, + and admired the conscientious, if slender, artistry of Edgar Lee Masters. + </p> + <p> + “What I hate is this idiotic drivel about ‘I am God—I am man—I + ride the winds—I look through the smoke—I am the life sense.’” + </p> + <p> + “It’s ghastly!” + </p> + <p> + “And I wish American novelists would give up trying to make business + romantically interesting. Nobody wants to read about it, unless it’s + crooked business. If it was an entertaining subject they’d buy the life of + James J. Hill and not one of these long office tragedies that harp along + on the significance of smoke—” + </p> + <p> + “And gloom,” said Tom. “That’s another favorite, though I’ll admit the + Russians have the monopoly. Our specialty is stories about little girls + who break their spines and get adopted by grouchy old men because they + smile so much. You’d think we were a race of cheerful cripples and that + the common end of the Russian peasant was suicide—” + </p> + <p> + “Six o’clock,” said Amory, glancing at his wrist-watch. “I’ll buy you a + grea’ big dinner on the strength of the Juvenalia of your collected + editions.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + LOOKING BACKWARD + </p> + <p> + July sweltered out with a last hot week, and Amory in another surge of + unrest realized that it was just five months since he and Rosalind had + met. Yet it was already hard for him to visualize the heart-whole boy who + had stepped off the transport, passionately desiring the adventure of + life. One night while the heat, overpowering and enervating, poured into + the windows of his room he struggled for several hours in a vague effort + to immortalize the poignancy of that time. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The February streets, wind-washed by night, blow full of strange + half-intermittent damps, bearing on wasted walks in shining sight + wet snow plashed into gleams under the lamps, like golden oil + from some divine machine, in an hour of thaw and stars. + + Strange damps—full of the eyes of many men, crowded with life + borne in upon a lull.... Oh, I was young, for I could turn + again to you, most finite and most beautiful, and taste the stuff + of half-remembered dreams, sweet and new on your mouth. + + ... There was a tanging in the midnight air—silence was dead and + sound not yet awoken—Life cracked like ice!—one brilliant note + and there, radiant and pale, you stood... and spring had broken. + (The icicles were short upon the roofs and the changeling city + swooned.) + + Our thoughts were frosty mist along the eaves; our two ghosts + kissed, high on the long, mazed wires—eerie half-laughter echoes + here and leaves only a fatuous sigh for young desires; regret has + followed after things she loved, leaving the great husk. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + ANOTHER ENDING + </p> + <p> + In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had evidently just + stumbled on his address: + </p> + <p> + MY DEAR BOY:— + </p> + <p> + Your last letter was quite enough to make me worry about you. It was not a + bit like yourself. Reading between the lines I should imagine that your + engagement to this girl is making you rather unhappy, and I see you have + lost all the feeling of romance that you had before the war. You make a + great mistake if you think you can be romantic without religion. Sometimes + I think that with both of us the secret of success, when we find it, is + the mystical element in us: something flows into us that enlarges our + personalities, and when it ebbs out our personalities shrink; I should + call your last two letters rather shrivelled. Beware of losing yourself in + the personality of another being, man or woman. + </p> + <p> + His Eminence Cardinal O’Neill and the Bishop of Boston are staying with me + at present, so it is hard for me to get a moment to write, but I wish you + would come up here later if only for a week-end. I go to Washington this + week. + </p> + <p> + What I shall do in the future is hanging in the balance. Absolutely + between ourselves I should not be surprised to see the red hat of a + cardinal descend upon my unworthy head within the next eight months. In + any event, I should like to have a house in New York or Washington where + you could drop in for week-ends. + </p> + <p> + Amory, I’m very glad we’re both alive; this war could easily have been the + end of a brilliant family. But in regard to matrimony, you are now at the + most dangerous period of your life. You might marry in haste and repent at + leisure, but I think you won’t. From what you write me about the present + calamitous state of your finances, what you want is naturally impossible. + However, if I judge you by the means I usually choose, I should say that + there will be something of an emotional crisis within the next year. + </p> + <p> + Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With greatest affection, + + THAYER DARCY. +</pre> + <p> + Within a week after the receipt of this letter their little household fell + precipitously to pieces. The immediate cause was the serious and probably + chronic illness of Tom’s mother. So they stored the furniture, gave + instructions to sublet and shook hands gloomily in the Pennsylvania + Station. Amory and Tom seemed always to be saying good-by. + </p> + <p> + Feeling very much alone, Amory yielded to an impulse and set off + southward, intending to join Monsignor in Washington. They missed + connections by two hours, and, deciding to spend a few days with an + ancient, remembered uncle, Amory journeyed up through the luxuriant fields + of Maryland into Ramilly County. But instead of two days his stay lasted + from mid-August nearly through September, for in Maryland he met Eleanor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 3. Young Irony + </h2> + <p> + For years afterward when Amory thought of Eleanor he seemed still to hear + the wind sobbing around him and sending little chills into the places + beside his heart. The night when they rode up the slope and watched the + cold moon float through the clouds, he lost a further part of him that + nothing could restore; and when he lost it he lost also the power of + regretting it. Eleanor was, say, the last time that evil crept close to + Amory under the mask of beauty, the last weird mystery that held him with + wild fascination and pounded his soul to flakes. + </p> + <p> + With her his imagination ran riot and that is why they rode to the highest + hill and watched an evil moon ride high, for they knew then that they + could see the devil in each other. But Eleanor—did Amory dream her? + Afterward their ghosts played, yet both of them hoped from their souls + never to meet. Was it the infinite sadness of her eyes that drew him or + the mirror of himself that he found in the gorgeous clarity of her mind? + She will have no other adventure like Amory, and if she reads this she + will say: + </p> + <p> + “And Amory will have no other adventure like me.” + </p> + <p> + Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh. + </p> + <p> + Eleanor tried to put it on paper once: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The fading things we only know + We’ll have forgotten... + Put away... + Desires that melted with the snow, + And dreams begotten + This to-day: + The sudden dawns we laughed to greet, + That all could see, that none could share, + Will be but dawns... and if we meet + We shall not care. + + Dear... not one tear will rise for this... + A little while hence + No regret + Will stir for a remembered kiss— + Not even silence, + When we’ve met, + Will give old ghosts a waste to roam, + Or stir the surface of the sea... + If gray shapes drift beneath the foam + We shall not see.” + </pre> + <p> + They quarrelled dangerously because Amory maintained that <i>sea</i> and + <i>see</i> couldn’t possibly be used as a rhyme. And then Eleanor had part + of another verse that she couldn’t find a beginning for: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “... But wisdom passes... still the years + Will feed us wisdom.... Age will go + Back to the old— + For all our tears + We shall not know.” + </pre> + <p> + Eleanor hated Maryland passionately. She belonged to the oldest of the old + families of Ramilly County and lived in a big, gloomy house with her + grandfather. She had been born and brought up in France.... I see I am + starting wrong. Let me begin again. + </p> + <p> + Amory was bored, as he usually was in the country. He used to go for far + walks by himself—and wander along reciting “Ulalume” to the + corn-fields, and congratulating Poe for drinking himself to death in that + atmosphere of smiling complacency. One afternoon he had strolled for + several miles along a road that was new to him, and then through a wood on + bad advice from a colored woman... losing himself entirely. A passing + storm decided to break out, and to his great impatience the sky grew black + as pitch and the rain began to splatter down through the trees, become + suddenly furtive and ghostly. Thunder rolled with menacing crashes up the + valley and scattered through the woods in intermittent batteries. He + stumbled blindly on, hunting for a way out, and finally, through webs of + twisted branches, caught sight of a rift in the trees where the unbroken + lightning showed open country. He rushed to the edge of the woods and then + hesitated whether or not to cross the fields and try to reach the shelter + of the little house marked by a light far down the valley. It was only + half past five, but he could see scarcely ten steps before him, except + when the lightning made everything vivid and grotesque for great sweeps + around. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a strange sound fell on his ears. It was a song, in a low, husky + voice, a girl’s voice, and whoever was singing was very close to him. A + year before he might have laughed, or trembled; but in his restless mood + he only stood and listened while the words sank into his consciousness: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Les sanglots longs + Des violons + De l’automne + Blessent mon coeur + D’une langueur + Monotone.” + </pre> + <p> + The lightning split the sky, but the song went on without a quaver. The + girl was evidently in the field and the voice seemed to come vaguely from + a haystack about twenty feet in front of him. + </p> + <p> + Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that soared and + hung and fell and blended with the rain: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Tout suffocant + Et bleme quand + Sonne l’heure + Je me souviens + Des jours anciens + Et je pleure....” + </pre> + <p> + “Who the devil is there in Ramilly County,” muttered Amory aloud, “who + would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?” + </p> + <p> + “Somebody’s there!” cried the voice unalarmed. “Who are you?—Manfred, + St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m Don Juan!” Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the + noise of the rain and the wind. + </p> + <p> + A delighted shriek came from the haystack. + </p> + <p> + “I know who you are—you’re the blond boy that likes ‘Ulalume’—I + recognize your voice.” + </p> + <p> + “How do I get up?” he cried from the foot of the haystack, whither he had + arrived, dripping wet. A head appeared over the edge—it was so dark + that Amory could just make out a patch of damp hair and two eyes that + gleamed like a cat’s. + </p> + <p> + “Run back!” came the voice, “and jump and I’ll catch your hand—no, + not there—on the other side.” + </p> + <p> + He followed directions and as he sprawled up the side, knee-deep in hay, a + small, white hand reached out, gripped his, and helped him onto the top. + </p> + <p> + “Here you are, Juan,” cried she of the damp hair. “Do you mind if I drop + the Don?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a thumb like mine!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “And you’re holding my hand, which is dangerous without seeing my face.” + He dropped it quickly. + </p> + <p> + As if in answer to his prayers came a flash of lightning and he looked + eagerly at her who stood beside him on the soggy haystack, ten feet above + the ground. But she had covered her face and he saw nothing but a slender + figure, dark, damp, bobbed hair, and the small white hands with the thumbs + that bent back like his. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” she suggested politely, as the dark closed in on them. “If + you’ll sit opposite me in this hollow you can have half of the raincoat, + which I was using as a water-proof tent until you so rudely interrupted + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I was asked,” Amory said joyfully; “you asked me—you know you did.” + </p> + <p> + “Don Juan always manages that,” she said, laughing, “but I shan’t call you + that any more, because you’ve got reddish hair. Instead you can recite + ‘Ulalume’ and I’ll be Psyche, your soul.” + </p> + <p> + Amory flushed, happily invisible under the curtain of wind and rain. They + were sitting opposite each other in a slight hollow in the hay with the + raincoat spread over most of them, and the rain doing for the rest. Amory + was trying desperately to see Psyche, but the lightning refused to flash + again, and he waited impatiently. Good Lord! supposing she wasn’t + beautiful—supposing she was forty and pedantic—heavens! + Suppose, only suppose, she was mad. But he knew the last was unworthy. + Here had Providence sent a girl to amuse him just as it sent Benvenuto + Cellini men to murder, and he was wondering if she was mad, just because + she exactly filled his mood. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Not what?” + </p> + <p> + “Not mad. I didn’t think you were mad when I first saw you, so it isn’t + fair that you should think so of me.” + </p> + <p> + “How on earth—” + </p> + <p> + As long as they knew each other Eleanor and Amory could be “on a subject” + and stop talking with the definite thought of it in their heads, yet ten + minutes later speak aloud and find that their minds had followed the same + channels and led them each to a parallel idea, an idea that others would + have found absolutely unconnected with the first. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” he demanded, leaning forward eagerly, “how do you know about + ‘Ulalume’—how did you know the color of my hair? What’s your name? + What were you doing here? Tell me all at once!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the lightning flashed in with a leap of overreaching light and he + saw Eleanor, and looked for the first time into those eyes of hers. Oh, + she was magnificent—pale skin, the color of marble in starlight, + slender brows, and eyes that glittered green as emeralds in the blinding + glare. She was a witch, of perhaps nineteen, he judged, alert and dreamy + and with the tell-tale white line over her upper lip that was a weakness + and a delight. He sank back with a gasp against the wall of hay. + </p> + <p> + “Now you’ve seen me,” she said calmly, “and I suppose you’re about to say + that my green eyes are burning into your brain.” + </p> + <p> + “What color is your hair?” he asked intently. “It’s bobbed, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s bobbed. I don’t know what color it is,” she answered, musing, + “so many men have asked me. It’s medium, I suppose—No one ever looks + long at my hair. I’ve got beautiful eyes, though, haven’t I. I don’t care + what you say, I have beautiful eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “Answer my question, Madeline.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t remember them all—besides my name isn’t Madeline, it’s + Eleanor.” + </p> + <p> + “I might have guessed it. You <i>look</i> like Eleanor—you have that + Eleanor look. You know what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence as they listened to the rain. + </p> + <p> + “It’s going down my neck, fellow lunatic,” she offered finally. + </p> + <p> + “Answer my questions.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—name of Savage, Eleanor; live in big old house mile down road; + nearest living relation to be notified, grandfather—Ramilly Savage; + height, five feet four inches; number on watch-case, 3077 W; nose, + delicate aquiline; temperament, uncanny—” + </p> + <p> + “And me,” Amory interrupted, “where did you see me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’re one of <i>those</i> men,” she answered haughtily, “must lug + old self into conversation. Well, my boy, I was behind a hedge sunning + myself one day last week, and along comes a man saying in a pleasant, + conceited way of talking: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘And now when the night was senescent’ + (says he) + ‘And the star dials pointed to morn + At the end of the path a liquescent’ + (says he) + ‘And nebulous lustre was born.’ +</pre> + <p> + “So I poked my eyes up over the hedge, but you had started to run, for + some unknown reason, and so I saw but the back of your beautiful head. + ‘Oh!’ says I, ‘there’s a man for whom many of us might sigh,’ and I + continued in my best Irish—” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” Amory interrupted. “Now go back to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will. I’m one of those people who go through the world giving + other people thrills, but getting few myself except those I read into men + on such nights as these. I have the social courage to go on the stage, but + not the energy; I haven’t the patience to write books; and I never met a + man I’d marry. However, I’m only eighteen.” + </p> + <p> + The storm was dying down softly and only the wind kept up its ghostly + surge and made the stack lean and gravely settle from side to side. Amory + was in a trance. He felt that every moment was precious. He had never met + a girl like this before—she would never seem quite the same again. + He didn’t at all feel like a character in a play, the appropriate feeling + in an unconventional situation—instead, he had a sense of coming + home. + </p> + <p> + “I have just made a great decision,” said Eleanor after another pause, + “and that is why I’m here, to answer another of your questions. I have + just decided that I don’t believe in immortality.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! how banal!” + </p> + <p> + “Frightfully so,” she answered, “but depressing with a stale, sickly + depression, nevertheless. I came out here to get wet—like a wet hen; + wet hens always have great clarity of mind,” she concluded. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” Amory said politely. + </p> + <p> + “Well—I’m not afraid of the dark, so I put on my slicker and rubber + boots and came out. You see I was always afraid, before, to say I didn’t + believe in God—because the lightning might strike me—but here + I am and it hasn’t, of course, but the main point is that this time I + wasn’t any more afraid of it than I had been when I was a Christian + Scientist, like I was last year. So now I know I’m a materialist and I was + fraternizing with the hay when you came out and stood by the woods, scared + to death.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you little wretch—” cried Amory indignantly. “Scared of what?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Yourself!</i>” she shouted, and he jumped. She clapped her hands and + laughed. “See—see! Conscience—kill it like me! Eleanor Savage, + materiologist—no jumping, no starting, come early—” + </p> + <p> + “But I <i>have</i> to have a soul,” he objected. “I can’t be rational—and + I won’t be molecular.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and + whispered with a sort of romantic finality: + </p> + <p> + “I thought so, Juan, I feared so—you’re sentimental. You’re not like + me. I’m a romantic little materialist.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sentimental—I’m as romantic as you are. The idea, you know, + is that the sentimental person thinks things will last—the romantic + person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.” (This was an ancient + distinction of Amory’s.) + </p> + <p> + “Epigrams. I’m going home,” she said sadly. “Let’s get off the haystack + and walk to the cross-roads.” + </p> + <p> + They slowly descended from their perch. She would not let him help her + down and motioning him away arrived in a graceful lump in the soft mud + where she sat for an instant, laughing at herself. Then she jumped to her + feet and slipped her hand into his, and they tiptoed across the fields, + jumping and swinging from dry spot to dry spot. A transcendent delight + seemed to sparkle in every pool of water, for the moon had risen and the + storm had scurried away into western Maryland. When Eleanor’s arm touched + his he felt his hands grow cold with deadly fear lest he should lose the + shadow brush with which his imagination was painting wonders of her. He + watched her from the corners of his eyes as ever he did when he walked + with her—she was a feast and a folly and he wished it had been his + destiny to sit forever on a haystack and see life through her green eyes. + His paganism soared that night and when she faded out like a gray ghost + down the road, a deep singing came out of the fields and filled his way + homeward. All night the summer moths flitted in and out of Amory’s window; + all night large looming sounds swayed in mystic revery through the silver + grain—and he lay awake in the clear darkness. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + SEPTEMBER + </p> + <p> + Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically. + </p> + <p> + “I never fall in love in August or September,” he proffered. + </p> + <p> + “When then?” + </p> + <p> + “Christmas or Easter. I’m a liturgist.” + </p> + <p> + “Easter!” She turned up her nose. “Huh! Spring in corsets!” + </p> + <p> + “Easter <i>would</i> bore spring, wouldn’t she? Easter has her hair + braided, wears a tailored suit.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. + Over the splendor and speed of thy feet—” + </pre> + <p> + quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: “I suppose Hallowe’en is a better + day for autumn than Thanksgiving.” + </p> + <p> + “Much better—and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but + summer...” + </p> + <p> + “Summer has no day,” she said. “We can’t possibly have a summer love. So + many people have tried that the name’s become proverbial. Summer is only + the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy + nights I dream of in April. It’s a sad season of life without growth.... + It has no day.” + </p> + <p> + “Fourth of July,” Amory suggested facetiously. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be funny!” she said, raking him with her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?” + </p> + <p> + She thought a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I suppose heaven would, if there was one,” she said finally, “a sort + of pagan heaven—you ought to be a materialist,” she continued + irrelevantly. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert Brooke.” + </p> + <p> + To some extent Amory tried to play Rupert Brooke as long as he knew + Eleanor. What he said, his attitude toward life, toward her, toward + himself, were all reflexes of the dead Englishman’s literary moods. Often + she sat in the grass, a lazy wind playing with her short hair, her voice + husky as she ran up and down the scale from Grantchester to Waikiki. There + was something most passionate in Eleanor’s reading aloud. They seemed + nearer, not only mentally, but physically, when they read, than when she + was in his arms, and this was often, for they fell half into love almost + from the first. Yet was Amory capable of love now? He could, as always, + run through the emotions in a half hour, but even while they revelled in + their imaginations, he knew that neither of them could care as he had + cared once before—I suppose that was why they turned to Brooke, and + Swinburne, and Shelley. Their chance was to make everything fine and + finished and rich and imaginative; they must bend tiny golden tentacles + from his imagination to hers, that would take the place of the great, deep + love that was never so near, yet never so much of a dream. + </p> + <p> + One poem they read over and over; Swinburne’s “Triumph of Time,” and four + lines of it rang in his memory afterward on warm nights when he saw the + fireflies among dusky tree trunks and heard the low drone of many frogs. + Then Eleanor seemed to come out of the night and stand by him, and he + heard her throaty voice, with its tone of a fleecy-headed drum, repeating: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, + To think of things that are well outworn; + Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, + The dream foregone and the deed foreborne?” + </pre> + <p> + They were formally introduced two days later, and his aunt told him her + history. The Ramillys were two: old Mr. Ramilly and his granddaughter, + Eleanor. She had lived in France with a restless mother whom Amory + imagined to have been very like his own, on whose death she had come to + America, to live in Maryland. She had gone to Baltimore first to stay with + a bachelor uncle, and there she insisted on being a debutante at the age + of seventeen. She had a wild winter and arrived in the country in March, + having quarrelled frantically with all her Baltimore relatives, and + shocked them into fiery protest. A rather fast crowd had come out, who + drank cocktails in limousines and were promiscuously condescending and + patronizing toward older people, and Eleanor with an esprit that hinted + strongly of the boulevards, led many innocents still redolent of St. + Timothy’s and Farmington, into paths of Bohemian naughtiness. When the + story came to her uncle, a forgetful cavalier of a more hypocritical era, + there was a scene, from which Eleanor emerged, subdued but rebellious and + indignant, to seek haven with her grandfather who hovered in the country + on the near side of senility. That’s as far as her story went; she told + him the rest herself, but that was later. + </p> + <p> + Often they swam and as Amory floated lazily in the water he shut his mind + to all thoughts except those of hazy soap-bubble lands where the sun + splattered through wind-drunk trees. How could any one possibly think or + worry, or do anything except splash and dive and loll there on the edge of + time while the flower months failed. Let the days move over—sadness + and memory and pain recurred outside, and here, once more, before he went + on to meet them he wanted to drift and be young. + </p> + <p> + There were days when Amory resented that life had changed from an even + progress along a road stretching ever in sight, with the scenery merging + and blending, into a succession of quick, unrelated scenes—two years + of sweat and blood, that sudden absurd instinct for paternity that + Rosalind had stirred; the half-sensual, half-neurotic quality of this + autumn with Eleanor. He felt that it would take all time, more than he + could ever spare, to glue these strange cumbersome pictures into the + scrap-book of his life. It was all like a banquet where he sat for this + half-hour of his youth and tried to enjoy brilliant epicurean courses. + </p> + <p> + Dimly he promised himself a time where all should be welded together. For + months it seemed that he had alternated between being borne along a stream + of love or fascination, or left in an eddy, and in the eddies he had not + desired to think, rather to be picked up on a wave’s top and swept along + again. + </p> + <p> + “The despairing, dying autumn and our love—how well they harmonize!” + said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by the water. + </p> + <p> + “The Indian summer of our hearts—” he ceased. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” she said finally, “was she light or dark?” + </p> + <p> + “Light.” + </p> + <p> + “Was she more beautiful than I am?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Amory shortly. + </p> + <p> + One night they walked while the moon rose and poured a great burden of + glory over the garden until it seemed fairyland with Amory and Eleanor, + dim phantasmal shapes, expressing eternal beauty in curious elfin love + moods. Then they turned out of the moonlight into the trellised darkness + of a vine-hung pagoda, where there were scents so plaintive as to be + nearly musical. + </p> + <p> + “Light a match,” she whispered. “I want to see you.” + </p> + <p> + Scratch! Flare! + </p> + <p> + The night and the scarred trees were like scenery in a play, and to be + there with Eleanor, shadowy and unreal, seemed somehow oddly familiar. + Amory thought how it was only the past that ever seemed strange and + unbelievable. The match went out. + </p> + <p> + “It’s black as pitch.” + </p> + <p> + “We’re just voices now,” murmured Eleanor, “little lonesome voices. Light + another.” + </p> + <p> + “That was my last match.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he caught her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>are</i> mine—you know you’re mine!” he cried wildly... the + moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened... the fireflies hung + upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + THE END OF SUMMER + </p> + <p> + “No wind is stirring in the grass; not one wind stirs... the water in the + hidden pools, as glass, fronts the full moon and so inters the golden + token in its icy mass,” chanted Eleanor to the trees that skeletoned the + body of the night. “Isn’t it ghostly here? If you can hold your horse’s + feet up, let’s cut through the woods and find the hidden pools.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s after one, and you’ll get the devil,” he objected, “and I don’t know + enough about horses to put one away in the pitch dark.” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, you old fool,” she whispered irrelevantly, and, leaning over, + she patted him lazily with her riding-crop. “You can leave your old plug + in our stable and I’ll send him over to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old plug at + seven o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be a spoil-sport—remember, you have a tendency toward + wavering that prevents you from being the entire light of my life.” + </p> + <p> + Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, grasped her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Say I am—<i>quick</i>, or I’ll pull you over and make you ride + behind me.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do!—or rather, don’t! Why are all the exciting things so + uncomfortable, like fighting and exploring and ski-ing in Canada? By the + way, we’re going to ride up Harper’s Hill. I think that comes in our + programme about five o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “You little devil,” Amory growled. “You’re going to make me stay up all + night and sleep in the train like an immigrant all day to-morrow, going + back to New York.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! some one’s coming along the road—let’s go! Whoo-ee-oop!” And + with a shout that probably gave the belated traveller a series of shivers, + she turned her horse into the woods and Amory followed slowly, as he had + followed her all day for three weeks. + </p> + <p> + The summer was over, but he had spent the days in watching Eleanor, a + graceful, facile Manfred, build herself intellectual and imaginative + pyramids while she revelled in the artificialities of the temperamental + teens and they wrote poetry at the dinner-table. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he + pondered o’er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever + know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death: + + “Thru Time I’ll save my love!” he said... yet Beauty + vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead... + + —Ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair: + + “Who’d learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his + sonnet there”... So all my words, however true, might sing + you to a thousandth June, and no one ever <i>know</i> that you were + Beauty for an afternoon. +</pre> + <p> + So he wrote one day, when he pondered how coldly we thought of the “Dark + Lady of the Sonnets,” and how little we remembered her as the great man + wanted her remembered. For what Shakespeare <i>must</i> have desired, to + have been able to write with such divine despair, was that the lady should + live... and now we have no real interest in her.... The irony of it is + that if he had cared <i>more</i> for the poem than for the lady the sonnet + would be only obvious, imitative rhetoric and no one would ever have read + it after twenty years.... + </p> + <p> + This was the last night Amory ever saw Eleanor. He was leaving in the + morning and they had agreed to take a long farewell trot by the cold + moonlight. She wanted to talk, she said—perhaps the last time in her + life that she could be rational (she meant pose with comfort). So they had + turned into the woods and rode for half an hour with scarcely a word, + except when she whispered “Damn!” at a bothersome branch—whispered + it as no other girl was ever able to whisper it. Then they started up + Harper’s Hill, walking their tired horses. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord! It’s quiet here!” whispered Eleanor; “much more lonesome than + the woods.” + </p> + <p> + “I hate woods,” Amory said, shuddering. “Any kind of foliage or underbrush + at night. Out here it’s so broad and easy on the spirit.” + </p> + <p> + “The long slope of a long hill.” + </p> + <p> + “And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it.” + </p> + <p> + “And thee and me, last and most important.” + </p> + <p> + It was quiet that night—the straight road they followed up to the + edge of the cliff knew few footsteps at any time. Only an occasional negro + cabin, silver-gray in the rock-ribbed moonlight, broke the long line of + bare ground; behind lay the black edge of the woods like a dark frosting + on white cake, and ahead the sharp, high horizon. It was much colder—so + cold that it settled on them and drove all the warm nights from their + minds. + </p> + <p> + “The end of summer,” said Eleanor softly. “Listen to the beat of our + horses’ hoofs—‘tump-tump-tump-a-tump.’ Have you ever been feverish + and had all noises divide into ‘tump-tump-tump’ until you could swear + eternity was divisible into so many tumps? That’s the way I feel—old + horses go tump-tump.... I guess that’s the only thing that separates + horses and clocks from us. Human beings can’t go ‘tump-tump-tump’ without + going crazy.” + </p> + <p> + The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and shivered. + </p> + <p> + “Are you very cold?” asked Amory. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m thinking about myself—my black old inside self, the real + one, with the fundamental honesty that keeps me from being absolutely + wicked by making me realize my own sins.” + </p> + <p> + They were riding up close by the cliff and Amory gazed over. Where the + fall met the ground a hundred feet below, a black stream made a sharp + line, broken by tiny glints in the swift water. + </p> + <p> + “Rotten, rotten old world,” broke out Eleanor suddenly, “and the + wretchedest thing of all is me—oh, <i>why</i> am I a girl? Why am I + not a stupid—? Look at you; you’re stupider than I am, not much, but + some, and you can lope about and get bored and then lope somewhere else, + and you can play around with girls without being involved in meshes of + sentiment, and you can do anything and be justified—and here am I + with the brains to do everything, yet tied to the sinking ship of future + matrimony. If I were born a hundred years from now, well and good, but now + what’s in store for me—I have to marry, that goes without saying. + Who? I’m too bright for most men, and yet I have to descend to their level + and let them patronize my intellect in order to get their attention. Every + year that I don’t marry I’ve got less chance for a first-class man. At the + best I can have my choice from one or two cities and, of course, I have to + marry into a dinner-coat. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” she leaned close again, “I like clever men and good-looking men, + and, of course, no one cares more for personality than I do. Oh, just one + person in fifty has any glimmer of what sex is. I’m hipped on Freud and + all that, but it’s rotten that every bit of <i>real</i> love in the world + is ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of jealousy.” She + finished as suddenly as she began. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, you’re right,” Amory agreed. “It’s a rather unpleasant + overpowering force that’s part of the machinery under everything. It’s + like an actor that lets you see his mechanics! Wait a minute till I think + this out....” + </p> + <p> + He paused and tried to get a metaphor. They had turned the cliff and were + riding along the road about fifty feet to the left. + </p> + <p> + “You see every one’s got to have some cloak to throw around it. The + mediocre intellects, Plato’s second class, use the remnants of romantic + chivalry diluted with Victorian sentiment—and we who consider + ourselves the intellectuals cover it up by pretending that it’s another + side of us, has nothing to do with our shining brains; we pretend that the + fact that we realize it is really absolving us from being a prey to it. + But the truth is that sex is right in the middle of our purest + abstractions, so close that it obscures vision.... I can kiss you now and + will. ...” He leaned toward her in his saddle, but she drew away. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t—I can’t kiss you now—I’m more sensitive.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re more stupid then,” he declared rather impatiently. “Intellect is + no protection from sex any more than convention is...” + </p> + <p> + “What is?” she fired up. “The Catholic Church or the maxims of Confucius?” + </p> + <p> + Amory looked up, rather taken aback. + </p> + <p> + “That’s your panacea, isn’t it?” she cried. “Oh, you’re just an old + hypocrite, too. Thousands of scowling priests keeping the degenerate + Italians and illiterate Irish repentant with gabble-gabble about the sixth + and ninth commandments. It’s just all cloaks, sentiment and spiritual + rouge and panaceas. I’ll tell you there is no God, not even a definite + abstract goodness; so it’s all got to be worked out for the individual by + the individual here in high white foreheads like mine, and you’re too much + the prig to admit it.” She let go her reins and shook her little fists at + the stars. + </p> + <p> + “If there’s a God let him strike me—strike me!” + </p> + <p> + “Talking about God again after the manner of atheists,” Amory said + sharply. His materialism, always a thin cloak, was torn to shreds by + Eleanor’s blasphemy.... She knew it and it angered him that she knew it. + </p> + <p> + “And like most intellectuals who don’t find faith convenient,” he + continued coldly, “like Napoleon and Oscar Wilde and the rest of your + type, you’ll yell loudly for a priest on your death-bed.” + </p> + <p> + Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Will I?” she said in a queer voice that scared him. “Will I? Watch! <i>I’m + going over the cliff!</i>” And before he could interfere she had turned + and was riding breakneck for the end of the plateau. + </p> + <p> + He wheeled and started after her, his body like ice, his nerves in a vast + clangor. There was no chance of stopping her. The moon was under a cloud + and her horse would step blindly over. Then some ten feet from the edge of + the cliff she gave a sudden shriek and flung herself sideways—plunged + from her horse and, rolling over twice, landed in a pile of brush five + feet from the edge. The horse went over with a frantic whinny. In a minute + he was by Eleanor’s side and saw that her eyes were open. + </p> + <p> + “Eleanor!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with sudden + tears. + </p> + <p> + “Eleanor, are you hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t think so,” she said faintly, and then began weeping. + </p> + <p> + “My horse dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Good God—Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she wailed. “I thought I was going over. I didn’t know—” + </p> + <p> + He helped her gently to her feet and boosted her onto his saddle. So they + started homeward; Amory walking and she bent forward on the pommel, + sobbing bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a crazy streak,” she faltered, “twice before I’ve done things + like that. When I was eleven mother went—went mad—stark raving + crazy. We were in Vienna—” + </p> + <p> + All the way back she talked haltingly about herself, and Amory’s love + waned slowly with the moon. At her door they started from habit to kiss + good night, but she could not run into his arms, nor were they stretched + to meet her as in the week before. For a minute they stood there, hating + each other with a bitter sadness. But as Amory had loved himself in + Eleanor, so now what he hated was only a mirror. Their poses were strewn + about the pale dawn like broken glass. The stars were long gone and there + were left only the little sighing gusts of wind and the silences + between... but naked souls are poor things ever, and soon he turned + homeward and let new lights come in with the sun. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here, Earth-born, over the lilt of the water, + Lisping its music and bearing a burden of light, + Bosoming day as a laughing and radiant daughter... + Here we may whisper unheard, unafraid of the night. + Walking alone... was it splendor, or what, we were bound with, + Deep in the time when summer lets down her hair? + Shadows we loved and the patterns they covered the ground with + Tapestries, mystical, faint in the breathless air. + + That was the day... and the night for another story, + Pale as a dream and shadowed with pencilled trees— + Ghosts of the stars came by who had sought for glory, + Whispered to us of peace in the plaintive breeze, + Whispered of old dead faiths that the day had shattered, + Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon; + That was the urge that we knew and the language that mattered + That was the debt that we paid to the usurer June. + + Here, deepest of dreams, by the waters that bring not + Anything back of the past that we need not know, + What if the light is but sun and the little streams sing not, + We are together, it seems... I have loved you so... + What did the last night hold, with the summer over, + Drawing us back to the home in the changing glade? + <i>What leered out of the dark in the ghostly clover?</i> + God!... till you stirred in your sleep... and were wild + afraid... + + Well... we have passed... we are chronicle now to the eerie. + Curious metal from meteors that failed in the sky; + Earth-born the tireless is stretched by the water, quite weary, + Close to this ununderstandable changeling that’s I... + Fear is an echo we traced to Security’s daughter; + Now we are faces and voices... and less, too soon, + Whispering half-love over the lilt of the water... + Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon.” + </pre> + <hr /> + <p> + A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED “SUMMER STORM” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Faint winds, and a song fading and leaves falling, + Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter... + And the rain and over the fields a voice calling... + + Our gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above, + Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft her + Sisters on. The shadow of a dove + Falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings; + And down the valley through the crying trees + The body of the darker storm flies; brings + With its new air the breath of sunken seas + And slender tenuous thunder... + But I wait... + Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain— + Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate, + Happier winds that pile her hair; + Again + They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy air + Upon me, winds that I know, and storm. + + There was a summer every rain was rare; + There was a season every wind was warm.... + And now you pass me in the mist... your hair + Rain-blown about you, damp lips curved once more + In that wild irony, that gay despair + That made you old when we have met before; + Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain, + Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers, + With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again— + Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours + (Whispers will creep into the growing dark... + Tumult will die over the trees) + Now night + Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse + Of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright, + To cover with her hair the eerie green... + Love for the dusk... Love for the glistening after; + Quiet the trees to their last tops... serene... + + Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter...” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 4. The Supercilious Sacrifice + </h2> + <p> + Atlantic City. Amory paced the board walk at day’s end, lulled by the + everlasting surge of changing waves, smelling the half-mournful odor of + the salt breeze. The sea, he thought, had treasured its memories deeper + than the faithless land. It seemed still to whisper of Norse galleys + ploughing the water world under raven-figured flags, of the British + dreadnoughts, gray bulwarks of civilization steaming up through the fog of + one dark July into the North Sea. + </p> + <p> + “Well—Amory Blaine!” + </p> + <p> + Amory looked down into the street below. A low racing car had drawn to a + stop and a familiar cheerful face protruded from the driver’s seat. + </p> + <p> + “Come on down, goopher!” cried Alec. + </p> + <p> + Amory called a greeting and descending a flight of wooden steps approached + the car. He and Alec had been meeting intermittently, but the barrier of + Rosalind lay always between them. He was sorry for this; he hated to lose + Alec. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully.” + </p> + <p> + “How d’y do?” + </p> + <p> + “Amory,” said Alec exuberantly, “if you’ll jump in we’ll take you to some + secluded nook and give you a wee jolt of Bourbon.” + </p> + <p> + Amory considered. + </p> + <p> + “That’s an idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Step in—move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at + you.” + </p> + <p> + Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, vermilion-lipped blonde. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Doug Fairbanks,” she said flippantly. “Walking for exercise or + hunting for company?” + </p> + <p> + “I was counting the waves,” replied Amory gravely. “I’m going in for + statistics.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t kid me, Doug.” + </p> + <p> + When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the car among + deep shadows. + </p> + <p> + “What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?” he demanded, as he + produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug. + </p> + <p> + Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason for + coming to the coast. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?” he asked instead. + </p> + <p> + “Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park—” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, Alec! It’s hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are all + three dead.” + </p> + <p> + Alec shivered. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough.” + </p> + <p> + Jill seemed to agree. + </p> + <p> + “Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways,” she commented. “Tell him to drink + deep—it’s good and scarce these days.” + </p> + <p> + “What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, New York, I suppose—” + </p> + <p> + “I mean to-night, because if you haven’t got a room yet you’d better help + me out.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad to.” + </p> + <p> + “You see, Tully and I have two rooms with bath between at the Ranier, and + he’s got to go back to New York. I don’t want to have to move. Question + is, will you occupy one of the rooms?” + </p> + <p> + Amory was willing, if he could get in right away. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name.” + </p> + <p> + Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left the car + and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + He was in an eddy again, a deep, lethargic gulf, without desire to work or + write, love or dissipate. For the first time in his life he rather longed + for death to roll over his generation, obliterating their petty fevers and + struggles and exultations. His youth seemed never so vanished as now in + the contrast between the utter loneliness of this visit and that riotous, + joyful party of four years before. Things that had been the merest + commonplaces of his life then, deep sleep, the sense of beauty around him, + all desire, had flown away and the gaps they left were filled only with + the great listlessness of his disillusion. + </p> + <p> + “To hold a man a woman has to appeal to the worst in him.” This sentence + was the thesis of most of his bad nights, of which he felt this was to be + one. His mind had already started to play variations on the subject. + Tireless passion, fierce jealousy, longing to possess and crush—these + alone were left of all his love for Rosalind; these remained to him as + payment for the loss of his youth—bitter calomel under the thin + sugar of love’s exaltation. + </p> + <p> + In his room he undressed and wrapping himself in blankets to keep out the + chill October air drowsed in an armchair by the open window. + </p> + <p> + He remembered a poem he had read months before: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, + I waste my years sailing along the sea—” + </pre> + <p> + Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that waste + implied. He felt that life had rejected him. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalind! Rosalind!” He poured the words softly into the half-darkness + until she seemed to permeate the room; the wet salt breeze filled his hair + with moisture, the rim of a moon seared the sky and made the curtains dim + and ghostly. He fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + When he awoke it was very late and quiet. The blanket had slipped partly + off his shoulders and he touched his skin to find it damp and cold. + </p> + <p> + Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away. + </p> + <p> + He became rigid. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t make a sound!” It was Alec’s voice. “Jill—do you hear me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—” breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the + bathroom. + </p> + <p> + Then his ears caught a louder sound from somewhere along the corridor + outside. It was a mumbling of men’s voices and a repeated muffled rapping. + Amory threw off the blankets and moved close to the bathroom door. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” came the girl’s voice again. “You’ll have to let them in.” + </p> + <p> + “Sh!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a steady, insistent knocking began at Amory’s hall door and + simultaneously out of the bathroom came Alec, followed by the + vermilion-lipped girl. They were both clad in pajamas. + </p> + <p> + “Amory!” an anxious whisper. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s house detectives. My God, Amory—they’re just looking for a + test-case—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, better let them in.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand. They can get me under the Mann Act.” + </p> + <p> + The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure in the + darkness. + </p> + <p> + Amory tried to plan quickly. + </p> + <p> + “You make a racket and let them in your room,” he suggested anxiously, + “and I’ll get her out by this door.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re here too, though. They’ll watch this door.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you give a wrong name?” + </p> + <p> + “No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they’d trail the auto + license number.” + </p> + <p> + “Say you’re married.” + </p> + <p> + “Jill says one of the house detectives knows her.” + </p> + <p> + The girl had stolen to the bed and tumbled upon it; lay there listening + wretchedly to the knocking which had grown gradually to a pounding. Then + came a man’s voice, angry and imperative: + </p> + <p> + “Open up or we’ll break the door in!” + </p> + <p> + In the silence when this voice ceased Amory realized that there were other + things in the room besides people... over and around the figure crouched + on the bed there hung an aura, gossamer as a moonbeam, tainted as stale, + weak wine, yet a horror, diffusively brooding already over the three of + them... and over by the window among the stirring curtains stood something + else, featureless and indistinguishable, yet strangely familiar.... + Simultaneously two great cases presented themselves side by side to Amory; + all that took place in his mind, then, occupied in actual time less than + ten seconds. + </p> + <p> + The first fact that flashed radiantly on his comprehension was the great + impersonality of sacrifice—he perceived that what we call love and + hate, reward and punishment, had no more to do with it than the date of + the month. He quickly recapitulated the story of a sacrifice he had heard + of in college: a man had cheated in an examination; his roommate in a gust + of sentiment had taken the entire blame—due to the shame of it the + innocent one’s entire future seemed shrouded in regret and failure, capped + by the ingratitude of the real culprit. He had finally taken his own life—years + afterward the facts had come out. At the time the story had both puzzled + and worried Amory. Now he realized the truth; that sacrifice was no + purchase of freedom. It was like a great elective office, it was like an + inheritance of power—to certain people at certain times an essential + luxury, carrying with it not a guarantee but a responsibility, not a + security but an infinite risk. Its very momentum might drag him down to + ruin—the passing of the emotional wave that made it possible might + leave the one who made it high and dry forever on an island of despair. + </p> + <p> + ... Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for having done + so much for him.... + </p> + <p> + ... All this was flung before Amory like an opened scroll, while ulterior + to him and speculating upon him were those two breathless, listening + forces: the gossamer aura that hung over and about the girl and that + familiar thing by the window. + </p> + <p> + Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; sacrifice should + be eternally supercilious. + </p> + <p> + <i>Weep not for me but for thy children.</i> + </p> + <p> + That—thought Amory—would be somehow the way God would talk to + me. + </p> + <p> + Amory felt a sudden surge of joy and then like a face in a motion-picture + the aura over the bed faded out; the dynamic shadow by the window, that + was as near as he could name it, remained for the fraction of a moment and + then the breeze seemed to lift it swiftly out of the room. He clinched his + hands in quick ecstatic excitement... the ten seconds were up.... + </p> + <p> + “Do what I say, Alec—do what I say. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + Alec looked at him dumbly—his face a tableau of anguish. + </p> + <p> + “You have a family,” continued Amory slowly. “You have a family and it’s + important that you should get out of this. Do you hear me?” He repeated + clearly what he had said. “Do you hear me?” + </p> + <p> + “I hear you.” The voice was curiously strained, the eyes never for a + second left Amory’s. + </p> + <p> + “Alec, you’re going to lie down here. If any one comes in you act drunk. + You do what I say—if you don’t I’ll probably kill you.” + </p> + <p> + There was another moment while they stared at each other. Then Amory went + briskly to the bureau and, taking his pocket-book, beckoned peremptorily + to the girl. He heard one word from Alec that sounded like “penitentiary,” + then he and Jill were in the bathroom with the door bolted behind them. + </p> + <p> + “You’re here with me,” he said sternly. “You’ve been with me all evening.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, gave a little half cry. + </p> + <p> + In a second he had the door of the other room open and three men entered. + There was an immediate flood of electric light and he stood there + blinking. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!” + </p> + <p> + Amory laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + The leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a check + suit. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Olson.” + </p> + <p> + “I got you, Mr. O’May,” said Olson, nodding. The other two took a curious + glance at their quarry and then withdrew, closing the door angrily behind + them. + </p> + <p> + The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you ever hear of the Mann Act? Coming down here with her,” he + indicated the girl with his thumb, “with a New York license on your car—to + a hotel like <i>this</i>.” He shook his head implying that he had + struggled over Amory but now gave him up. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Amory rather impatiently, “what do you want us to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Get dressed, quick—and tell your friend not to make such a racket.” + Jill was sobbing noisily on the bed, but at these words she subsided + sulkily and, gathering up her clothes, retired to the bathroom. As Amory + slipped into Alec’s B. V. D.’s he found that his attitude toward the + situation was agreeably humorous. The aggrieved virtue of the burly man + made him want to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Anybody else here?” demanded Olson, trying to look keen and ferret-like. + </p> + <p> + “Fellow who had the rooms,” said Amory carelessly. “He’s drunk as an owl, + though. Been in there asleep since six o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take a look at him presently.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you find out?” asked Amory curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman.” + </p> + <p> + Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if rather + untidily arrayed. + </p> + <p> + “Now then,” began Olson, producing a note-book, “I want your real names—no + damn John Smith or Mary Brown.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” said Amory quietly. “Just drop that big-bully stuff. We + merely got caught, that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Olson glared at him. + </p> + <p> + “Name?” he snapped. + </p> + <p> + Amory gave his name and New York address. + </p> + <p> + “And the lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Jill—” + </p> + <p> + “Say,” cried Olson indignantly, “just ease up on the nursery rhymes. + What’s your name? Sarah Murphy? Minnie Jackson?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my God!” cried the girl cupping her tear-stained face in her hands. + “I don’t want my mother to know. I don’t want my mother to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on now!” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up!” cried Amory at Olson. + </p> + <p> + An instant’s pause. + </p> + <p> + “Stella Robbins,” she faltered finally. “General Delivery, Rugway, New + Hampshire.” + </p> + <p> + Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very ponderously. + </p> + <p> + “By rights the hotel could turn the evidence over to the police and you’d + go to penitentiary, you would, for bringin’ a girl from one State to + ’nother f’r immoral purp’ses—” He paused to let the majesty of his + words sink in. “But—the hotel is going to let you off.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t want to get in the papers,” cried Jill fiercely. “Let us off! + Huh!” + </p> + <p> + A great lightness surrounded Amory. He realized that he was safe and only + then did he appreciate the full enormity of what he might have incurred. + </p> + <p> + “However,” continued Olson, “there’s a protective association among the + hotels. There’s been too much of this stuff, and we got a ’rangement with + the newspapers so that you get a little free publicity. Not the name of + the hotel, but just a line sayin’ that you had a little trouble in ’lantic + City. See?” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re gettin’ off light—damn light—but—” + </p> + <p> + “Come on,” said Amory briskly. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t need a + valedictory.” + </p> + <p> + Olson walked through the bathroom and took a cursory glance at Alec’s + still form. Then he extinguished the lights and motioned them to follow + him. As they walked into the elevator Amory considered a piece of bravado—yielded + finally. He reached out and tapped Olson on the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind taking off your hat? There’s a lady in the elevator.” + </p> + <p> + Olson’s hat came off slowly. There was a rather embarrassing two minutes + under the lights of the lobby while the night clerk and a few belated + guests stared at them curiously; the loudly dressed girl with bent head, + the handsome young man with his chin several points aloft; the inference + was quite obvious. Then the chill outdoors—where the salt air was + fresher and keener still with the first hints of morning. + </p> + <p> + “You can get one of those taxis and beat it,” said Olson, pointing to the + blurred outline of two machines whose drivers were presumably asleep + inside. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by,” said Olson. He reached in his pocket suggestively, but Amory + snorted, and, taking the girl’s arm, turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you tell the driver to go?” she asked as they whirled along the + dim street. + </p> + <p> + “The station.” + </p> + <p> + “If that guy writes my mother—” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t. Nobody’ll ever know about this—except our friends and + enemies.” + </p> + <p> + Dawn was breaking over the sea. + </p> + <p> + “It’s getting blue,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It does very well,” agreed Amory critically, and then as an + after-thought: “It’s almost breakfast-time—do you want something to + eat?” + </p> + <p> + “Food—” she said with a cheerful laugh. “Food is what queered the + party. We ordered a big supper to be sent up to the room about two + o’clock. Alec didn’t give the waiter a tip, so I guess the little bastard + snitched.” + </p> + <p> + Jill’s low spirits seemed to have gone faster than the scattering night. + “Let me tell you,” she said emphatically, “when you want to stage that + sorta party stay away from liquor, and when you want to get tight stay + away from bedrooms.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll remember.” + </p> + <p> + He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of an + all-night restaurant. + </p> + <p> + “Is Alec a great friend of yours?” asked Jill as they perched themselves + on high stools inside, and set their elbows on the dingy counter. + </p> + <p> + “He used to be. He probably won’t want to be any more—and never + understand why.” + </p> + <p> + “It was sorta crazy you takin’ all that blame. Is he pretty important? + Kinda more important than you are?” + </p> + <p> + Amory laughed. + </p> + <p> + “That remains to be seen,” he answered. “That’s the question.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS + </p> + <p> + Two days later back in New York Amory found in a newspaper what he had + been searching for—a dozen lines which announced to whom it might + concern that Mr. Amory Blaine, who “gave his address” as, etc., had been + requested to leave his hotel in Atlantic City because of entertaining in + his room a lady <i>not</i> his wife. + </p> + <p> + Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was a longer + paragraph of which the first words were: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of their + daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, Connecticut—” + </p> + <p> + He dropped the paper and lay down on his bed with a frightened, sinking + sensation in the pit of his stomach. She was gone, definitely, finally + gone. Until now he had half unconsciously cherished the hope deep in his + heart that some day she would need him and send for him, cry that it had + been a mistake, that her heart ached only for the pain she had caused him. + Never again could he find even the sombre luxury of wanting her—not + this Rosalind, harder, older—nor any beaten, broken woman that his + imagination brought to the door of his forties—Amory had wanted her + youth, the fresh radiance of her mind and body, the stuff that she was + selling now once and for all. So far as he was concerned, young Rosalind + was dead. + </p> + <p> + A day later came a crisp, terse letter from Mr. Barton in Chicago, which + informed him that as three more street-car companies had gone into the + hands of receivers he could expect for the present no further remittances. + Last of all, on a dazed Sunday night, a telegram told him of Monsignor + Darcy’s sudden death in Philadelphia five days before. + </p> + <p> + He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains of the + room in Atlantic City. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 5. The Egotist Becomes a Personage + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A fathom deep in sleep I lie + With old desires, restrained before, + To clamor lifeward with a cry, + As dark flies out the greying door; + And so in quest of creeds to share + I seek assertive day again... + But old monotony is there: + Endless avenues of rain. + + Oh, might I rise again! Might I + Throw off the heat of that old wine, + See the new morning mass the sky + With fairy towers, line on line; + Find each mirage in the high air + A symbol, not a dream again... + But old monotony is there: + Endless avenues of rain.” + </pre> + <p> + Under the glass portcullis of a theatre Amory stood, watching the first + great drops of rain splatter down and flatten to dark stains on the + sidewalk. The air became gray and opalescent; a solitary light suddenly + outlined a window over the way; then another light; then a hundred more + danced and glimmered into vision. Under his feet a thick, iron-studded + skylight turned yellow; in the street the lamps of the taxi-cabs sent out + glistening sheens along the already black pavement. The unwelcome November + rain had perversely stolen the day’s last hour and pawned it with that + ancient fence, the night. + </p> + <p> + The silence of the theatre behind him ended with a curious snapping sound, + followed by the heavy roaring of a rising crowd and the interlaced clatter + of many voices. The matinee was over. + </p> + <p> + He stood aside, edged a little into the rain to let the throng pass. A + small boy rushed out, sniffed in the damp, fresh air and turned up the + collar of his coat; came three or four couples in a great hurry; came a + further scattering of people whose eyes as they emerged glanced + invariably, first at the wet street, then at the rain-filled air, finally + at the dismal sky; last a dense, strolling mass that depressed him with + its heavy odor compounded of the tobacco smell of the men and the fetid + sensuousness of stale powder on women. After the thick crowd came another + scattering; a stray half-dozen; a man on crutches; finally the rattling + bang of folding seats inside announced that the ushers were at work. + </p> + <p> + New York seemed not so much awakening as turning over in its bed. Pallid + men rushed by, pinching together their coat-collars; a great swarm of + tired, magpie girls from a department-store crowded along with shrieks of + strident laughter, three to an umbrella; a squad of marching policemen + passed, already miraculously protected by oilskin capes. + </p> + <p> + The rain gave Amory a feeling of detachment, and the numerous unpleasant + aspects of city life without money occurred to him in threatening + procession. There was the ghastly, stinking crush of the subway—the + car cards thrusting themselves at one, leering out like dull bores who + grab your arm with another story; the querulous worry as to whether some + one isn’t leaning on you; a man deciding not to give his seat to a woman, + hating her for it; the woman hating him for not doing it; at worst a + squalid phantasmagoria of breath, and old cloth on human bodies and the + smells of the food men ate—at best just people—too hot or too + cold, tired, worried. + </p> + <p> + He pictured the rooms where these people lived—where the patterns of + the blistered wall-papers were heavy reiterated sunflowers on green and + yellow backgrounds, where there were tin bathtubs and gloomy hallways and + verdureless, unnamable spaces in back of the buildings; where even love + dressed as seduction—a sordid murder around the corner, illicit + motherhood in the flat above. And always there was the economical + stuffiness of indoor winter, and the long summers, nightmares of + perspiration between sticky enveloping walls... dirty restaurants where + careless, tired people helped themselves to sugar with their own used + coffee-spoons, leaving hard brown deposits in the bowl. + </p> + <p> + It was not so bad where there were only men or else only women; it was + when they were vilely herded that it all seemed so rotten. It was some + shame that women gave off at having men see them tired and poor—it + was some disgust that men had for women who were tired and poor. It was + dirtier than any battle-field he had seen, harder to contemplate than any + actual hardship moulded of mire and sweat and danger, it was an atmosphere + wherein birth and marriage and death were loathsome, secret things. + </p> + <p> + He remembered one day in the subway when a delivery boy had brought in a + great funeral wreath of fresh flowers, how the smell of it had suddenly + cleared the air and given every one in the car a momentary glow. + </p> + <p> + “I detest poor people,” thought Amory suddenly. “I hate them for being + poor. Poverty may have been beautiful once, but it’s rotten now. It’s the + ugliest thing in the world. It’s essentially cleaner to be corrupt and + rich than it is to be innocent and poor.” He seemed to see again a figure + whose significance had once impressed him—a well-dressed young man + gazing from a club window on Fifth Avenue and saying something to his + companion with a look of utter disgust. Probably, thought Amory, what he + said was: “My God! Aren’t people horrible!” + </p> + <p> + Never before in his life had Amory considered poor people. He thought + cynically how completely he was lacking in all human sympathy. O. Henry + had found in these people romance, pathos, love, hate—Amory saw only + coarseness, physical filth, and stupidity. He made no self-accusations: + never any more did he reproach himself for feelings that were natural and + sincere. He accepted all his reactions as a part of him, unchangeable, + unmoral. This problem of poverty transformed, magnified, attached to some + grander, more dignified attitude might some day even be his problem; at + present it roused only his profound distaste. + </p> + <p> + He walked over to Fifth Avenue, dodging the blind, black menace of + umbrellas, and standing in front of Delmonico’s hailed an auto-bus. + Buttoning his coat closely around him he climbed to the roof, where he + rode in solitary state through the thin, persistent rain, stung into + alertness by the cool moisture perpetually reborn on his cheek. Somewhere + in his mind a conversation began, rather resumed its place in his + attention. It was composed not of two voices, but of one, which acted + alike as questioner and answerer: + </p> + <p> + Question.—Well—what’s the situation? + </p> + <p> + Answer.—That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name. + </p> + <p> + Q.—You have the Lake Geneva estate. + </p> + <p> + A.—But I intend to keep it. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Can you live? + </p> + <p> + A.—I can’t imagine not being able to. People make money in books and + I’ve found that I can always do the things that people do in books. Really + they are the only things I can do. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Be definite. + </p> + <p> + A.—I don’t know what I’ll do—nor have I much curiosity. + To-morrow I’m going to leave New York for good. It’s a bad town unless + you’re on top of it. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Do you want a lot of money? + </p> + <p> + A.—No. I am merely afraid of being poor. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Very afraid? + </p> + <p> + A.—Just passively afraid. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Where are you drifting? + </p> + <p> + A.—Don’t ask <i>me!</i> + </p> + <p> + Q.—Don’t you care? + </p> + <p> + A.—Rather. I don’t want to commit moral suicide. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Have you no interests left? + </p> + <p> + A.—None. I’ve no more virtue to lose. Just as a cooling pot gives + off heat, so all through youth and adolescence we give off calories of + virtue. That’s what’s called ingenuousness. + </p> + <p> + Q.—An interesting idea. + </p> + <p> + A.—That’s why a “good man going wrong” attracts people. They stand + around and literally <i>warm themselves</i> at the calories of virtue he + gives off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and the faces simper in + delight—“How <i>innocent</i> the poor child is!” They’re warming + themselves at her virtue. But Sarah sees the simper and never makes that + remark again. Only she feels a little colder after that. + </p> + <p> + Q.—All your calories gone? + </p> + <p> + A.—All of them. I’m beginning to warm myself at other people’s + virtue. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Are you corrupt? + </p> + <p> + A.—I think so. I’m not sure. I’m not sure about good and evil at all + any more. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Is that a bad sign in itself? + </p> + <p> + A.—Not necessarily. + </p> + <p> + Q.—What would be the test of corruption? + </p> + <p> + A.—Becoming really insincere—calling myself “not such a bad + fellow,” thinking I regretted my lost youth when I only envy the delights + of losing it. Youth is like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists + think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they + ate the candy. They don’t. They just want the fun of eating it all over + again. The matron doesn’t want to repeat her girlhood—she wants to + repeat her honeymoon. I don’t want to repeat my innocence. I want the + pleasure of losing it again. + </p> + <p> + Q.—Where are you drifting? + </p> + <p> + This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind’s most familiar state—a + grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior impressions and physical + reactions. + </p> + <p> + One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street—or One Hundred and + Thirty-seventh Street.... Two and three look alike—no, not much. + Seat damp... are clothes absorbing wetness from seat, or seat absorbing + dryness from clothes?... Sitting on wet substance gave appendicitis, so + Froggy Parker’s mother said. Well, he’d had it—I’ll sue the + steamboat company, Beatrice said, and my uncle has a quarter interest—did + Beatrice go to heaven?... probably not—He represented Beatrice’s + immortality, also love-affairs of numerous dead men who surely had never + thought of him... if it wasn’t appendicitis, influenza maybe. What? One + Hundred and Twentieth Street? That must have been One Hundred and Twelfth + back there. One O Two instead of One Two Seven. Rosalind not like + Beatrice, Eleanor like Beatrice, only wilder and brainier. Apartments + along here expensive—probably hundred and fifty a month—maybe + two hundred. Uncle had only paid hundred a month for whole great big house + in Minneapolis. Question—were the stairs on the left or right as you + came in? Anyway, in 12 Univee they were straight back and to the left. + What a dirty river—want to go down there and see if it’s dirty—French + rivers all brown or black, so were Southern rivers. Twenty-four dollars + meant four hundred and eighty doughnuts. He could live on it three months + and sleep in the park. Wonder where Jill was—Jill Bayne, Fayne, + Sayne—what the devil—neck hurts, darned uncomfortable seat. No + desire to sleep with Jill, what could Alec see in her? Alec had a coarse + taste in women. Own taste the best; Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, + were all-American. Eleanor would pitch, probably southpaw. Rosalind was + outfield, wonderful hitter, Clara first base, maybe. Wonder what Humbird’s + body looked like now. If he himself hadn’t been bayonet instructor he’d + have gone up to line three months sooner, probably been killed. Where’s + the darned bell— + </p> + <p> + The street numbers of Riverside Drive were obscured by the mist and + dripping trees from anything but the swiftest scrutiny, but Amory had + finally caught sight of one—One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street. + He got off and with no distinct destination followed a winding, descending + sidewalk and came out facing the river, in particular a long pier and a + partitioned litter of shipyards for miniature craft: small launches, + canoes, rowboats, and catboats. He turned northward and followed the + shore, jumped a small wire fence and found himself in a great disorderly + yard adjoining a dock. The hulls of many boats in various stages of repair + were around him; he smelled sawdust and paint and the scarcely + distinguishable fiat odor of the Hudson. A man approached through the + heavy gloom. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” said Amory. + </p> + <p> + “Got a pass?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Is this private?” + </p> + <p> + “This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I didn’t know. I’m just resting.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—” began the man dubiously. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go if you want me to.” + </p> + <p> + The man made non-committal noises in his throat and passed on. Amory + seated himself on an overturned boat and leaned forward thoughtfully until + his chin rested in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man,” he said slowly. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + IN THE DROOPING HOURS + </p> + <p> + While the rain drizzled on Amory looked futilely back at the stream of his + life, all its glitterings and dirty shallows. To begin with, he was still + afraid—not physically afraid any more, but afraid of people and + prejudice and misery and monotony. Yet, deep in his bitter heart, he + wondered if he was after all worse than this man or the next. He knew that + he could sophisticate himself finally into saying that his own weakness + was just the result of circumstances and environment; that often when he + raged at himself as an egotist something would whisper ingratiatingly: + “No. Genius!” That was one manifestation of fear, that voice which + whispered that he could not be both great and good, that genius was the + exact combination of those inexplicable grooves and twists in his mind, + that any discipline would curb it to mediocrity. Probably more than any + concrete vice or failing Amory despised his own personality—he + loathed knowing that to-morrow and the thousand days after he would swell + pompously at a compliment and sulk at an ill word like a third-rate + musician or a first-class actor. He was ashamed of the fact that very + simple and honest people usually distrusted him; that he had been cruel, + often, to those who had sunk their personalities in him—several + girls, and a man here and there through college, that he had been an evil + influence on; people who had followed him here and there into mental + adventures from which he alone rebounded unscathed. + </p> + <p> + Usually, on nights like this, for there had been many lately, he could + escape from this consuming introspection by thinking of children and the + infinite possibilities of children—he leaned and listened and he + heard a startled baby awake in a house across the street and lend a tiny + whimper to the still night. Quick as a flash he turned away, wondering + with a touch of panic whether something in the brooding despair of his + mood had made a darkness in its tiny soul. He shivered. What if some day + the balance was overturned, and he became a thing that frightened children + and crept into rooms in the dark, approached dim communion with those + phantoms who whispered shadowy secrets to the mad of that dark continent + upon the moon.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Amory smiled a bit. + </p> + <p> + “You’re too much wrapped up in yourself,” he heard some one say. And again— + </p> + <p> + “Get out and do some real work—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop worrying—” + </p> + <p> + He fancied a possible future comment of his own. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made me + morbid to think too much about myself.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to let himself go to the devil—not + to go violently as a gentleman should, but to sink safely and sensuously + out of sight. He pictured himself in an adobe house in Mexico, + half-reclining on a rug-covered couch, his slender, artistic fingers + closed on a cigarette while he listened to guitars strumming melancholy + undertones to an age-old dirge of Castile and an olive-skinned, + carmine-lipped girl caressed his hair. Here he might live a strange + litany, delivered from right and wrong and from the hound of heaven and + from every God (except the exotic Mexican one who was pretty slack himself + and rather addicted to Oriental scents)—delivered from success and + hope and poverty into that long chute of indulgence which led, after all, + only to the artificial lake of death. + </p> + <p> + There were so many places where one might deteriorate pleasantly: Port + Said, Shanghai, parts of Turkestan, Constantinople, the South Seas—all + lands of sad, haunting music and many odors, where lust could be a mode + and expression of life, where the shades of night skies and sunsets would + seem to reflect only moods of passion: the colors of lips and poppies. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + STILL WEEDING + </p> + <p> + Once he had been miraculously able to scent evil as a horse detects a + broken bridge at night, but the man with the queer feet in Phoebe’s room + had diminished to the aura over Jill. His instinct perceived the fetidness + of poverty, but no longer ferreted out the deeper evils in pride and + sensuality. + </p> + <p> + There were no more wise men; there were no more heroes; Burne Holiday was + sunk from sight as though he had never lived; Monsignor was dead. Amory + had grown up to a thousand books, a thousand lies; he had listened eagerly + to people who pretended to know, who knew nothing. The mystical reveries + of saints that had once filled him with awe in the still hours of night, + now vaguely repelled him. The Byrons and Brookes who had defied life from + mountain tops were in the end but flaneurs and poseurs, at best mistaking + the shadow of courage for the substance of wisdom. The pageantry of his + disillusion took shape in a world-old procession of Prophets, Athenians, + Martyrs, Saints, Scientists, Don Juans, Jesuits, Puritans, Fausts, Poets, + Pacifists; like costumed alumni at a college reunion they streamed before + him as their dreams, personalities, and creeds had in turn thrown colored + lights on his soul; each had tried to express the glory of life and the + tremendous significance of man; each had boasted of synchronizing what had + gone before into his own rickety generalities; each had depended after all + on the set stage and the convention of the theatre, which is that man in + his hunger for faith will feed his mind with the nearest and most + convenient food. + </p> + <p> + Women—of whom he had expected so much; whose beauty he had hoped to + transmute into modes of art; whose unfathomable instincts, marvellously + incoherent and inarticulate, he had thought to perpetuate in terms of + experience—had become merely consecrations to their own posterity. + Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, were all removed by their very beauty, + around which men had swarmed, from the possibility of contributing + anything but a sick heart and a page of puzzled words to write. + </p> + <p> + Amory based his loss of faith in help from others on several sweeping + syllogisms. Granted that his generation, however bruised and decimated + from this Victorian war, were the heirs of progress. Waving aside petty + differences of conclusions which, although they might occasionally cause + the deaths of several millions of young men, might be explained away—supposing + that after all Bernard Shaw and Bernhardi, Bonar Law and Bethmann-Hollweg + were mutual heirs of progress if only in agreeing against the ducking of + witches—waiving the antitheses and approaching individually these + men who seemed to be the leaders, he was repelled by the discrepancies and + contradictions in the men themselves. + </p> + <p> + There was, for example, Thornton Hancock, respected by half the + intellectual world as an authority on life, a man who had verified and + believed the code he lived by, an educator of educators, an adviser to + Presidents—yet Amory knew that this man had, in his heart, leaned on + the priest of another religion. + </p> + <p> + And Monsignor, upon whom a cardinal rested, had moments of strange and + horrible insecurity—inexplicable in a religion that explained even + disbelief in terms of its own faith: if you doubted the devil it was the + devil that made you doubt him. Amory had seen Monsignor go to the houses + of stolid philistines, read popular novels furiously, saturate himself in + routine, to escape from that horror. + </p> + <p> + And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory knew, not + essentially older than he. + </p> + <p> + Amory was alone—he had escaped from a small enclosure into a great + labyrinth. He was where Goethe was when he began “Faust”; he was where + Conrad was when he wrote “Almayer’s Folly.” + </p> + <p> + Amory said to himself that there were essentially two sorts of people who + through natural clarity or disillusion left the enclosure and sought the + labyrinth. There were men like Wells and Plato, who had, half + unconsciously, a strange, hidden orthodoxy, who would accept for + themselves only what could be accepted for all men—incurable + romanticists who never, for all their efforts, could enter the labyrinth + as stark souls; there were on the other hand sword-like pioneering + personalities, Samuel Butler, Renan, Voltaire, who progressed much slower, + yet eventually much further, not in the direct pessimistic line of + speculative philosophy but concerned in the eternal attempt to attach a + positive value to life.... + </p> + <p> + Amory stopped. He began for the first time in his life to have a strong + distrust of all generalities and epigrams. They were too easy, too + dangerous to the public mind. Yet all thought usually reached the public + after thirty years in some such form: Benson and Chesterton had + popularized Huysmans and Newman; Shaw had sugar-coated Nietzsche and Ibsen + and Schopenhauer. The man in the street heard the conclusions of dead + genius through some one else’s clever paradoxes and didactic epigrams. + </p> + <p> + Life was a damned muddle... a football game with every one off-side and + the referee gotten rid of—every one claiming the referee would have + been on his side.... + </p> + <p> + Progress was a labyrinth... people plunging blindly in and then rushing + wildly back, shouting that they had found it... the invisible king—the + elan vital—the principle of evolution... writing a book, starting a + war, founding a school.... + </p> + <p> + Amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would have started all + inquiries with himself. He was his own best example—sitting in the + rain, a human creature of sex and pride, foiled by chance and his own + temperament of the balm of love and children, preserved to help in + building up the living consciousness of the race. + </p> + <p> + In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance of + the labyrinth. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Another dawn flung itself across the river, a belated taxi hurried along + the street, its lamps still shining like burning eyes in a face white from + a night’s carouse. A melancholy siren sounded far down the river. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + MONSIGNOR + </p> + <p> + Amory kept thinking how Monsignor would have enjoyed his own funeral. It + was magnificently Catholic and liturgical. Bishop O’Neill sang solemn high + mass and the cardinal gave the final absolutions. Thornton Hancock, Mrs. + Lawrence, the British and Italian ambassadors, the papal delegate, and a + host of friends and priests were there—yet the inexorable shears had + cut through all these threads that Monsignor had gathered into his hands. + To Amory it was a haunting grief to see him lying in his coffin, with + closed hands upon his purple vestments. His face had not changed, and, as + he never knew he was dying, it showed no pain or fear. It was Amory’s dear + old friend, his and the others’—for the church was full of people + with daft, staring faces, the most exalted seeming the most stricken. + </p> + <p> + The cardinal, like an archangel in cope and mitre, sprinkled the holy + water; the organ broke into sound; the choir began to sing the Requiem + Eternam. + </p> + <p> + All these people grieved because they had to some extent depended upon + Monsignor. Their grief was more than sentiment for the “crack in his voice + or a certain break in his walk,” as Wells put it. These people had leaned + on Monsignor’s faith, his way of finding cheer, of making religion a thing + of lights and shadows, making all light and shadow merely aspects of God. + People felt safe when he was near. + </p> + <p> + Of Amory’s attempted sacrifice had been born merely the full realization + of his disillusion, but of Monsignor’s funeral was born the romantic elf + who was to enter the labyrinth with him. He found something that he + wanted, had always wanted and always would want—not to be admired, + as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to + be necessary to people, to be indispensable; he remembered the sense of + security he had found in Burne. + </p> + <p> + Life opened up in one of its amazing bursts of radiance and Amory suddenly + and permanently rejected an old epigram that had been playing listlessly + in his mind: “Very few things matter and nothing matters very much.” + </p> + <p> + On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a sense of + security. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES + </p> + <p> + On the day that Amory started on his walk to Princeton the sky was a + colorless vault, cool, high and barren of the threat of rain. It was a + gray day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far + hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those + abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in + mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were + carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized + to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn. + </p> + <p> + The day had put Amory in such a contemplative mood that he caused much + annoyance to several motorists who were forced to slow up considerably or + else run him down. So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he was + scarcely surprised at that strange phenomenon—cordiality manifested + within fifty miles of Manhattan—when a passing car slowed down + beside him and a voice hailed him. He looked up and saw a magnificent + Locomobile in which sat two middle-aged men, one of them small and anxious + looking, apparently an artificial growth on the other who was large and + begoggled and imposing. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want a lift?” asked the apparently artificial growth, glancing + from the corner of his eye at the imposing man as if for some habitual, + silent corroboration. + </p> + <p> + “You bet I do. Thanks.” + </p> + <p> + The chauffeur swung open the door, and, climbing in, Amory settled himself + in the middle of the back seat. He took in his companions curiously. The + chief characteristic of the big man seemed to be a great confidence in + himself set off against a tremendous boredom with everything around him. + That part of his face which protruded under the goggles was what is + generally termed “strong”; rolls of not undignified fat had collected near + his chin; somewhere above was a wide thin mouth and the rough model for a + Roman nose, and, below, his shoulders collapsed without a struggle into + the powerful bulk of his chest and belly. He was excellently and quietly + dressed. Amory noticed that he was inclined to stare straight at the back + of the chauffeur’s head as if speculating steadily but hopelessly some + baffling hirsute problem. + </p> + <p> + The smaller man was remarkable only for his complete submersion in the + personality of the other. He was of that lower secretarial type who at + forty have engraved upon their business cards: “Assistant to the + President,” and without a sigh consecrate the rest of their lives to + second-hand mannerisms. + </p> + <p> + “Going far?” asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested way. + </p> + <p> + “Quite a stretch.” + </p> + <p> + “Hiking for exercise?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” responded Amory succinctly, “I’m walking because I can’t afford to + ride.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh.” + </p> + <p> + Then again: + </p> + <p> + “Are you looking for work? Because there’s lots of work,” he continued + rather testily. “All this talk of lack of work. The West is especially + short of labor.” He expressed the West with a sweeping, lateral gesture. + Amory nodded politely. + </p> + <p> + “Have you a trade?” + </p> + <p> + No—Amory had no trade. + </p> + <p> + “Clerk, eh?” + </p> + <p> + No—Amory was not a clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever your line is,” said the little man, seeming to agree wisely with + something Amory had said, “now is the time of opportunity and business + openings.” He glanced again toward the big man, as a lawyer grilling a + witness glances involuntarily at the jury. + </p> + <p> + Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him could + think of only one thing to say. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I want a great lot of money—” + </p> + <p> + The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what every one wants nowadays, but they don’t want to work for + it.” + </p> + <p> + “A very natural, healthy desire. Almost all normal people want to be rich + without great effort—except the financiers in problem plays, who + want to ‘crash their way through.’ Don’t you want easy money?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” said the secretary indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “But,” continued Amory disregarding him, “being very poor at present I am + contemplating socialism as possibly my forte.” + </p> + <p> + Both men glanced at him curiously. + </p> + <p> + “These bomb throwers—” The little man ceased as words lurched + ponderously from the big man’s chest. + </p> + <p> + “If I thought you were a bomb thrower I’d run you over to the Newark jail. + That’s what I think of Socialists.” + </p> + <p> + Amory laughed. + </p> + <p> + “What are you,” asked the big man, “one of these parlor Bolsheviks, one of + these idealists? I must say I fail to see the difference. The idealists + loaf around and write the stuff that stirs up the poor immigrants.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Amory, “if being an idealist is both safe and lucrative, I + might try it.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s your difficulty? Lost your job?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly, but—well, call it that.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Writing copy for an advertising agency.” + </p> + <p> + “Lots of money in advertising.” + </p> + <p> + Amory smiled discreetly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ll admit there’s money in it eventually. Talent doesn’t starve any + more. Even art gets enough to eat these days. Artists draw your magazine + covers, write your advertisements, hash out rag-time for your theatres. By + the great commercializing of printing you’ve found a harmless, polite + occupation for every genius who might have carved his own niche. But + beware the artist who’s an intellectual also. The artist who doesn’t fit—the + Rousseau, the Tolstoi, the Samuel Butler, the Amory Blaine—” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s he?” demanded the little man suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Amory, “he’s a—he’s an intellectual personage not very + well known at present.” + </p> + <p> + The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped rather + suddenly as Amory’s burning eyes turned on him. + </p> + <p> + “What are you laughing at?” + </p> + <p> + “These <i>intellectual</i> people—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what it means?” + </p> + <p> + The little man’s eyes twitched nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it <i>usually</i> means—” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>always</i> means brainy and well-educated,” interrupted Amory. “It + means having an active knowledge of the race’s experience.” Amory decided + to be very rude. He turned to the big man. “The young man,” he indicated + the secretary with his thumb, and said young man as one says bell-boy, + with no implication of youth, “has the usual muddled connotation of all + popular words.” + </p> + <p> + “You object to the fact that capital controls printing?” said the big man, + fixing him with his goggles. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and I object to doing their mental work for them. It seemed to + me that the root of all the business I saw around me consisted in + overworking and underpaying a bunch of dubs who submitted to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Here now,” said the big man, “you’ll have to admit that the laboring man + is certainly highly paid—five and six hour days—it’s + ridiculous. You can’t buy an honest day’s work from a man in the + trades-unions.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve brought it on yourselves,” insisted Amory. “You people never make + concessions until they’re wrung out of you.” + </p> + <p> + “What people?” + </p> + <p> + “Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by + inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the moneyed + class.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he’d be + any more willing to give it up?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but what’s that got to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + The older man considered. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’ll admit it hasn’t. It rather sounds as if it had though.” + </p> + <p> + “In fact,” continued Amory, “he’d be worse. The lower classes are + narrower, less pleasant and personally more selfish—certainly more + stupid. But all that has nothing to do with the question.” + </p> + <p> + “Just exactly what is the question?” + </p> + <p> + Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question was. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + AMORY COINS A PHRASE + </p> + <p> + “When life gets hold of a brainy man of fair education,” began Amory + slowly, “that is, when he marries he becomes, nine times out of ten, a + conservative as far as existing social conditions are concerned. He may be + unselfish, kind-hearted, even just in his own way, but his first job is to + provide and to hold fast. His wife shoos him on, from ten thousand a year + to twenty thousand a year, on and on, in an enclosed treadmill that hasn’t + any windows. He’s done! Life’s got him! He’s no help! He’s a spiritually + married man.” + </p> + <p> + Amory paused and decided that it wasn’t such a bad phrase. + </p> + <p> + “Some men,” he continued, “escape the grip. Maybe their wives have no + social ambitions; maybe they’ve hit a sentence or two in a ‘dangerous + book’ that pleased them; maybe they started on the treadmill as I did and + were knocked off. Anyway, they’re the congressmen you can’t bribe, the + Presidents who aren’t politicians, the writers, speakers, scientists, + statesmen who aren’t just popular grab-bags for a half-dozen women and + children.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s the natural radical?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Amory. “He may vary from the disillusioned critic like old + Thornton Hancock, all the way to Trotsky. Now this spiritually unmarried + man hasn’t direct power, for unfortunately the spiritually married man, as + a by-product of his money chase, has garnered in the great newspaper, the + popular magazine, the influential weekly—so that Mrs. Newspaper, + Mrs. Magazine, Mrs. Weekly can have a better limousine than those oil + people across the street or those cement people ’round the corner.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It makes wealthy men the keepers of the world’s intellectual conscience + and, of course, a man who has money under one set of social institutions + quite naturally can’t risk his family’s happiness by letting the clamor + for another appear in his newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “But it appears,” said the big man. + </p> + <p> + “Where?—in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered weeklies.” + </p> + <p> + “All right—go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my first point is that through a mixture of conditions of which the + family is the first, there are these two sorts of brains. One sort takes + human nature as it finds it, uses its timidity, its weakness, and its + strength for its own ends. Opposed is the man who, being spiritually + unmarried, continually seeks for new systems that will control or + counteract human nature. His problem is harder. It is not life that’s + complicated, it’s the struggle to guide and control life. That is his + struggle. He is a part of progress—the spiritually married man is + not.” + </p> + <p> + The big man produced three big cigars, and proffered them on his huge + palm. The little man took one, Amory shook his head and reached for a + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Go on talking,” said the big man. “I’ve been wanting to hear one of you + fellows.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + GOING FASTER + </p> + <p> + “Modern life,” began Amory again, “changes no longer century by century, + but year by year, ten times faster than it ever has before—populations + doubling, civilizations unified more closely with other civilizations, + economic interdependence, racial questions, and—we’re <i>dawdling</i> + along. My idea is that we’ve got to go very much faster.” He slightly + emphasized the last words and the chauffeur unconsciously increased the + speed of the car. Amory and the big man laughed; the little man laughed, + too, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Every child,” said Amory, “should have an equal start. If his father can + endow him with a good physique and his mother with some common sense in + his early education, that should be his heritage. If the father can’t give + him a good physique, if the mother has spent in chasing men the years in + which she should have been preparing herself to educate her children, so + much the worse for the child. He shouldn’t be artificially bolstered up + with money, sent to these horrible tutoring schools, dragged through + college... Every boy ought to have an equal start.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval nor + objection. + </p> + <p> + “Next I’d have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s been proven a failure.” + </p> + <p> + “No—it merely failed. If we had government ownership we’d have the + best analytical business minds in the government working for something + besides themselves. We’d have Mackays instead of Burlesons; we’d have + Morgans in the Treasury Department; we’d have Hills running interstate + commerce. We’d have the best lawyers in the Senate.” + </p> + <p> + “They wouldn’t give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Amory, shaking his head. “Money isn’t the only stimulus that + brings out the best that’s in a man, even in America.” + </p> + <p> + “You said a while ago that it was.” + </p> + <p> + “It is, right now. But if it were made illegal to have more than a certain + amount the best men would all flock for the one other reward which + attracts humanity—honor.” + </p> + <p> + The big man made a sound that was very like <i>boo</i>. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the silliest thing you’ve said yet.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it isn’t silly. It’s quite plausible. If you’d gone to college you’d + have been struck by the fact that the men there would work twice as hard + for any one of a hundred petty honors as those other men did who were + earning their way through.” + </p> + <p> + “Kids—child’s play!” scoffed his antagonist. + </p> + <p> + “Not by a darned sight—unless we’re all children. Did you ever see a + grown man when he’s trying for a secret society—or a rising family + whose name is up at some club? They’ll jump when they hear the sound of + the word. The idea that to make a man work you’ve got to hold gold in + front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom. We’ve done that for so long + that we’ve forgotten there’s any other way. We’ve made a world where + that’s necessary. Let me tell you”—Amory became emphatic—“if + there were ten men insured against either wealth or starvation, and + offered a green ribbon for five hours’ work a day and a blue ribbon for + ten hours’ work a day, nine out of ten of them would be trying for the + blue ribbon. That competitive instinct only wants a badge. If the size of + their house is the badge they’ll sweat their heads off for that. If it’s + only a blue ribbon, I damn near believe they’ll work just as hard. They + have in other ages.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” said Amory nodding sadly. “It doesn’t matter any more though. + I think these people are going to come and take what they want pretty + soon.” + </p> + <p> + A fierce hiss came from the little man. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Machine-guns!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but you’ve taught them their use.” + </p> + <p> + The big man shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “In this country there are enough property owners not to permit that sort + of thing.” + </p> + <p> + Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property + owners; he decided to change the subject. + </p> + <p> + But the big man was aroused. + </p> + <p> + “When you talk of ‘taking things away,’ you’re on dangerous ground.” + </p> + <p> + “How can they get it without taking it? For years people have been stalled + off with promises. Socialism may not be progress, but the threat of the + red flag is certainly the inspiring force of all reform. You’ve got to be + sensational to get attention.” + </p> + <p> + “Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite possibly,” admitted Amory. “Of course, it’s overflowing just as the + French Revolution did, but I’ve no doubt that it’s really a great + experiment and well worth while.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you believe in moderation?” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t listen to the moderates, and it’s almost too late. The truth is + that the public has done one of those startling and amazing things that + they do about once in a hundred years. They’ve seized an idea.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs + are essentially the same.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS + </p> + <p> + “If you took all the money in the world,” said the little man with much + profundity, “and divided it up in equ—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shut up!” said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the little + man’s enraged stare, he went on with his argument. + </p> + <p> + “The human stomach—” he began; but the big man interrupted rather + impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “I’m letting you talk, you know,” he said, “but please avoid stomachs. + I’ve been feeling mine all day. Anyway, I don’t agree with one-half you’ve + said. Government ownership is the basis of your whole argument, and it’s + invariably a beehive of corruption. Men won’t work for blue ribbons, + that’s all rot.” + </p> + <p> + When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as if + resolved this time to have his say out. + </p> + <p> + “There are certain things which are human nature,” he asserted with an + owl-like look, “which always have been and always will be, which can’t be + changed.” + </p> + <p> + Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to that! <i>That’s</i> what makes me discouraged with progress. <i>Listen</i> + to that! I can name offhand over one hundred natural phenomena that have + been changed by the will of man—a hundred instincts in man that have + been wiped out or are now held in check by civilization. What this man + here just said has been for thousands of years the last refuge of the + associated mutton-heads of the world. It negates the efforts of every + scientist, statesman, moralist, reformer, doctor, and philosopher that + ever gave his life to humanity’s service. It’s a flat impeachment of all + that’s worth while in human nature. Every person over twenty-five years + old who makes that statement in cold blood ought to be deprived of the + franchise.” + </p> + <p> + The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage. + Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man. + </p> + <p> + “These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who <i>think</i> + they think, every question that comes up, you’ll find his type in the + usual ghastly muddle. One minute it’s ‘the brutality and inhumanity of + these Prussians’—the next it’s ‘we ought to exterminate the whole + German people.’ They always believe that ‘things are in a bad way now,’ + but they ‘haven’t any faith in these idealists.’ One minute they call + Wilson ‘just a dreamer, not practical’—a year later they rail at him + for making his dreams realities. They haven’t clear logical ideas on one + single subject except a sturdy, stolid opposition to all change. They + don’t think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they won’t see + that if they don’t pay the uneducated people their children are going to + be uneducated too, and we’re going round and round in a circle. That—is + the great middle class!” + </p> + <p> + The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the + little man. + </p> + <p> + “You’re catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?” + </p> + <p> + The little man made an attempt to smile and act as if the whole matter + were so ridiculous as to be beneath notice. But Amory was not through. + </p> + <p> + “The theory that people are fit to govern themselves rests on this man. If + he can be educated to think clearly, concisely, and logically, freed of + his habit of taking refuge in platitudes and prejudices and + sentimentalisms, then I’m a militant Socialist. If he can’t, then I don’t + think it matters much what happens to man or his systems, now or + hereafter.” + </p> + <p> + “I am both interested and amused,” said the big man. “You are very young.” + </p> + <p> + “Which may only mean that I have neither been corrupted nor made timid by + contemporary experience. I possess the most valuable experience, the + experience of the race, for in spite of going to college I’ve managed to + pick up a good education.” + </p> + <p> + “You talk glibly.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not all rubbish,” cried Amory passionately. “This is the first time + in my life I’ve argued Socialism. It’s the only panacea I know. I’m + restless. My whole generation is restless. I’m sick of a system where the + richest man gets the most beautiful girl if he wants her, where the artist + without an income has to sell his talents to a button manufacturer. Even + if I had no talents I’d not be content to work ten years, condemned either + to celibacy or a furtive indulgence, to give some man’s son an + automobile.” + </p> + <p> + “But, if you’re not sure—” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t matter,” exclaimed Amory. “My position couldn’t be worse. A + social revolution might land me on top. Of course I’m selfish. It seems to + me I’ve been a fish out of water in too many outworn systems. I was + probably one of the two dozen men in my class at college who got a decent + education; still they’d let any well-tutored flathead play football and <i>I</i> + was ineligible, because some silly old men thought we should <i>all</i> + profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed business. I’m in + love with change and I’ve killed my conscience—” + </p> + <p> + “So you’ll go along crying that we must go faster.” + </p> + <p> + “That, at least, is true,” Amory insisted. “Reform won’t catch up to the + needs of civilization unless it’s made to. A laissez-faire policy is like + spoiling a child by saying he’ll turn out all right in the end. He will—if + he’s made to.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t believe all this Socialist patter you talk.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Until I talked to you I hadn’t thought seriously about it. + I wasn’t sure of half of what I said.” + </p> + <p> + “You puzzle me,” said the big man, “but you’re all alike. They say Bernard + Shaw, in spite of his doctrines, is the most exacting of all dramatists + about his royalties. To the last farthing.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Amory, “I simply state that I’m a product of a versatile mind + in a restless generation—with every reason to throw my mind and pen + in with the radicals. Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all + blind atoms in a world as limited as a stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort + would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants + with new ones. I’ve thought I was right about life at various times, but + faith is difficult. One thing I know. If living isn’t a seeking for the + grail it may be a damned amusing game.” + </p> + <p> + For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked: + </p> + <p> + “What was your university?” + </p> + <p> + “Princeton.” + </p> + <p> + The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles + altered slightly. + </p> + <p> + “I sent my son to Princeton.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed last + year in France.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends.” + </p> + <p> + “He was—a—quite a fine boy. We were very close.” + </p> + <p> + Amory began to perceive a resemblance between the father and the dead son + and he told himself that there had been all along a sense of familiarity. + Jesse Ferrenby, the man who in college had borne off the crown that he had + aspired to. It was all so far away. What little boys they had been, + working for blue ribbons— + </p> + <p> + The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a + huge hedge and a tall iron fence. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you come in for lunch?” + </p> + <p> + Amory shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I’ve got to get on.” + </p> + <p> + The big man held out his hand. Amory saw that the fact that he had known + Jesse more than outweighed any disfavor he had created by his opinions. + What ghosts were people with which to work! Even the little man insisted + on shaking hands. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by!” shouted Mr. Ferrenby, as the car turned the corner and started + up the drive. “Good luck to you and bad luck to your theories.” + </p> + <p> + “Same to you, sir,” cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM” + </p> + <p> + Eight hours from Princeton Amory sat down by the Jersey roadside and + looked at the frost-bitten country. Nature as a rather coarse phenomenon + composed largely of flowers that, when closely inspected, appeared + moth-eaten, and of ants that endlessly traversed blades of grass, was + always disillusioning; nature represented by skies and waters and far horizons + was more likable. Frost and the promise of winter thrilled him now, made + him think of a wild battle between St. Regis and Groton, ages ago, seven + years ago—and of an autumn day in France twelve months before when + he had lain in tall grass, his platoon flattened down close around him, + waiting to tap the shoulders of a Lewis gunner. He saw the two pictures + together with somewhat the same primitive exaltation—two games he + had played, differing in quality of acerbity, linked in a way that + differed them from Rosalind or the subject of labyrinths which were, after + all, the business of life. + </p> + <p> + “I am selfish,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + “This is not a quality that will change when I ‘see human suffering’ or + ‘lose my parents’ or ‘help others.’ + </p> + <p> + “This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living part. + </p> + <p> + “It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that selfishness + that I can bring poise and balance into my life. + </p> + <p> + “There is no virtue of unselfishness that I cannot use. I can make + sacrifices, be charitable, give to a friend, endure for a friend, lay down + my life for a friend—all because these things may be the best + possible expression of myself; yet I have not one drop of the milk of + human kindness.” + </p> + <p> + The problem of evil had solidified for Amory into the problem of sex. He + was beginning to identify evil with the strong phallic worship in Brooke + and the early Wells. Inseparably linked with evil was beauty—beauty, + still a constant rising tumult; soft in Eleanor’s voice, in an old song at + night, rioting deliriously through life like superimposed waterfalls, half + rhythm, half darkness. Amory knew that every time he had reached toward it + longingly it had leered out at him with the grotesque face of evil. Beauty + of great art, beauty of all joy, most of all the beauty of women. + </p> + <p> + After all, it had too many associations with license and indulgence. Weak + things were often beautiful, weak things were never good. And in this new + loneness of his that had been selected for what greatness he might + achieve, beauty must be relative or, itself a harmony, it would make only + a discord. + </p> + <p> + In a sense this gradual renunciation of beauty was the second step after + his disillusion had been made complete. He felt that he was leaving behind + him his chance of being a certain type of artist. It seemed so much more + important to be a certain sort of man. + </p> + <p> + His mind turned a corner suddenly and he found himself thinking of the + Catholic Church. The idea was strong in him that there was a certain + intrinsic lack in those to whom orthodox religion was necessary, and + religion to Amory meant the Church of Rome. Quite conceivably it was an + empty ritual but it was seemingly the only assimilative, traditionary + bulwark against the decay of morals. Until the great mobs could be + educated into a moral sense some one must cry: “Thou shalt not!” Yet any + acceptance was, for the present, impossible. He wanted time and the + absence of ulterior pressure. He wanted to keep the tree without + ornaments, realize fully the direction and momentum of this new start. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The afternoon waned from the purging good of three o’clock to the golden + beauty of four. Afterward he walked through the dull ache of a setting sun + when even the clouds seemed bleeding and at twilight he came to a + graveyard. There was a dusky, dreamy smell of flowers and the ghost of a + new moon in the sky and shadows everywhere. On an impulse he considered + trying to open the door of a rusty iron vault built into the side of a + hill; a vault washed clean and covered with late-blooming, weepy + watery-blue flowers that might have grown from dead eyes, sticky to the + touch with a sickening odor. + </p> + <p> + Amory wanted to feel “William Dayfield, 1864.” + </p> + <p> + He wondered that graves ever made people consider life in vain. Somehow he + could find nothing hopeless in having lived. All the broken columns and + clasped hands and doves and angels meant romances. He fancied that in a + hundred years he would like having young people speculate as to whether + his eyes were brown or blue, and he hoped quite passionately that his + grave would have about it an air of many, many years ago. It seemed + strange that out of a row of Union soldiers two or three made him think of + dead loves and dead lovers, when they were exactly like the rest, even to + the yellowish moss. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Long after midnight the towers and spires of Princeton were visible, with + here and there a late-burning light—and suddenly out of the clear + darkness the sound of bells. As an endless dream it went on; the spirit of + the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the + muddled, unchastened world, still fed romantically on the mistakes and + half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new + generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a + revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that dirty + gray turmoil to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated more + than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up + to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken.... + </p> + <p> + Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself—art, + politics, religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was safe + now, free from all hysteria—he could accept what was acceptable, + roam, grow, rebel, sleep deep through many nights.... + </p> + <p> + There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; + there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth—yet + the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility + and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized + dreams. But—oh, Rosalind! Rosalind!... + </p> + <p> + “It’s all a poor substitute at best,” he said sadly. + </p> + <p> + And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had + determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the + personalities he had passed.... + </p> + <p> + He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. + </p> + <p> + “I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all.” + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="mynote"> + <h2> + Appendix: Production notes for eBook edition 11 + </h2> + <p> + The primary feature of edition 11 is restoration of em-dashes which are + missing from edition 10. (My favorite instance is “I won’t belong” + rather than “I won’t be—long”.) + </p> + <p> + Characters which are 8-bit in the printed text were misrepresented in + edition 10. Edition 10 had some end-of-paragraph problems. A handful of + other minor errors are corrected. + </p> + <p> + Two volumes served as reference for edition 11: a 1960 reprint, and an + undated reprint produced sometime after 1948. There are a number of + differences between the volumes. Evidence suggests that the 1960 reprint + has been somewhat “modernized”, and that the undated reprint is a better + match for the original 1920 printing. Therefore, when the volumes + differ, edition 11 more closely follows the undated reprint. + </p> + <p> + In edition 11, underscores are used to denote words and phrases + italicized for emphasis. + </p> + <p> + There is a section of text in book 2, chapter 3, beginning with “When + Vanity kissed Vanity,” which is referred to as “poetry” but is formatted + as prose. + </p> + <p> + I considered, but decided against introducing an 8-bit version of + edition 11, in large part because the bulk of the 8-bit usage (as found + in the 1960 reprint) consists of words commonly used in their 7-bit + form: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aeschylus blase cafe debut debutante elan elite Encyclopaedia + matinee minutiae paean regime soupcon unaesthetic +</pre> + <p> + Less-commonly-used 8-bit word forms in this book include: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + anaemic bleme coeur manoeuvered mediaevalist tete-a-tete + and the name “Borge”. +</pre> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIS SIDE OF PARADISE *** + +***** This file should be named 805-h.htm or 805-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/0/805/ + +Produced by David Reed, Ken Reeder, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + + + </body> +</html> + diff --git a/805-h/images/cover.jpg b/805-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff47329 --- /dev/null +++ b/805-h/images/cover.jpg |
