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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/805-0.txt b/805-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d7385c --- /dev/null +++ b/805-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12089 @@ +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 + +[Illustration] + + THIS SIDE OF PARADISE + + By F. Scott Fitzgerald + + + ... Well this side of Paradise!... There’s + little comfort in the wise. —Rupert Brooke. + + Experience is the name so many people give + to their mistakes. —Oscar Wilde. + To SIGOURNEY FAY + + + CONTENTS + + BOOK ONE—The Romantic Egotist + + CHAPTER 1. Amory, Son of Beatrice + CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles + CHAPTER 3. The Egotist Considers + CHAPTER 4. Narcissus Off Duty + + INTERLUDE + + BOOK TWO—The Education of a Personage + + CHAPTER 1. The Debutante + CHAPTER 2. Experiments in Convalescence + CHAPTER 3. Young Irony + CHAPTER 4. The Supercilious Sacrifice + CHAPTER 5. The Egotist Becomes a Personage + + + + + + BOOK ONE—The Romantic Egotist + + CHAPTER 1. Amory, Son of Beatrice + + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “Amory.” + + “Yes, Beatrice.” (Such a quaint name for his mother; she + encouraged it.) + + “Dear, don’t _think_ 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.” + + “All right.” + + “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.” + + Amory’s penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled + hair at his mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about + her. + + “Amory.” + + “Oh, _yes_.” + + “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.” + + 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.” + + “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; _here_, 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.... + + 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. + + 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. + + “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 _me_, my dear—” + + 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. + + “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.” + + 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. + + “Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company—quite the + cardinal’s right-hand man.” + + “Amory will go to him one day, I know,” breathed the beautiful + lady, “and Monsignor Darcy will understand him as he understood + me.” + + 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. + + 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. + + + A KISS FOR AMORY + + His lip curled when he read it. + + “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. + + 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: + + “Aw—I b’lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was _lawgely_ + an affair of the middul _clawses_,” or + + “Washington came of very good blood—aw, quite good—I b’lieve.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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: + + 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. + + + 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: + + “My _dear_ Mrs. St. Claire, I’m _frightfully_ 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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + “Miss Myra,” he said. + + To his surprise the butler grinned horribly. + + “Oh, yeah,” he declared, “she’s here.” He was unaware that his + failure to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered + him coldly. + + “But,” continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, + “she’s the only one what _is_ here. The party’s gone.” + + Amory gasped in sudden horror. + + “What?” + + “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.” + + 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. + + “’Lo, Amory.” + + “’Lo, Myra.” He had described the state of his vitality. + + “Well—you _got_ here, _any_ways.” + + “Well—I’ll tell you. I guess you don’t know about the auto + accident,” he romanced. + + Myra’s eyes opened wide. + + “Who was it to?” + + “Well,” he continued desperately, “uncle ’n aunt ’n I.” + + “Was any one _killed?_” + + Amory paused and then nodded. + + “Your uncle?”—alarm. + + “Oh, no just a horse—a sorta gray horse.” + + At this point the Erse butler snickered. + + “Probably killed the engine,” he suggested. Amory would have put + him on the rack without a scruple. + + “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—” + + “Well, I couldn’t help it, could I?” + + “So mama said for me to wait till ha’past five. We’ll catch the + bobs before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory.” + + 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. + + “What?” inquired Myra. + + “Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ 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. + + “Oh, sure Mike, we’ll catch ’em all right—let’s hurry.” + + 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 _English_, sort of.” + + “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. + + “Why—yes—sure.” + + He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes. + + “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.” + + Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and + reeling from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little + gasp. + + “Oh, _Amory_, don’t smoke. You’ll stunt your _growth!_” + + “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.” + + 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.” + + Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though + vaguely improper. + + Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a + sudden turn she was jolted against him; their hands touched. + + “You shouldn’t smoke, Amory,” she whispered. “Don’t you know + that?” + + He shook his head. + + “Nobody cares.” + + Myra hesitated. + + “_I_ care.” + + Something stirred within Amory. + + “Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess + everybody knows that.” + + “No, I haven’t,” very slowly. + + 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. + + “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. + + “Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight,” he whispered. “I + wanta talk to you—I _got_ to talk to you.” + + 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. + + “I can kiss her,” he thought. “I’ll bet I can. I’ll _bet_ I can!” + + 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. + + “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 _good_.” + + 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. + + “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’ + _hard_, sorta, to the chaperon.” + + “You’re such a funny boy,” puzzled Myra. + + “How d’y’ mean?” Amory gave immediate attention, on his own + ground at last. + + “Oh—always talking about crazy things. Why don’t you come ski-ing + with Marylyn and I to-morrow?” + + “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.” + + Myra’s eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell + Marylyn! Here on the couch with this _wonderful_-looking boy—the + little fire—the sense that they were alone in the great building— + + Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate. + + “I like you the first twenty-five,” she confessed, her voice + trembling, “and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth.” + + Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had + not even noticed it. + + 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. + + “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. + + “Kiss me again.” Her voice came out of a great void. + + “I don’t want to,” he heard himself saying. There was another + pause. + + “I don’t want to!” he repeated passionately. + + Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great + bow on the back of her head trembling sympathetically. + + “I hate you!” she cried. “Don’t you ever dare to speak to me + again!” + + “What?” stammered Amory. + + “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!” + + 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. + + The door opened suddenly, and Myra’s mother appeared on the + threshold, fumbling with her lorgnette. + + “Well,” she began, adjusting it benignantly, “the man at the desk + told me you two children were up here—How do you do, Amory.” + + 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. + + “Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well—” + + 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: + + “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.” + + + SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + + 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. + + + 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. + + “Poor little Count,” he cried. “Oh, _poor_ little _Count!_” + + After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of + emotional acting. + + + Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in + literature occurred in Act III of “Arsene Lupin.” + + They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees. + The line was: + + “If one can’t be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best + thing is to be a great criminal.” + + + Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it: + + “Marylyn and Sallee, Those are the girls for me. Marylyn stands + above Sallee in that sweet, deep love.” + + 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. + + 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. + + He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly + fond of the cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart. + + + School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard + authors. His masters considered him idle, unreliable and + superficially clever. + + + 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. + + + 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. + + 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. + + + CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + + 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. + + 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. + + Physically.—Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He + was. He fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple + dancer. + + 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. + + Mentally.—Complete, unquestioned superiority. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE + + 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. + + “Dear boy—you’re _so_ tall... look behind and see if there’s + anything coming...” + + 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. + + “You _are_ 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.” + + “Don’t embarrass me,” murmured Amory. + + “But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a + _set_—don’t they? Is your underwear purple, too?” + + Amory grunted impolitely. + + “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 _know_.” + + 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. + + 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. + + “Amory, dear,” she crooned softly, “I had such a strange, weird + time after I left you.” + + “Did you, Beatrice?” + + “When I had my last breakdown”—she spoke of it as a sturdy, + gallant feat. + + “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 _shattered_, my dear, and in his + _grave_—long in his grave.” + + Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy + Parker. + + “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?” + + Amory had snickered. + + “What, Amory?” + + “I said go on, Beatrice.” + + “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—” + + “Are you quite well now, Beatrice?” + + “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.” + + Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing + his head gently against her shoulder. + + “Poor Beatrice—poor Beatrice.” + + “Tell me about _you_, Amory. Did you have two _horrible_ years?” + + Amory considered lying, and then decided against it. + + “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. + + “Beatrice,” he said suddenly, “I want to go away to school. + Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away to school.” + + Beatrice showed some alarm. + + “But you’re only fifteen.” + + “Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I _want_ + to, Beatrice.” + + On Beatrice’s suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of + the walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying: + + “Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still + want to, you can go to school.” + + “Yes?” + + “To St. Regis’s in Connecticut.” + + Amory felt a quick excitement. + + “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.” + + “What are you going to do, Beatrice?” + + “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—” + + Amory did not answer, so his mother continued: + + “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?” + + Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the + Japanese invasion. + + “When do I go to school?” + + “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.” + + “To who?” + + “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—” + + “Dear Beatrice—” + + + 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. + + 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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “My dear boy, I’ve been waiting to see you for years. Take a big + chair and we’ll have a chat.” + + “I’ve just come from school—St. Regis’s, you know.” + + “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—” + + Amory nodded vehemently. + + “Hate ’em all. Like English and history.” + + “Of course. You’ll hate school for a while, too, but I’m glad + you’re going to St. Regis’s.” + + “Why?” + + “Because it’s a gentleman’s school, and democracy won’t hit you + so early. You’ll find plenty of that in college.” + + “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.” + + Monsignor chuckled. + + “I’m one, you know.” + + “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—” + + “And Yale is November, crisp and energetic,” finished Monsignor. + + “That’s it.” + + They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never + recovered. + + “I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie,” announced Amory. + + “Of course you were—and for Hannibal—” + + “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. + + 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. + + “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.” + + 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. + + “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.” + + 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. + + ... 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. + + But the trumpets were sounding for Amory’s preliminary skirmish + with his own generation. + + “You’re not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home + is where we are not,” said Monsignor. + + “I _am_ sorry—” + + “No, you’re not. No one person in the world is necessary to you + or to me.” + + “Well—” + + “Good-by.” + + + THE EGOTIST DOWN + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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.” + + + INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR + + 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. + + 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. + + “Amory,” he began. “I’ve sent for you on a personal matter.” + + “Yes, sir.” + + “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.” + + “Yes, sir,” Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people + talk as if he were an admitted failure. + + “But I’ve noticed,” continued the older man blindly, “that you’re + not very popular with the boys.” + + “No, sir.” Amory licked his lips. + + “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—” + + Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely + controlling his voice when he spoke. + + “I know—oh, _don’t_ you s’pose I know.” His voice rose. “I know + what they think; do you s’pose you have to _tell_ me!” He paused. + “I’m—I’ve got to go back now—hope I’m not rude—” + + He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked + to his house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped. + + “That _damn_ old fool!” he cried wildly. “As if I didn’t _know!_” + + 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.” + + + INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL + + 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. + + “Oh—you—wonderful girl, What a wonderful girl you are—” + + sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately. + + “All—your—wonderful words Thrill me through—” + + 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! + + 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: + + “What a _remarkable_-looking boy!” + + This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did + seem handsome to the population of New York. + + 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: + + “I’d marry that girl to-night.” + + There was no need to ask what girl he referred to. + + “I’d be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people,” + continued Paskert. + + Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead + of Paskert. It sounded so mature. + + “I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?” + + “No, _sir_, not by a darn sight,” said the worldly youth with + emphasis, “and I know that girl’s as good as gold. I can tell.” + + 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. + + “Yes, _sir_, I’d marry that girl to-night!” + + + HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE + + 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. + + + THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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.” + + “Got tobacco?” whispered Rahill one night, putting his head + inside the door five minutes after lights. + + “Sure.” + + “I’m coming in.” + + “Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don’t + you.” + + 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. + + “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—” + + “Hold up, Amory. That’s too darned gloomy. How about yourself?” + + “I’m in a superior class. You are, too. We’re philosophers.” + + “I’m not.” + + “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. + + “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.” + + “You’re not a slicker,” said Amory suddenly. + + “A what?” + + “A slicker.” + + “What the devil’s that?” + + “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.” + + “Who is one? What makes you one?” + + Amory considered. + + “Why—why, I suppose that the _sign_ of it is when a fellow slicks + his hair back with water.” + + “Like Carstairs?” + + “Yes—sure. He’s a slicker.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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.” + + “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. + “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. + + 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. + + + + + CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles + + + 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. + + 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. + + “Chocolate sundae,” he told a colored person. + + “Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?” + + “Why—yes.” + + “Bacon bun?” + + “Why—yes.” + + 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. + + 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. + + “Come in!” + + A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the + doorway. + + “Got a hammer?” + + “No—sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one.” + + The stranger advanced into the room. + + “You an inmate of this asylum?” + + Amory nodded. + + “Awful barn for the rent we pay.” + + Amory had to agree that it was. + + “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.” + + The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself. + + “My name’s Holiday.” + + “Blaine’s my name.” + + They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned. + + “Where’d you prep?” + + “Andover—where did you?” + + “St. Regis’s.” + + “Oh, did you? I had a cousin there.” + + They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced + that he was to meet his brother for dinner at six. + + “Come along and have a bite with us.” + + “All right.” + + 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. + + “I hear Commons is pretty bad,” said Amory. + + “That’s the rumor. But you’ve got to eat there—or pay anyways.” + + “Crime!” + + “Imposition!” + + “Oh, at Princeton you’ve got to swallow everything the first + year. It’s like a damned prep school.” + + Amory agreed. + + “Lot of pep, though,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t have gone to Yale + for a million.” + + “Me either.” + + “You going out for anything?” inquired Amory of the elder + brother. + + “Not me—Burne here is going out for the Prince—the Daily + Princetonian, you know.” + + “Yes, I know.” + + “You going out for anything?” + + “Why—yes. I’m going to take a whack at freshman football.” + + “Play at St. Regis’s?” + + “Some,” admitted Amory depreciatingly, “but I’m getting so damned + thin.” + + “You’re not thin.” + + “Well, I used to be stocky last fall.” + + “Oh!” + + 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. + + “Yoho!” + + “Oh, honey-baby—you’re so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!” + + “Clinch!” + + “Oh, Clinch!” + + “Kiss her, kiss ’at lady, quick!” + + “Oh-h-h—!” + + 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. + + “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!” + + 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. + + “Want a sundae—I mean a jigger?” asked Kerry. + + “Sure.” + + They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to + 12. + + “Wonderful night.” + + “It’s a whiz.” + + “You men going to unpack?” + + “Guess so. Come on, Burne.” + + Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade + them good night. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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: + + “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!” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + 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. + + 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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + “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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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. + + “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—” + + “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.” + + “But just now, Amory, you’re only a sweaty bourgeois.” + + Amory lay for a moment without speaking. + + “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.” + + “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.” + + Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows. + + “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.” + + “Well,” said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, “you’re a + literary genius. It’s up to you.” + + “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.” + + “Well—go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy + D’Invilliers in the Lit.” + + Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table. + + “Read his latest effort?” + + “Never miss ’em. They’re rare.” + + Amory glanced through the issue. + + “Hello!” he said in surprise, “he’s a freshman, isn’t he?” + + “Yeah.” + + “Listen to this! My God! + + “‘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—’ + + “Now, what the devil does that mean?” + + “It’s a pantry scene.” + + “‘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!’ + + “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.” + + “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.” + + Amory tossed the magazine on the table. + + “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.” + + “Why decide?” suggested Kerry. “Better drift, like me. I’m going + to sail into prominence on Burne’s coat-tails.” + + “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.” + + “You’re thinking too much about yourself.” + + Amory sat up at this. + + “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.” + + “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.” + + + 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. + + 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. + + “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?” + + Amory grinned. + + “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—” + + “What line do you throw ’em?” demanded Kerry. “I’ve tried + everything, and the mad wags aren’t even afraid of me.” + + “You’re the ‘nice boy’ type,” suggested Amory. + + “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.” + + “Sulk,” suggested Amory. “Tell ’em you’re wild and have ’em + reform you—go home furious—come back in half an hour—startle + ’em.” + + Kerry shook his head. + + “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.” + + Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as “good old Amory.” He + failed completely. + + 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. + + “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. + + 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. + + Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book + for a moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily: + + “Ha! Great stuff!” + + The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial + embarrassment. + + “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. + + “No,” Amory answered. “I was referring to Bernard Shaw.” He + turned the book around in explanation. + + “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?” + + “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.) + + “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 _him_ 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. + + “Ever read any Oscar Wilde?” he asked. + + “No. Who wrote it?” + + “It’s a man—don’t you know?” + + “Oh, surely.” A faint chord was struck in Amory’s memory. “Wasn’t + the comic opera, ‘Patience,’ written about him?” + + “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.” + + “Why, I’d like it a lot—thanks.” + + “Don’t you want to come up to the room? I’ve got a few other + books.” + + 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. + + “Yes, I’ll go.” + + 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. + + 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. + + One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany’s + poems to the music of Kerry’s graphophone. + + “Chant!” cried Tom. “Don’t recite! Chant!” + + 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. + + “Put on ‘Hearts and Flowers’!” he howled. “Oh, my Lord, I’m going + to cast a kitten.” + + “Shut off the damn graphophone,” Amory cried, rather red in the + face. “I’m not giving an exhibition.” + + 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.” + + 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: + + “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...” + + “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. + + 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. + + + A DAMP SYMBOLIC INTERLUDE + + 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. + + 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. + + “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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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. + + “I’m very damn wet!” he said aloud to the sun-dial. + + + HISTORICAL + + 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. + + That was his total reaction. + + + “HA-HA HORTENSE!” + + “All right, ponies!” + + “Shake it up!” + + “Hey, ponies—how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a + mean hip?” + + “Hey, _ponies!_” + + 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. + + “All right. We’ll take the pirate song.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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!” + + 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 + _conspicuously_ 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + “PETTING” + + On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant contact with + that great current American phenomenon, the “petting party.” + + 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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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.” + + 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 _try_ + to find her. + + 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. + + “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. + + “I don’t know. I’m just full of the devil.” + + “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?” + + “No—but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to + deserve it?” + + “And you didn’t feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of + the things you said? You just wanted to be—” + + “Oh, let’s go in,” she interrupted, “if you want to _analyze_. + Let’s not _talk_ about it.” + + 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. + + + DESCRIPTIVE + + 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. + + + ISABELLE + + 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. + + “Isabelle!” called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the + dressing-room. + + “I’m ready.” She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her + throat. + + “I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. + It’ll be just a minute.” + + 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: + + “You remember Amory Blaine, of _course_. 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.” + + 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: + + “How do you mean he’s heard about me? What sort of things?” + + Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with + her more exotic cousin. + + “He knows you’re—you’re considered beautiful and all that”—she + paused—“and I guess he knows you’ve been kissed.” + + 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. + + 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 _he_ dress like that boy + there, who walked calmly down a bustling business street, in + moccasins and winter-carnival costume? How very _Western!_ 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.... + + 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, _force_ 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + During this inspection Amory was quietly watching. + + “Don’t _you_ think so?” she said suddenly, turning to him, + innocent-eyed. + + There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their table. + Amory struggled to Isabelle’s side, and whispered: + + “You’re my dinner partner, you know. We’re all coached for each + other.” + + 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: + + “I’ve heard a lot about you since you wore braids—” + + “Wasn’t it funny this afternoon—” + + Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her face was always + enough answer for any one, but she decided to speak. + + “How—from whom?” + + “From everybody—for all the years since you’ve been away.” She + blushed appropriately. On her right Froggy was _hors de combat_ + already, although he hadn’t quite realized it. + + “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. + + “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. + + “Oh—what?” Isabelle’s face was a study in enraptured curiosity. + + Amory shook his head. + + “I don’t know you very well yet.” + + “Will you tell me—afterward?” she half whispered. + + He nodded. + + “We’ll sit out.” + + Isabelle nodded. + + “Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes?” she said. + + 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. + + + BABES IN THE WOODS + + 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. + + 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 _making_ my + evening.” + + 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. + + Boys who passed the door looked in enviously—girls who passed + only laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves. + + 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. + + 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. + + “Is Froggy a good friend of yours?” she asked. + + “Rather—why?” + + “He’s a bum dancer.” + + Amory laughed. + + “He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his + arms.” + + She appreciated this. + + “You’re awfully good at sizing people up.” + + Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people + for her. Then they talked about hands. + + “You’ve got awfully nice hands,” she said. “They look as if you + played the piano. Do you?” + + 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. + + “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: + + “I don’t know whether or not you know what you—what I’m going to + say. Lordy, Isabelle—this _sounds_ like a line, but it isn’t.” + + “I know,” said Isabelle softly. + + “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. + + “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: + + “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.” + + 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: + + “Give me your hand I’ll understand We’re off to slumberland.” + + Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt Amory’s hand + close over hers. + + “Isabelle,” he whispered. “You know I’m mad about you. You _do_ + give a darn about me.” + + “Yes.” + + “How much do you care—do you like any one better?” + + “No.” He could scarcely hear her, although he bent so near that + he felt her breath against his cheek. + + “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—” + + “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. + + “Moonlight is bright, Kiss me good night.” + + 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. + + “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. + + 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. + + 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: + + “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. + + 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. + + “No,” she answered. “I don’t do that sort of thing any more; he + asked me to, but I said no.” + + 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—? + + “Fourteen angels were watching o’er them,” sang Sally sleepily + from the next room. + + “Damn!” muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious + lump and exploring the cold sheets cautiously. “Damn!” + + + CARNIVAL + + 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. + + “Oh, let me see—” he said one night to a flabbergasted + delegation, “what club do you represent?” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “Hi, Dibby—’gratulations!” + + “Goo’ boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap.” + + “Say, Kerry—” + + “Oh, Kerry—I hear you went Tiger with all the weight-lifters!” + “Well, I didn’t go Cottage—the parlor-snakes’ delight.” + + “They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid—Did he sign up + the first day?—oh, _no_. Tore over to Murray-Dodge on a + bicycle—afraid it was a mistake.” + + “How’d you get into Cap—you old roue?” + + “’Gratulations!” + + “’Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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. + + “Where’d you get the car?” demanded Amory cynically. + + “Sacred trust, but don’t be a critical goopher or you can’t go!” + + “I think I’ll sleep,” Amory said calmly, resettling himself and + reaching beside the bed for a cigarette. + + “Sleep!” + + “Why not? I’ve got a class at eleven-thirty.” + + “You damned gloom! Of course, if you don’t want to go to the + coast—” + + 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. + + “Who’s going?” he demanded as he wriggled into his B. V. D.’s. + + “Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse Ferrenby and—oh + about five or six. Speed it up, kid!” + + 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. + + “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.” + + “Anybody got any money?” suggested Ferrenby, turning around from + the front seat. + + There was an emphatic negative chorus. + + “That makes it interesting.” + + “Money—what’s money? We can sell the car.” + + “Charge him salvage or something.” + + “How’re we going to get food?” asked Amory. + + “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.” + + “Three days,” Amory mused, “and I’ve got classes.” + + “One of the days is the Sabbath.” + + “Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with over a + month and a half to go.” + + “Throw him out!” + + “It’s a long walk back.” + + “Amory, you’re running it out, if I may coin a new phrase.” + + “Hadn’t you better get some dope on yourself, Amory?” + + Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the + scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow. + + “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—” + + “What’s the matter, Amory? Amory’s thinking about poetry, about + the pretty birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye.” + + “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.” + + “Oh,” said Kerry respectfully, “these important men—” + + 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. + + 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.... + + “Oh, good Lord! _Look_ at it!” he cried. + + “What?” + + “Let me out, quick—I haven’t seen it for eight years! Oh, + gentlefolk, stop the car!” + + “What an odd child!” remarked Alec. + + “I do believe he’s a bit eccentric.” + + 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. + + “Now we’ll get lunch,” ordered Kerry, wandering up with the + crowd. “Come on, Amory, tear yourself away and get practical.” + + “We’ll try the best hotel first,” he went on, “and thence and so + forth.” + + They strolled along the boardwalk to the most imposing hostelry + in sight, and, entering the dining-room, scattered about a table. + + “Eight Bronxes,” commanded Alec, “and a club sandwich and + Juliennes. The food for one. Hand the rest around.” + + 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. + + “What’s the bill?” + + Some one scanned it. + + “Eight twenty-five.” + + “Rotten overcharge. We’ll give them two dollars and one for the + waiter. Kerry, collect the small change.” + + 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. + + “Some mistake, sir.” + + Kerry took the bill and examined it critically. + + “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. + + “Won’t he send after us?” + + “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—” + + 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. + + “You see, Amory, we’re Marxian Socialists,” explained Kerry. “We + don’t believe in property and we’re putting it to the great + test.” + + “Night will descend,” Amory suggested. + + “Watch, and put your trust in Holiday.” + + 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. + + “Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me present Messrs. Connage, + Sloane, Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine.” + + 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. + + “She prefers her native dishes,” said Alec gravely to the waiter, + “but any coarse food will do.” + + 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. + + 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 _noblesse oblige_ 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. ... + + 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. + + “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.” + + Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation. + + 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. + + 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 + + “Beaches of Lukanon before the sealers came.” + + It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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.” + + “Oh, Alec, I believe I’m tired of college,” he said sadly, as + they walked the dusk together. + + “I think I am, too, in a way.” + + “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.” + + “Me, too.” + + “I’d like to quit.” + + “What does your girl say?” + + “Oh!” Amory gasped in horror. “She wouldn’t _think_ of + marrying... that is, not now. I mean the future, you know.” + + “My girl would. I’m engaged.” + + “Are you really?” + + “Yes. Don’t say a word to anybody, please, but I am. I may not + come back next year.” + + “But you’re only twenty! Give up college?” + + “Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago—” + + “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.” + + “What a waste these nights are!” agreed Alec. + + 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. + + ... Oh it’s so hard to write you what I really _feel_ when I think + about you so much; you’ve gotten to mean to me a _dream_ 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 _frank_ 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 _you_ 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 + _thought_ 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 + _best_. + 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, + _dearest_ 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.... + + And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them + infinitely charming, infinitely new. + + + 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. + + 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. + + “Let’s borrow bicycles and take a ride,” Amory suggested. + + “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.” + + They found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court and rode out + about half-past three along the Lawrenceville Road. + + “What are you going to do this summer, Amory?” + + “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!” + + “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.” + + “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!” + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “You consider you taught me that, don’t you?” he asked + quizzically, eying Amory in the half dark. + + Amory laughed quietly. + + “Didn’t I?” + + “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “I think you’re my bad angel. I + might have been a pretty fair poet.” + + “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.” + + “Yes,” he agreed, “you’re right. I wouldn’t have liked it. Still, + it’s hard to be made a cynic at twenty.” + + “I was born one,” Amory murmured. “I’m a cynical idealist.” He + paused and wondered if that meant anything. + + They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to + ride back. + + “It’s good, this ride, isn’t it?” Tom said presently. + + “Yes; it’s a good finish, it’s knock-out; everything’s good + to-night. Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle!” + + “Oh, you and your Isabelle! I’ll bet she’s a simple one... let’s + say some poetry.” + + So Amory declaimed “The Ode to a Nightingale” to the bushes they + passed. + + “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.” + + 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. + + + UNDER THE ARC-LIGHT + + 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. + + 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. ... + + 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.... + + 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: + + “You Princeton boys?” + + “Yes.” + + “Well, there’s one of you killed here, and two others about + dead.” + + “_My God!_” + + “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. + + They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that + head—that hair—that hair... and then they turned the form over. + + “It’s Dick—Dick Humbird!” + + “Oh, Christ!” + + “Feel his heart!” + + Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking + triumph: + + “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.” + + 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. + + “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 + _God!_...” He threw himself face downward on the floor and broke + into dry sobs. + + 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. _He_ + 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. + + “Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby.” + + 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. + + + CRESCENDO! + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “I say, old man, I’ve got an awfully nice—” + + “Sorry, Kaye, but I’m set for this one. I’ve got to cut in on a + fella.” + + “Well, the next one?” + + “What—ah—er—I swear I’ve got to go cut in—look me up when she’s + got a dance free.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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. + + + + + CHAPTER 3. The Egotist Considers + + + “Ouch! Let me go!” + + He dropped his arms to his sides. + + “What’s the matter?” + + “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. + + “Oh, Isabelle,” he reproached himself, “I’m a goopher. Really, + I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have held you so close.” + + She looked up impatiently. + + “Oh, Amory, of course you couldn’t help it, and it didn’t hurt + much; but what _are_ we going to do about it?” + + “_Do_ about it?” he asked. “Oh—that spot; it’ll disappear in a + second.” + + “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 _just_ the height of your shoulder.” + + “Massage it,” he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination + to laugh. + + 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. + + “Oh, Amory,” she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic + face, “I’ll just make my whole neck _flame_ if I rub it. What’ll + I do?” + + A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn’t resist repeating + it aloud. + + “All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand.” + + She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like + ice. + + “You’re not very sympathetic.” + + Amory mistook her meaning. + + “Isabelle, darling, I think it’ll—” + + “Don’t touch me!” she cried. “Haven’t I enough on my mind and you + stand there and _laugh!_” + + Then he slipped again. + + “Well, it _is_ funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day + about a sense of humor being—” + + 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. + + “Oh, shut up!” she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway + toward her room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful + confusion. + + “Damn!” + + When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her + shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that + endured through dinner. + + “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.” + + Isabelle considered glumly. + + “I hate to be laughed at,” she said finally. + + “I won’t laugh any more. I’m not laughing now, am I?” + + “You did.” + + “Oh, don’t be so darned feminine.” + + Her lips curled slightly. + + “I’ll be anything I want.” + + 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, _pleading_, with a + doughty warrior like Isabelle. + + 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.... + + Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil’s food in the + pantry, and Amory announced a decision. + + “I’m leaving early in the morning.” + + “Why?” + + “Why not?” he countered. + + “There’s no need.” + + “However, I’m going.” + + “Well, if you insist on being ridiculous—” + + “Oh, don’t put it that way,” he objected. + + “—just because I won’t let you kiss me. Do you think—” + + “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.” + + She hesitated. + + “I really don’t know what to think about you,” she began, in a + feeble, perverse attempt at conciliation. “You’re so funny.” + + “How?” + + “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?” + + Amory flushed. He _had_ told her a lot of things. + + “Yes.” + + “Well, you didn’t seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe + you’re just plain conceited.” + + “No, I’m not,” he hesitated. “At Princeton—” + + “Oh, you and Princeton! You’d think that was the world, the way + you talk! Perhaps you _can_ write better than anybody else on + your old Princetonian; maybe the freshmen _do_ think you’re + important—” + + “You don’t understand—” + + “Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “I _do_, because you’re always + talking about yourself and I used to like it; now I don’t.” + + “Have I to-night?” + + “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.” + + “I make you think, do I?” Amory repeated with a touch of vanity. + + “You’re a nervous strain”—this emphatically—“and when you analyze + every little emotion and instinct I just don’t have ’em.” + + “I know.” Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly. + + “Let’s go.” She stood up. + + He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. + + “What train can I get?” + + “There’s one about 9:11 if you really must go.” + + “Yes, I’ve got to go, really. Good night.” + + “Good night.” + + 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. + + 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. + + There was a knock at the door. + + “The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir.” + + 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: + + “Each life unfulfilled, you see, It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; + We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, + despaired—been happy.” + + 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! + + “Damn her!” he said bitterly, “she’s spoiled my year!” + + + THE SUPERMAN GROWS CARELESS + + 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. + + “Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point + be?” + + Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material + and tries to concentrate. + + “Oh—ah—I’m damned if I know, Mr. Rooney.” + + “Oh, why of course, of course you can’t _use_ that formula. + _That’s_ what I wanted you to say.” + + “Why, sure, of course.” + + “Do you see why?” + + “You bet—I suppose so.” + + “If you don’t see, tell me. I’m here to show you.” + + “Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don’t mind, I wish you’d go over that + again.” + + “Gladly. Now here’s ‘A’...” + + 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 + _had_ 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. + + “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.... + + Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that + filled the room would come the inevitable helpless cry: + + “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. + + There was always his luck. + + He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered + from the room. + + “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.” + + “Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?” + + “’Cause you deserve it. Anybody that’d risk what you were in line + for _ought_ to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman.” + + “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: + + “Oh, Tom, any mail?” + + Alec’s head appeared against the yellow square of light. + + “Yes, your result’s here.” + + His heart clamored violently. + + “What is it, blue or pink?” + + “Don’t know. Better come up.” + + He walked into the room and straight over to the table, and then + suddenly noticed that there were other people in the room. + + “’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. + + “We have here quite a slip of paper.” + + “Open it, Amory.” + + “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.” + + 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. + + “Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emotions.” + + He tore it open and held the slip up to the light. + + “Well?” + + “Pink or blue?” + + “Say what it is.” + + “We’re all ears, Amory.” + + “Smile or swear—or something.” + + There was a pause... a small crowd of seconds swept by... then he + looked again and another crowd went on into time. + + “Blue as the sky, gentlemen....” + + + AFTERMATH + + 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. + + “Your own laziness,” said Alec later. + + “No—something deeper than that. I’ve begun to feel that I was + meant to lose this chance.” + + “They’re rather off you at the club, you know; every man that + doesn’t come through makes our crowd just so much weaker.” + + “I hate that point of view.” + + “Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a + comeback.” + + “No—I’m through—as far as ever being a power in college is + concerned.” + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “Your system broke, you mean.” + + “Maybe.” + + “Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one quick, or just + bum around for two more years as a has-been?” + + “I don’t know yet...” + + “Oh, Amory, buck up!” + + “Maybe.” + + 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: + + 1. The fundamental Amory. + 2. Amory plus Beatrice. + 3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. + + Then St. Regis’ had pulled him to pieces and started him over + again: + + 4. Amory plus St. Regis’. + 5. Amory plus St. Regis’ plus Princeton. + + 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: + + 6. The fundamental Amory. + + + FINANCIAL + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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 _practical_ 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 _once_ a week, because I imagine all sorts of + horrible things if I don’t hear from you. Affectionately, + MOTHER.” + + + FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM “PERSONAGE” + + 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. + + “I’ve felt like leaving college, Monsignor.” + + “Why?” + + “All my career’s gone up in smoke; you think it’s petty and all + that, but—” + + “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.” + + Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his + egotistic highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had + left his voice. + + “What would you do if you left college?” asked Monsignor. + + “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.” + + “You know you wouldn’t like to go.” + + “Sometimes I would—to-night I’d go in a second.” + + “Well, you’d have to be very much more tired of life than I think + you are. I know you.” + + “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.” + + “Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I’m not worried about + you; you seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally.” + + “No,” Amory objected. “I’ve lost half my personality in a year.” + + “Not a bit of it!” scoffed Monsignor. “You’ve lost a great amount + of vanity and that’s all.” + + “Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I’d gone through another fifth form + at St. Regis’s.” + + “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.” + + “What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?” + + “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.” + + “But, Monsignor, I can’t do the next thing.” + + “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.” + + “Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of + thing I should do.” + + “We have to do it because we’re not personalities, but + personages.” + + “That’s a good line—what do you mean?” + + “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.” + + “And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off + when I needed them.” Amory continued the simile eagerly. + + “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.” + + “But, on the other hand, if I haven’t my possessions, I’m + helpless!” + + “Absolutely.” + + “That’s certainly an idea.” + + “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!” + + “How clear you can make things!” + + 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. + + “Why do I make lists?” Amory asked him one night. “Lists of all + sorts of things?” + + “Because you’re a mediaevalist,” Monsignor answered. “We both + are. It’s the passion for classifying and finding a type.” + + “It’s a desire to get something definite.” + + “It’s the nucleus of scholastic philosophy.” + + “I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up + here. It was a pose, I guess.” + + “Don’t worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest + pose of all. Pose—” + + “Yes?” + + “But do the next thing.” + + After Amory returned to college he received several letters from + Monsignor which gave him more egotistic food for consumption. + + 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. + + 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. + + Together with Tom D’Invilliers, he sought among the lights of + Princeton for some one who might found the Great American Poetic + Tradition. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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 _highest rules of criticism_ For + _cheap_ and _careless_ 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 _narrow-minded earth_ The Mighty Yawn + that gave you birth.” + + 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. + + + THE DEVIL + + 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. + + “Table for four in the middle of the floor,” yelled Phoebe. + “Hurry, old dear, tell ’em we’re here!” + + “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. + + “There’s Findle Margotson, from New Haven!” she cried above the + uproar. “’Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!” + + “Oh, Axia!” he shouted in salutation. “C’mon over to our table.” + “No!” Amory whispered. + + “Can’t do it, Findle; I’m with somebody else! Call me up + to-morrow about one o’clock!” + + 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. + + “There’s a natural damn fool,” commented Amory. + + “Oh, he’s all right. Here’s the old jitney waiter. If you ask me, + I want a double Daiquiri.” + + “Make it four.” + + 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. + + 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. + + “Who’s that pale fool watching us?” he complained indignantly. + + “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?” + + 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. + + “Where now?” + + “Up to the flat,” suggested Phoebe. “We’ve got brandy and + fizz—and everything’s slow down here to-night.” + + 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. + + “Phoebe’s great stuff,” confided Sloane, sotto voce. + + “I’m only going to stay half an hour,” Amory said sternly. He + wondered if it sounded priggish. + + “Hell y’ say,” protested Sloane. “We’re here now—don’t le’s + rush.” + + “I don’t like this place,” Amory said sulkily, “and I don’t want + any food.” + + Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and + four glasses. + + “Amory, pour ’em out,” she said, “and we’ll drink to Fred Sloane, + who has a rare, distinguished edge.” + + “Yes,” said Axia, coming in, “and Amory. I like Amory.” She sat + down beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder. + + “I’ll pour,” said Sloane; “you use siphon, Phoebe.” + + They filled the tray with glasses. + + “Ready, here she goes!” + + Amory hesitated, glass in hand. + + 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.... + + He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia’s + voice came out of the void with a strange goodness. + + “Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory’s sick—old head going + ’round?” + + “Look at that man!” cried Amory, pointing toward the corner + divan. + + “You mean that purple zebra!” shrieked Axia facetiously. “Ooo-ee! + Amory’s got a purple zebra watching him!” + + Sloane laughed vacantly. + + “Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?” + + There was a silence.... The man regarded Amory quizzically.... + Then the human voices fell faintly on his ear: + + “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.... + + “Come back! Come back!” Axia’s arm fell on his. “Amory, dear, you + aren’t going, Amory!” He was half-way to the door. + + “Come on, Amory, stick ’th us!” + + “Sick, are you?” + + “Sit down a second!” + + “Take some water.” + + “Take a little brandy....” + + 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... + + As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the + sickly electric light of the paved hall. + + + IN THE ALLEY + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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: + + “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; _but he knew, for the + half instant that the gong tanged and hummed, that it was the + face of Dick Humbird._ + + 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. + + + AT THE WINDOW + + 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. + + Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and + the painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory. + + “For God’s sake, let’s go back! Let’s get off of this—this + place!” + + Sloane looked at him in amazement. + + “What do you mean?” + + “This street, it’s ghastly! Come on! let’s get back to the + Avenue!” + + “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?” + + 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. + + “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!” + + “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.” + + “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. + + 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. + + 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. + + Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting + a cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing + him. + + “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.” + + “Don’t tell me about it!” Amory almost shrieked. “Don’t say a + word; I’m tired and pepped out.” + + 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.” + + 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. + + “God help us!” Amory cried. + + “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.” + + Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair again. + + “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!” + + 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. + + + + + CHAPTER 4. Narcissus Off Duty + + + 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. + + “Heard the latest?” said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening + with that triumphant air he always wore after a successful + conversational bout. + + “No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?” + + “Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going + to resign from their clubs.” + + “What!” + + “Actual fact!” + + “Why!” + + “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.” + + “Well, what’s the idea of the thing?” + + “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.” + + “But this is the real thing?” + + “Absolutely. I think it’ll go through.” + + “For Pete’s sake, tell me more about it.” + + “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.” + + “Fine! I swear I think it’ll be most entertaining. How do they + feel up at Cap and Gown?” + + “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.” + + “How do the radicals stand up?” + + “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.” + + “And you say almost a third of the junior class are going to + resign?” + + “Call it a fourth and be safe.” + + “Lord—who’d have thought it possible!” + + There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in. + “Hello, Amory—hello, Tom.” + + Amory rose. + + “’Evening, Burne. Don’t mind if I seem to rush; I’m going to + Renwick’s.” + + Burne turned to him quickly. + + “You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn’t + a bit private. I wish you’d stay.” + + “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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “How about religion?” Amory asked him. + + “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.” + + “Read what?” + + “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.’” + + “What chiefly started you?” + + “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.” + + “Poetry?” + + “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.” + + “Whitman?” + + “Yes; he’s a definite ethical force.” + + “Well, I’m ashamed to say that I’m a blank on the subject of + Whitman. How about you, Tom?” + + Tom nodded sheepishly. + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “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?” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “Are you coming to the Harvard game?” Burne had asked + indiscreetly, merely to make conversation. + + “If you ask me,” cried Phyllis quickly. + + “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. + + “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!” + + “But, Burne—why did you _invite_ her if you didn’t want her?” + + “Burne, you _know_ you’re secretly mad about her—that’s the + _real_ trouble.” + + “What can _you_ do, Burne? What can _you_ do against Phyllis?” + + But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which + consisted largely of the phrase: “She’ll see, she’ll see!” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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: + + “Phyllis Styles must be _awfully hard up_ to have to come with + _those two_.” + + That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. + From that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to + orient with progress.... + + 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. + + “Don’t you mind losing prestige?” asked Amory one night. They had + taken to exchanging calls several times a week. + + “Of course I don’t. What’s prestige, at best?” + + “Some people say that you’re just a rather original politician.” + + He roared with laughter. + + “That’s what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it + coming.” + + 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: + + “Of course health counts—a healthy man has twice the chance of + being good,” he said. + + “I don’t agree with you—I don’t believe in ‘muscular + Christianity.’” + + “I do—I believe Christ had great physical vigor.” + + “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.” + + “Half of them have.” + + “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.” + + “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 _do_ know—personal appearance has a lot to do with + it.” + + “Coloring?” Amory asked eagerly. + + “Yes.” + + “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 _two-thirds_ of every senior council + are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of them, mind you; + that means that out of every _fifteen_ light-haired men in the + senior class _one_ is on the senior council, and of the + dark-haired men it’s only one in _fifty_.” + + “It’s true,” Burne agreed. “The light-haired man _is_ 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.” + + “People unconsciously admit it,” said Amory. “You’ll notice a + blond person is _expected_ 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.” + + “And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose + undoubtedly make the superior face.” + + “I’m not so sure.” Amory was all for classical features. + + “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. + + “Aren’t they wonderful?” + + Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. + + “Burne, I think they’re the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came + across. They look like an old man’s home.” + + “Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi’s + eyes.” His tone was reproachful. + + Amory shook his head. + + “No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you want—but ugly + they certainly are.” + + Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious + foreheads, and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. + + Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night + he persuaded Amory to accompany him. + + “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.” + + “That’s useless, you know.” + + “Quite possibly.” + + “We’ll go east,” Burne suggested, “and down that string of roads + through the woods.” + + “Doesn’t sound very appealing to me,” admitted Amory reluctantly, + “but let’s go.” + + 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. + + “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.” + + “Go on,” Amory urged eagerly. They were striding toward the + woods, Burne’s nervous, enthusiastic voice warming to his + subject. + + “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?” + + “I do,” Amory admitted. + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “Well,” Burne said suddenly, after a few moments’ silence, “we’re + half-way through, let’s turn back.” + + On the return he launched into a discussion of will. + + “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.” + + “How about great criminals?” + + “They’re usually insane. If not, they’re weak. There is no such + thing as a strong, sane criminal.” + + “Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about the superman?” + + “Well?” + + “He’s evil, I think, yet he’s strong and sane.” + + “I’ve never met him. I’ll bet, though, that he’s stupid or + insane.” + + “I’ve met him over and over and he’s neither. That’s why I think + you’re wrong.” + + “I’m sure I’m not—and so I don’t believe in imprisonment except + for the insane.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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.” + + “It’s a bad time to admit it—people are beginning to think he’s + odd.” + + “He’s way over their heads—you know you think so yourself when + you talk to him—Good Lord, Tom, you _used_ to stand out against + ‘people.’ Success has completely conventionalized you.” + + Tom grew rather annoyed. + + “What’s he trying to do—be excessively holy?” + + “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.” + + “He certainly is getting in wrong.” + + “Have you talked to him lately?” + + “No.” + + “Then you haven’t any conception of him.” + + The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how + the sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus. + + “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.” + + The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a + recitation. + + “Whither bound, Tsar?” + + “Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby,” he waved a copy of + the morning’s Princetonian at Amory. “He wrote this editorial.” + + “Going to flay him alive?” + + “No—but he’s got me all balled up. Either I’ve misjudged him or + he’s suddenly become the world’s worst radical.” + + 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. + + “Hello, Jesse.” + + “Hello there, Savonarola.” + + “I just read your editorial.” + + “Good boy—didn’t know you stooped that low.” + + “Jesse, you startled me.” + + “How so?” + + “Aren’t you afraid the faculty’ll get after you if you pull this + irreligious stuff?” + + “What?” + + “Like this morning.” + + “What the devil—that editorial was on the coaching system.” + + “Yes, but that quotation—” + + Jesse sat up. + + “What quotation?” + + “You know: ‘He who is not with me is against me.’” + + “Well—what about it?” + + Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed. + + “Well, you say here—let me see.” Burne opened the paper and read: + “‘_He who is not with me is against me_, as that gentleman said + who was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and + puerile generalities.’” + + “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.” + + Burne roared with laughter. + + “Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse.” + + “Who said it, for Pete’s sake?” + + “Well,” said Burne, recovering his voice, “St. Matthew attributes + it to Christ.” + + “My God!” cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the + waste-basket. + + + AMORY WRITES A POEM + + 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—? + + Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very + soft, vibrant voice: “Oh, I’m such a poor little fool; _do_ tell + me when I do wrong.” + + The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of + Isabelle. + + He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble + rapidly: + + “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, _did_ + 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.” + + + STILL CALM + + “Ghosts are such dumb things,” said Alec, “they’re slow-witted. I + can always outguess a ghost.” + + “How?” asked Tom. + + “Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use + _any_ discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom.” + + “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. + + “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 _cleared_—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. _Always, + always_ run the stick in viciously first—_never_ look first!” + + “Of course, that’s the ancient Celtic school,” said Tom gravely. + + “Yes—but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to + clear the closets and also for behind all doors—” + + “And the bed,” Amory suggested. + + “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 _almost always_ under the bed.” + + “Well” Amory began. + + Alec waved him into silence. + + “Of _course_ 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.” + + “All that’s very interesting, Tom.” + + “Isn’t it?” Alec beamed proudly. “All my own, too—the Sir Oliver + Lodge of the new world.” + + 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. + + “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.” + + Amory looked up innocently. + + “What?” + + “What?” mimicked Alec. “Are you trying to read yourself into a + rhapsody with—let’s see the book.” + + He snatched it; regarded it derisively. + + “Well?” said Amory a little stiffly. + + “‘The Life of St. Teresa,’” read Alec aloud. “Oh, my gosh!” + + “Say, Alec.” + + “What?” + + “Does it bother you?” + + “Does what bother me?” + + “My acting dazed and all that?” + + “Why, no—of course it doesn’t _bother_ me.” + + “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.” + + “You’re getting a reputation for being eccentric,” said Alec, + laughing, “if that’s what you mean.” + + 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. + + 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. + + Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an + interesting P. S.: + + “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.” + + Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor.... + + + CLARA + + 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. + + 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 _girls’ boarding-schools_ 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. + + 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. + + 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 + _knitting_ and _embroidery_), 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “You _are_ remarkable, aren’t you!” Amory was becoming trite from + where he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six + o’clock. + + “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.” + + “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. + + “Tell me about yourself.” And she gave the answer that Adam must + have given. + + “There’s nothing to tell.” + + 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 _different_ 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. + + “_Nobody_ seems to bore you,” he objected. + + “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. + + 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 + _them_ as being among the saved). + + + ST. CECILIA + + “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.” + + “Do you like me?” + + “Of course I do,” said Clara seriously. + + “Why?” + + “Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are + spontaneous in each of us—or were originally.” + + “You’re implying that I haven’t used myself very well?” + + Clara hesitated. + + “Well, I can’t judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot + more, and I’ve been sheltered.” + + “Oh, don’t stall, please, Clara,” Amory interrupted; “but do talk + about me a little, won’t you?” + + “Surely, I’d adore to.” She didn’t smile. + + “That’s sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully + conceited?” + + “Well—no, you have tremendous vanity, but it’ll amuse the people + who notice its preponderance.” + + “I see.” + + “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.” + + “Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let + me say a word.” + + “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.” + + “But I am, potentially.” + + “And you say you’re a weak character, that you’ve no will.” + + “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—” + + “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.” + + “You certainly interest me. If this isn’t boring you, go on.” + + “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.” + + “Yes,” objected Amory, “but isn’t it lack of will-power to let my + imagination shinny on the wrong side?” + + “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.” + + “Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Amory in surprise, “that’s the + last thing I expected.” + + 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. + + 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. + + “I’ll bet she won’t stay single long.” + + “Well, don’t scream it out. She ain’t lookin’ for no advice.” + + “_Ain’t_ she beautiful!” + + (Enter a floor-walker—silence till he moves forward, smirking.) + + “Society person, ain’t she?” + + “Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say.” + + “Gee! girls, _ain’t_ she some kid!” + + 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. + + 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. + + “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. + + That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it all that + night. He couldn’t help it. + + 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. + + “I think,” he said and his voice trembled, “that if I lost faith + in you I’d lose faith in God.” + + She looked at him with such a startled face that he asked her the + matter. + + “Nothing,” she said slowly, “only this: five men have said that + to me before, and it frightens me.” + + “Oh, Clara, is that your fate!” + + She did not answer. + + “I suppose love to you is—” he began. + + She turned like a flash. + + “I have never been in love.” + + 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: + + “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—” + + She shook her head. + + “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. + + “Amory.” + + “What?” + + “You’re not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did + you?” + + “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—” + + “There you go—running through your catalogue of emotions in five + seconds.” + + He smiled unwillingly. + + “Don’t make me out such a light-weight, Clara; you _are_ + depressing sometimes.” + + “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.” + + “There’s so much spring in the air—there’s so much lazy sweetness + in your heart.” + + She dropped his arm. + + “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.” + + And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like + two mad children gone wild with pale-blue twilight. + + “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.” + + “Oh, Clara!” Amory said; “what a devil you could have been if the + Lord had just bent your soul a little the other way!” + + “Maybe,” she answered; “but I think not. I’m never really wild + and never have been. That little outburst was pure spring.” + + “And you are, too,” said he. + + They were walking along now. + + “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.” + + 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: + + “Oh, if I could only have gotten _you!_” Oh, the enormous conceit + of the man! + + But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara’s + bright soul still gleamed on the ways they had trod. + + “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...” + + + AMORY IS RESENTFUL + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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—” + + “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.” + + “But, Amory, listen—” + + “Burne, we’d just argue—” + + “Very well.” + + “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 _German?_” + + “Some of them are, of course.” + + “How do you know they aren’t _all_ pro-German—just a lot of weak + ones—with German-Jewish names.” + + “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.” + + Amory’s heart sank. + + “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—” + + “I doubt it,” he interrupted. + + “Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me.” + + “I know what you mean, and that’s why I’m not sure I’ll agitate.” + + “You’re one man, Burne—going to talk to people who won’t + listen—with all God’s given you.” + + “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.” + + “Go on.” + + “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!” + + “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?” + + “I’m going next week.” + + “I’ll see you, of course.” + + 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. + + “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—” + + 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. + + “Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal Richelieu,” + suggested Alec, who was lounging in the window-seat as Burne and + Amory shook hands. + + 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. + + “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?” + + “Have you ever read anything of theirs?” asked Tom shrewdly. + + “No,” Amory admitted. + + “Neither have I,” he said laughing. + + “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!” + + Amory subsided, and the subject dropped. + + “What are you going to do, Amory?” + + “Infantry or aviation, I can’t make up my mind—I hate mechanics, + but then of course aviation’s the thing for me—” + + “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.” + + 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. + + Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep Who sowed the + bitter harvest that your children go to reap— + + 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. + + “They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin was about, They + shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried out—” + + But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that out. + + “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. + + “You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, You thanked + him for your ‘glorious gains’—reproached him for ‘Cathay.’” + + Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time? Now he + needed something to rhyme with: + + “You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong + before...” + + Well, anyway.... + + “You met your children in your home—‘I’ve fixed it up!’ you cried, + Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuously—died.” + + “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.” + + 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. + + “Here’s a poem to the Victorians, sir,” he said coldly. + + The professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly + through the door. + + Here is what he had written: + + “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.” + + + THE END OF MANY THINGS + + 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. + + “This is the great protest against the superman,” said Amory. + + “I suppose so,” Alec agreed. + + “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.” + + “And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral + sense.” + + “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?” + + “What brings it about?” + + “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.” + + “God! Haven’t we raked the universe over the coals for four + years?” + + 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. + + “The grass is full of ghosts to-night.” + + “The whole campus is alive with them.” + + They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver + of the slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees. + + “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.” + + A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch—broken voices + for some long parting. + + “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.” + + “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—” + + “Good-by, Aaron Burr,” Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, + “you and I knew strange corners of life.” + + His voice echoed in the stillness. + + “The torches are out,” whispered Tom. “Ah, Messalina, the long + shadows are building minarets on the stadium—” + + For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and + then they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes. + + “Damn!” + + “Damn!” + + 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. + + 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. + + + + + + + INTERLUDE + + May, 1917-February, 1919 + + 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. + + MY DEAR BOY: + + 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 _plump!_ 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.... + + 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. + + 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.... + + 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. + + 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.... + + 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.... + + 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. + + 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! + + 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. + + 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 _will_ smoke and read all night— + + At any rate here it is: + + A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to the War Against the + King of Foreign. + + “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.” + + 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. + + + EMBARKING AT NIGHT + + 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: + + “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.” + + A letter from Amory, headed “Brest, March 11th, 1919,” to + Lieutenant T. P. D’Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga. + + DEAR BAUDELAIRE:— + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + S’ever, dear Boswell, + SAMUEL JOHNSON. + + + + + + BOOK TWO—The Education of a Personage + + CHAPTER 1. The Debutante + + + 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. + + 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. + + An indistinguishable mumble from the next room. + + 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. + + More chatter outside and a girl’s voice, a very spoiled voice, + says: “Of all the stupid people—” + + 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. + + CECELIA: Pink? + + ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes! + + CECELIA: _Very_ snappy? + + ROSALIND: Yes! + + CECELIA: I’ve got it! + + (She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and + commences to shimmy enthusiastically.) + + ROSALIND: (Outside) What are you doing—trying it on? + + (CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right + shoulder. + + 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.) + + ALEC: So _that’s_ where you all are! Amory Blaine is here. + + CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs. + + ALEC: Oh, he _is_ down-stairs. + + MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him + I’m sorry that I can’t meet him now. + + 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. + + (This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.) + + CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How do you + mean—temperamental? You used to say that about him in letters. + + ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff. + + CECELIA: Does he play the piano? + + ALEC: Don’t think so. + + CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink? + + ALEC: Yes—nothing queer about him. + + CECELIA: Money? + + ALEC: Good Lord—ask him, he used to have a lot, and he’s got some + income now. + + (MRS. CONNAGE appears.) + + MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we’re glad to have any friend of + yours— + + ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory. + + 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 _all_ the attention. + + ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming here and + hooking me. + + (MRS. CONNAGE goes.) + + ALEC: Rosalind hasn’t changed a bit. + + CECELIA: (In a lower tone) She’s awfully spoiled. + + ALEC: She’ll meet her match to-night. + + CECELIA: Who—Mr. Amory Blaine? + + (ALEC nods.) + + 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. + + ALEC: They love it. + + 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. + + ALEC: Personality runs in our family. + + CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got to me. + + ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself? + + 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. + + (Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.) + + MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind’s almost finished so I can go down and + meet your friend. + + (ALEC and his mother go out.) + + ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother— + + CECELIA: Mother’s gone down. + + (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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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.” + + 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. + + 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.) + + 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. + + CECELIA: Glad you’re coming out? + + ROSALIND: Yes; aren’t you? + + CECELIA: (Cynically) You’re glad so you can get married and live + on Long Island with the _fast younger married set_. You want life + to be a chain of flirtation with a man for every link. + + ROSALIND: _Want_ it to be one! You mean I’ve _found_ it one. + + CECELIA: Ha! + + 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. + + CECELIA: It must be an awful strain. + + 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. + + CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting + you do. + + ROSALIND: Sometimes when I’ve felt particularly radiant I’ve + thought, why should this be wasted on one man? + + 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. + + 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. + + CECELIA: Well, I’m glad I don’t have all your worries. I’m + engaged. + + 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. + + CECELIA: You won’t tell her, though, because I know things I + could tell—and you’re too selfish! + + ROSALIND: (A little annoyed) Run along, little girl! Who are you + engaged to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store? + + CECELIA: Cheap wit—good-by, darling, I’ll see you later. + + ROSALIND: Oh, be _sure_ and do that—you’re such a help. + + (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.) + + HE: Oh, I’m sorry. I thought— + + SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you’re Amory Blaine, aren’t you? + + HE: (Regarding her closely) And you’re Rosalind? + + SHE: I’m going to call you Amory—oh, come in—it’s all + right—mother’ll be right in—(under her breath) unfortunately. + + HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for me. + + SHE: This is No Man’s Land. + + HE: This is where you—you—(pause) + + SHE: Yes—all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) See, + here’s my rouge—eye pencils. + + HE: I didn’t know you were that way. + + SHE: What did you expect? + + HE: I thought you’d be sort of—sort of—sexless, you know, swim + and play golf. + + SHE: Oh, I do—but not in business hours. + + HE: Business? + + SHE: Six to two—strictly. + + HE: I’d like to have some stock in the corporation. + + 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. + + HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition. + + 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. + + HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on + women. + + SHE: I’m not really feminine, you know—in my mind. + + HE: (Interested) Go on. + + SHE: No, you—you go on—you’ve made me talk about myself. That’s + against the rules. + + HE: Rules? + + SHE: My own rules—but you—Oh, Amory, I hear you’re brilliant. The + family expects _so_ much of you. + + HE: How encouraging! + + SHE: Alec said you’d taught him to think. Did you? I didn’t + believe any one could. + + HE: No. I’m really quite dull. + + (He evidently doesn’t intend this to be taken seriously.) + + SHE: Liar. + + HE: I’m—I’m religious—I’m literary. I’ve—I’ve even written poems. + + SHE: Vers libre—splendid! (She declaims.) + + “The trees are green, The birds are singing in the trees, The girl + sips her poison The bird flies away the girl dies.” + + HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind. + + SHE: (Suddenly) I like you. + + HE: Don’t. + + SHE: Modest too— + + HE: I’m afraid of you. I’m always afraid of a girl—until I’ve + kissed her. + + SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over. + + HE: So I’ll always be afraid of you. + + SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will. + + (A slight hesitation on both their parts.) + + HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing + to ask. + + SHE: (Knowing what’s coming) After five minutes. + + HE: But will you—kiss me? Or are you afraid? + + SHE: I’m never afraid—but your reasons are so poor. + + HE: Rosalind, I really _want_ to kiss you. + + SHE: So do I. + + (They kiss—definitely and thoroughly.) + + HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity + satisfied? + + SHE: Is yours? + + HE: No, it’s only aroused. + + (He looks it.) + + SHE: (Dreamily) I’ve kissed dozens of men. I suppose I’ll kiss + dozens more. + + HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could—like that. + + SHE: Most people like the way I kiss. + + HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, + Rosalind. + + SHE: No—my curiosity is generally satisfied at one. + + HE: (Discouraged) Is that a rule? + + SHE: I make rules to fit the cases. + + HE: You and I are somewhat alike—except that I’m years older in + experience. + + SHE: How old are you? + + HE: Almost twenty-three. You? + + SHE: Nineteen—just. + + HE: I suppose you’re the product of a fashionable school. + + SHE: No—I’m fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence—I’ve + forgotten why. + + HE: What’s your general trend? + + SHE: Oh, I’m bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond + of admiration— + + HE: (Suddenly) I don’t want to fall in love with you— + + SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to. + + HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love your mouth. + + SHE: Hush! Please don’t fall in love with my mouth—hair, eyes, + shoulders, slippers—but _not_ my mouth. Everybody falls in love + with my mouth. + + HE: It’s quite beautiful. + + SHE: It’s too small. + + HE: No it isn’t—let’s see. + + (He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.) + + SHE: (Rather moved) Say something sweet. + + HE: (Frightened) Lord help me. + + SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don’t—if it’s so hard. + + HE: Shall we pretend? So soon? + + SHE: We haven’t the same standards of time as other people. + + HE: Already it’s—other people. + + SHE: Let’s pretend. + + HE: No—I can’t—it’s sentiment. + + SHE: You’re not sentimental? + + 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. + + SHE: And you’re not? (With her eyes half-closed.) You probably + flatter yourself that that’s a superior attitude. + + HE: Well—Rosalind, Rosalind, don’t argue—kiss me again. + + SHE: (Quite chilly now) No—I have no desire to kiss you. + + HE: (Openly taken aback) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago. + + SHE: This is now. + + HE: I’d better go. + + SHE: I suppose so. + + (He goes toward the door.) + + SHE: Oh! + + (He turns.) + + SHE: (Laughing) Score—Home Team: One hundred—Opponents: Zero. + + (He starts back.) + + SHE: (Quickly) Rain—no game. + + (He goes out.) + + (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.) + + MRS. CONNAGE: Good—I’ve been wanting to speak to you alone before + we go down-stairs. + + ROSALIND: Heavens! you frighten me! + + MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you’ve been a very expensive proposition. + + ROSALIND: (Resignedly) Yes. + + MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn’t what he once had. + + ROSALIND: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don’t talk about money. + + 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. + + ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Well—what is it? + + 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. + + ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it _is_ better. + + 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— + + 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. + + MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor + friends of your father’s that I want you to meet + to-night—youngish men. + + ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five? + + MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not? + + ROSALIND: Oh, _quite_ all right—they know life and are so + adorably tired looking (shakes her head)—but they _will_ dance. + + 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. + + ROSALIND: Mother, I never _think_ about money. + + MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to think about it. + + ROSALIND: (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I’ll marry a ton of + it—out of sheer boredom. + + 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. + + ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie? + + MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he + comes. + + ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. + They’re all wrong. + + MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you + to-night. + + ROSALIND: Don’t you think I’m beautiful? + + MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. + + (From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the + roll of a drum. MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.) + + MRS. CONNAGE: Come! + + ROSALIND: One minute! + + (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.) + + CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming + out is _such_ 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. + + (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.) + + + SEVERAL HOURS LATER + + 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. + + 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. + + GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I’ve changed. I feel the + same toward you. + + ROSALIND: But you don’t look the same to me. + + GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me + because I was so blasé, so indifferent—I still am. + + ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had + brown eyes and thin legs. + + GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They’re still thin and brown. You’re a + vampire, that’s all. + + 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. + + GILLESPIE: I love you. + + ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it. + + GILLESPIE: And you haven’t kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea + that after a girl was kissed she was—was—won. + + ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again + every time you see me. + + GILLESPIE: Are you serious? + + 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. + + GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men? + + 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. + + GILLESPIE: And then? + + 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! + + (Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to + his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.) + + RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind. + + ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven’t + got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie. + + (They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.) + + RYDER: Your party is certainly a success. + + ROSALIND: Is it—I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary—Do you mind + sitting out a minute? + + RYDER: Mind—I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing" idea. + See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow. + + ROSALIND: Dawson! + + RYDER: What? + + ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me. + + RYDER: (Startled) What—Oh—you know you’re remarkable! + + ROSALIND: Because you know I’m an awful proposition. Any one who + marries me will have his hands full. I’m mean—mighty mean. + + RYDER: Oh, I wouldn’t say that. + + 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. + + (Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.) + + CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission. + + ALEC: (Gloomily) I’ll go if you want me to. + + 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. + + ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don’t want Amory to fall in love with + Rosalind. + + CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want. + + 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. + + CECELIA: He’s very good looking. + + ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won’t marry him, but a girl + doesn’t have to marry a man to break his heart. + + CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret. + + ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It’s lucky for some + that the Lord gave you a pug nose. + + (Enter MRS. CONNAGE.) + + MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind? + + ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you’ve come to the best people to + find out. She’d naturally be with us. + + MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor + millionaires to meet her. + + ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls. + + 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— + + ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn’t you better send the butler through the + cellar? + + MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don’t think she’d be + there? + + CECELIA: He’s only joking, mother. + + ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some + high hurdler. + + MRS. CONNAGE: Let’s look right away. + + (They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.) + + GILLESPIE: Rosalind—Once more I ask you. Don’t you care a blessed + thing about me? + + (AMORY walks in briskly.) + + AMORY: My dance. + + ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine. + + GILLESPIE: I’ve met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren’t you? + + AMORY: Yes. + + GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I’ve been there. It’s in the—the Middle + West, isn’t it? + + AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I’d rather + be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning. + + GILLESPIE: What! + + AMORY: Oh, no offense. + + (GILLESPIE bows and leaves.) + + ROSALIND: He’s too much _people_. + + AMORY: I was in love with a _people_ once. + + ROSALIND: So? + + AMORY: Oh, yes—her name was Isabelle—nothing at all to her except + what I read into her. + + ROSALIND: What happened? + + 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. + + ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical? + + AMORY: Oh—drive a car, but can’t change a tire. + + ROSALIND: What are you going to do? + + AMORY: Can’t say—run for President, write— + + ROSALIND: Greenwich Village? + + AMORY: Good heavens, no—I said write—not drink. + + ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely. + + AMORY: I feel as if I’d known you for ages. + + ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story? + + 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. + + ROSALIND: I’ve suggested pretending. + + AMORY: If we did it would be very big. + + ROSALIND: Why? + + AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of + great loves. + + ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend. + + (Very deliberately they kiss.) + + AMORY: I can’t say sweet things. But you _are_ beautiful. + + ROSALIND: Not that. + + AMORY: What then? + + ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing—only I want sentiment, real + sentiment—and I never find it. + + AMORY: I never find anything else in the world—and I loathe it. + + ROSALIND: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic + taste. + + (Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into + the room. ROSALIND rises.) + + ROSALIND: Listen! they’re playing “Kiss Me Again.” + + (He looks at her.) + + AMORY: Well? + + ROSALIND: Well? + + AMORY: (Softly—the battle lost) I love you. + + ROSALIND: I love you—now. + + (They kiss.) + + AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done? + + ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don’t talk. Kiss me again. + + AMORY: I don’t know why or how, but I love you—from the moment I + saw you. + + ROSALIND: Me too—I—I—oh, to-night’s to-night. + + (Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: + “Oh, excuse me,” and goes.) + + ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don’t let me go—I don’t + care who knows what I do. + + AMORY: Say it! + + 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! + + (He kisses her again.) + + + KISMET + + 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. + + “It may be an insane love-affair,” she told her anxious mother, + “but it’s not inane.” + + 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. + + 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. + + For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete + bouleversement and was hurrying into line with his generation. + + + A LITTLE INTERLUDE + + 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. + + 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. + + “Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business + to-day?” + + Amory sprawled on a couch. + + “I loathed it as usual!” The momentary vision of the bustling + agency was displaced quickly by another picture. + + “My God! She’s wonderful!” + + Tom sighed. + + “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.” + + Another sigh came from the window—quite a resigned sigh. + + “She’s life and hope and happiness, my whole world now.” + + He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid. + + “Oh, _Golly_, Tom!” + + + BITTER SWEET + + “Sit like we do,” she whispered. + + He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could + nestle inside them. + + “I knew you’d come to-night,” she said softly, “like summer, just + when I needed you most... darling... darling...” + + His lips moved lazily over her face. + + “You _taste_ so good,” he sighed. + + “How do you mean, lover?” + + “Oh, just sweet, just sweet...” he held her closer. + + “Amory,” she whispered, “when you’re ready for me I’ll marry + you.” + + “We won’t have much at first.” + + “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.” + + “Tell me...” + + “You know, don’t you? Oh, you know.” + + “Yes, but I want to hear you say it.” + + “I love you, Amory, with all my heart.” + + “Always, will you?” + + “All my life—Oh, Amory—” + + “What?” + + “I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I + want to have your babies.” + + “But I haven’t any people.” + + “Don’t laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me.” + + “I’ll do what you want,” he said. + + “No, I’ll do what _you_ want. We’re _you_—not me. Oh, you’re so + much a part, so much all of me...” + + He closed his eyes. + + “I’m so happy that I’m frightened. Wouldn’t it be awful if this + was—was the high point?...” + + She looked at him dreamily. + + “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—” + + “Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony....” + + “And, Amory, we’re beautiful, I know. I’m sure God loves us—” + + “He loves you. You’re his most precious possession.” + + “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.” + + 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. + + + AQUATIC INCIDENT + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “Of course _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.” + + Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly + all through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow + optimists. + + + FIVE WEEKS LATER + + 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. + + Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in + ROSALIND with a nervous glance. + + MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night? + + (ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.) + + 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? + + ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh—what—oh—Amory— + + MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so _many_ admirers lately + that I couldn’t imagine _which_ 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. + + ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her + face.) Mother—please— + + MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, _I_ won’t interfere. You’ve already wasted over + two months on a theoretical genius who hasn’t a penny to his + name, but _go_ ahead, waste your life on him. _I_ won’t + interfere. + + 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— + + 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 _clever_. (She implies that this quality in itself + is rather vicious.) + + ROSALIND: For heaven’s sake, mother— + + (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.) + + AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage. + + MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory. + + (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.) + + ALEC: Hi, Amory! + + AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he’d meet you at the theatre. + + ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How’s the advertising to-day? Write + some brilliant copy? + + 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.) + + MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car. + + (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.) + + AMORY: Darling girl. + + (They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it + with kisses and holds it to her breast.) + + 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! + + (Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry—a + tearless sobbing.) + + AMORY: Rosalind! + + ROSALIND: Oh, we’re so darned pitiful! + + AMORY: Rosalind! + + ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die! + + 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. + + ROSALIND: Amory, if you don’t sit down I’ll scream. + + AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord. + + ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don’t + you? + + AMORY: Yes. + + ROSALIND: You know I’ll always love you— + + 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. + + ROSALIND: There’s nothing to tell, I say. I’m just nervous. + + AMORY: Rosalind, you’re playing with the idea of marrying Dawson + Ryder. + + ROSALIND: (After a pause) He’s been asking me to all day. + + AMORY: Well, he’s got his nerve! + + ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him. + + AMORY: Don’t say that. It hurts me. + + ROSALIND: Don’t be a silly idiot. You know you’re the only man + I’ve ever loved, ever will love. + + AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let’s get married—next week. + + ROSALIND: We can’t. + + AMORY: Why not? + + ROSALIND: Oh, we can’t. I’d be your squaw—in some horrible place. + + AMORY: We’ll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month + all told. + + ROSALIND: Darling, I don’t even do my own hair, usually. + + AMORY: I’ll do it for you. + + ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks. + + AMORY: Rosalind, you _can’t_ 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. + + 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. + + AMORY: (Grimly) Go on. + + ROSALIND: Oh—it _is_ Dawson Ryder. He’s so reliable, I almost + feel that he’d be a—a background. + + AMORY: You don’t love him. + + ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he’s a good man and a + strong one. + + AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes—he’s that. + + 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. + + AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind! + + ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don’t look so consciously + suffering. + + AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other! + + 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! + + AMORY: It won’t—it won’t! + + ROSALIND: I’d rather keep it as a beautiful memory—tucked away in + my heart. + + 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. + + ROSALIND: Don’t! + + 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. + + 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! + + (Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.) + + AMORY: Come over here and kiss me. + + ROSALIND: No. + + AMORY: Don’t you _want_ to kiss me? + + ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly and coolly. + + AMORY: The beginning of the end. + + 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— + + AMORY: And you’re afraid to take them with me. + + ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere—you’ll + say Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh—but listen: + + “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.” + + AMORY: But we haven’t had. + + 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. + + AMORY: We’ve got to take our chance for happiness. + + ROSALIND: Dawson says I’d learn to love him. + + (AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life + seems suddenly gone out of him.) + + ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can’t do with you, and I can’t imagine + life without you. + + AMORY: Rosalind, we’re on each other’s nerves. It’s just that + we’re both high-strung, and this week— + + (His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his + face in her hands, kisses him.) + + 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. + + (Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.) + + AMORY: Rosalind— + + ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go—Don’t make it harder! I can’t stand it— + + AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what + you’re saying? Do you mean forever? + + (There is a difference somehow in the quality of their + suffering.) + + ROSALIND: Can’t you see— + + AMORY: I’m afraid I can’t if you love me. You’re afraid of taking + two years’ knocks with me. + + ROSALIND: I wouldn’t be the Rosalind you love. + + AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can’t give you up! I can’t, + that’s all! I’ve got to have you! + + ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You’re being a baby now. + + AMORY: (Wildly) I don’t care! You’re spoiling our lives! + + ROSALIND: I’m doing the wise thing, the only thing. + + AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder? + + 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. + + AMORY: And you love me. + + ROSALIND: That’s just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. + We can’t have any more scenes like this. + + (She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their + eyes blind again with tears.) + + AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don’t! Keep it, + please—oh, don’t break my heart! + + (She presses the ring softly into his hand.) + + ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You’d better go. + + AMORY: Good-by— + + (She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite + sadness.) + + ROSALIND: Don’t ever forget me, Amory— + + AMORY: Good-by— + + (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.) + + 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? + + (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.) + + + + + CHAPTER 2. Experiments in Convalescence + + + 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. + + 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. + + “Well, Amory...” + + It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the + name. + + “Hello, old boy—” he heard himself saying. + + “Name’s Jim Wilson—you’ve forgotten.” + + “Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember.” + + “Going to reunion?” + + “You know!” Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to + reunion. + + “Get overseas?” + + 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. + + “Too bad,” he muttered. “Have a drink?” + + Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on + the back. + + “You’ve had plenty, old boy.” + + Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the + scrutiny. + + “Plenty, hell!” said Amory finally. “I haven’t had a drink + to-day.” + + Wilson looked incredulous. + + “Have a drink or not?” cried Amory rudely. + + Together they sought the bar. + + “Rye high.” + + “I’ll just take a Bronx.” + + 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. + + “’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.” + + Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued: + + “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.” + + “What are you celebrating, Amory?” + + Amory leaned forward confidentially. + + “Cel’brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can’t tell + you ’bout it—” + + He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender: + + “Give him a bromo-seltzer.” + + Amory shook his head indignantly. + + “None that stuff!” + + “But listen, Amory, you’re making yourself sick. You’re white as + a ghost.” + + 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. + + “Like som’n solid. We go get some—some salad.” + + 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. + + “We’ll go over to Shanley’s,” suggested Carling, offering an + elbow. + + With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion + enough to propel him across Forty-second Street. + + 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.... + + ... He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a + knot in his shoe-lace. + + “Nemmine,” he managed to articulate drowsily. “Sleep in ’em....” + + + STILL ALCOHOLIC + + 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. + + “Hello—what hotel is this—? + + “Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high-balls—” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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—” + + “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. + + “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. + + “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. + + “My own girl—my own—Oh—” + + He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from + his eyes. + + “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—” + + And then again: + + “We’ve been so happy, so very happy....” + + 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.... + + 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.”... + + ... 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.... + + 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. + + “Decided to commit suicide,” he announced suddenly. + + “When? Next year?” + + “Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, + get into a hot bath and open a vein.” + + “He’s getting morbid!” + + “You need another rye, old boy!” + + “We’ll all talk it over to-morrow.” + + But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least. + + “Did you ever get that way?” he demanded confidentially + fortaccio. + + “Sure!” + + “Often?” + + “My chronic state.” + + 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.... + + He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with + brown, disarranged hair and dark blue eyes. + + “Take me home!” she cried. + + “Hello!” said Amory, blinking. + + “I like you,” she announced tenderly. + + “I like you too.” + + He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that + one of his party was arguing with him. + + “Fella I was with’s a damn fool,” confided the blue-eyed woman. + “I hate him. I want to go home with you.” + + “You drunk?” queried Amory with intense wisdom. + + She nodded coyly. + + “Go home with him,” he advised gravely. “He brought you.” + + At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his + detainers and approached. + + “Say!” he said fiercely. “I brought this girl out here and you’re + butting in!” + + Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer. + + “You let go that girl!” cried the noisy man. + + Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. + + “You go to hell!” he directed finally, and turned his attention + to the girl. + + “Love first sight,” he suggested. + + “I love you,” she breathed and nestled close to him. She _did_ + have beautiful eyes. + + Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory’s ear. + + “That’s just Margaret Diamond. She’s drunk and this fellow here + brought her. Better let her go.” + + “Let him take care of her, then!” shouted Amory furiously. “I’m + no W. Y. C. A. worker, am I?—am I?” + + “Let her go!” + + “It’s _her_ hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!” + + 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. + + “Oh, Lord!” cried Amory. + + “Let’s go!” + + “Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!” + + “Check, waiter.” + + “C’mon, Amory. Your romance is over.” + + Amory laughed. + + “You don’t know how true you spoke. No idea. ’At’s the whole + trouble.” + + + AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION + + Two mornings later he knocked at the president’s door at Bascome + and Barlow’s advertising agency. + + “Come in!” + + Amory entered unsteadily. + + “’Morning, Mr. Barlow.” + + Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his + mouth slightly ajar that he might better listen. + + “Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven’t seen you for several days.” + + “No,” said Amory. “I’m quitting.” + + “Well—well—this is—” + + “I don’t like it here.” + + “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—” + + “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—” + + Mr. Barlow’s face steeled by several ingots of expression. + + “You asked for a position—” + + Amory waved him to silence. + + “And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a + week—less than a good carpenter.” + + “You had just started. You’d never worked before,” said Mr. + Barlow coolly. + + “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.” + + “I’m not going to argue with you, sir,” said Mr. Barlow rising. + + “Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I’m quitting.” + + They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and + then Amory turned and left the office. + + + A LITTLE LULL + + 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. + + “Well?” + + “Well?” + + “Good Lord, Amory, where’d you get the black eye—and the jaw?” + + Amory laughed. + + “That’s a mere nothing.” + + He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders. + + “Look here!” + + Tom emitted a low whistle. + + “What hit you?” + + Amory laughed again. + + “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.” + + “Who was it?” + + “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.” + + Tom lighted a cigarette. + + “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.” + + Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette. + + “You sober now?” asked Tom quizzically. + + “Pretty sober. Why?” + + “Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home + and live, so he—” + + A spasm of pain shook Amory. + + “Too bad.” + + “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.” + + “Sure. Get anybody. I’ll leave it to you, Tom.” + + 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. + + “Got a cardboard box?” + + “No,” answered Tom, puzzled. “Why should I have? Oh, yes—there + may be one in Alec’s room.” + + 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... + + 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. + + “Going out?” Tom’s voice held an undertone of anxiety. + + “Uh-huh.” + + “Where?” + + “Couldn’t say, old keed.” + + “Let’s have dinner together.” + + “Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I’d eat with him.” + + “Oh.” + + “By-by.” + + 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. + + “Hi, Amory!” + + “What’ll you have?” + + “Yo-ho! Waiter!” + + + TEMPERATURE NORMAL + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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? + + “I thought I’d better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence,” he said rather + ambiguously when he arrived. + + “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.” + + “Did he think I’d plunged into Bolshevism?” asked Amory, + interested. + + “Oh, he’s having a frightful time.” + + “Why?” + + “About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity.” + + “So?” + + “He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was + greatly distressed because the receiving committee, when they + rode in an automobile, _would_ put their arms around the + President.” + + “I don’t blame him.” + + “Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in + the army? You look a great deal older.” + + “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.” + + “What else?” + + “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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + “Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you’re his reincarnation, that + your faith will eventually clarify.” + + “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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + + RESTLESSNESS + + “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. + + “You used to be entertaining before you started to write,” he + continued. “Now you save any idea that you think would do to + print.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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?” + + “Yes,” said Amory speculatively, “but I’m more than bored; I am + restless.” + + “Love and war did for you.” + + “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.” + + Tom looked up in surprise. + + “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—” + + “I don’t agree with you,” Tom interrupted. “There never were men + placed in such egotistic positions since—oh, since the French + Revolution.” + + Amory disagreed violently. + + “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.” + + “Then you don’t think there will be any more permanent world + heroes?” + + “Yes—in history—not in life. Carlyle would have difficulty + getting material for a new chapter on ‘The Hero as a Big Man.’” + + “Go on. I’m a good listener to-day.” + + “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.” + + “Then you blame it on the press?” + + “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.” + + Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly. + + “We _want_ 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 _can’t_. + 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—” + + He paused only to get his breath. + + “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—” + + Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of his connection + with The New Democracy. + + “What’s all this got to do with your being bored?” + + Amory considered that it had much to do with it. + + “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.” + + “Try fiction,” suggested Tom. + + “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. + + “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.” + + “You’ll find another.” + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “I am,” agreed Amory reluctantly. “Yet when I see a happy family + it makes me sick at my stomach—” + + “Happy families try to make people feel that way,” said Tom + cynically. + + + TOM THE CENSOR + + There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, + wreathed in smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American + literature. Words failed him. + + “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—” + + “They try.” + + “No, they don’t even try. Some of them _can_ write, but they + won’t sit down and do one honest novel. Most of them _can’t_ + 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.” + + “Is that double entente?” + + “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?” + + “How does little Tommy like the poets?” + + Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely + beside the chair and emitted faint grunts. + + “I’m writing a satire on ’em now, calling it ‘Boston Bards and + Hearst Reviewers.’” + + “Let’s hear it,” said Amory eagerly. + + “I’ve only got the last few lines done.” + + “That’s very modern. Let’s hear ’em, if they’re funny.” + + Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud, + pausing at intervals so that Amory could see that it was free + verse: + + “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.” + + Amory roared. + + “You win the iron pansy. I’ll buy you a meal on the arrogance of + the last two lines.” + + 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. + + “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.’” + + “It’s ghastly!” + + “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—” + + “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—” + + “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.” + + + LOOKING BACKWARD + + 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. + + 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. + + + ANOTHER ENDING + + In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had + evidently just stumbled on his address: + + MY DEAR BOY:— + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you. + + With greatest affection, + THAYER DARCY. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + + CHAPTER 3. Young Irony + + + 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. + + 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: + + “And Amory will have no other adventure like me.” + + Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh. + + Eleanor tried to put it on paper once: + + “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.” + + They quarrelled dangerously because Amory maintained that _sea_ + and _see_ couldn’t possibly be used as a rhyme. And then Eleanor + had part of another verse that she couldn’t find a beginning for: + + “... 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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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: + + “Les sanglots longs Des violons De l’automne Blessent mon coeur + D’une langueur Monotone.” + + 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. + + Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that + soared and hung and fell and blended with the rain: + + “Tout suffocant Et bleme quand Sonne l’heure Je me souviens Des + jours anciens Et je pleure....” + + “Who the devil is there in Ramilly County,” muttered Amory aloud, + “who would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a + soaking haystack?” + + “Somebody’s there!” cried the voice unalarmed. “Who are + you?—Manfred, St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?” + + “I’m Don Juan!” Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above + the noise of the rain and the wind. + + A delighted shriek came from the haystack. + + “I know who you are—you’re the blond boy that likes ‘Ulalume’—I + recognize your voice.” + + “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. + + “Run back!” came the voice, “and jump and I’ll catch your + hand—no, not there—on the other side.” + + 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. + + “Here you are, Juan,” cried she of the damp hair. “Do you mind if + I drop the Don?” + + “You’ve got a thumb like mine!” he exclaimed. + + “And you’re holding my hand, which is dangerous without seeing my + face.” He dropped it quickly. + + 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. + + “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.” + + “I was asked,” Amory said joyfully; “you asked me—you know you + did.” + + “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.” + + 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. + + “I’m not,” she said. + + “Not what?” + + “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.” + + “How on earth—” + + 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. + + “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!” + + 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. + + “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.” + + “What color is your hair?” he asked intently. “It’s bobbed, isn’t + it?” + + “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.” + + “Answer my question, Madeline.” + + “Don’t remember them all—besides my name isn’t Madeline, it’s + Eleanor.” + + “I might have guessed it. You _look_ like Eleanor—you have that + Eleanor look. You know what I mean.” + + There was a silence as they listened to the rain. + + “It’s going down my neck, fellow lunatic,” she offered finally. + + “Answer my questions.” + + “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—” + + “And me,” Amory interrupted, “where did you see me?” + + “Oh, you’re one of _those_ 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: + + “‘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.’ + + “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—” + + “All right,” Amory interrupted. “Now go back to yourself.” + + “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.” + + 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. + + “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.” + + “Really! how banal!” + + “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. + + “Go on,” Amory said politely. + + “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.” + + “Why, you little wretch—” cried Amory indignantly. “Scared of + what?” + + “_Yourself!_” 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—” + + “But I _have_ to have a soul,” he objected. “I can’t be + rational—and I won’t be molecular.” + + She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and + whispered with a sort of romantic finality: + + “I thought so, Juan, I feared so—you’re sentimental. You’re not + like me. I’m a romantic little materialist.” + + “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.) + + “Epigrams. I’m going home,” she said sadly. “Let’s get off the + haystack and walk to the cross-roads.” + + 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. + + + SEPTEMBER + + Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically. + + “I never fall in love in August or September,” he proffered. + + “When then?” + + “Christmas or Easter. I’m a liturgist.” + + “Easter!” She turned up her nose. “Huh! Spring in corsets!” + + “Easter _would_ bore spring, wouldn’t she? Easter has her hair + braided, wears a tailored suit.” + + “Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. Over the splendor and + speed of thy feet—” + + quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: “I suppose Hallowe’en is a + better day for autumn than Thanksgiving.” + + “Much better—and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but + summer...” + + “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.” + + “Fourth of July,” Amory suggested facetiously. + + “Don’t be funny!” she said, raking him with her eyes. + + “Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?” + + She thought a moment. + + “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. + + “Why?” + + “Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert + Brooke.” + + 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. + + 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: + + “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?” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “The despairing, dying autumn and our love—how well they + harmonize!” said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by + the water. + + “The Indian summer of our hearts—” he ceased. + + “Tell me,” she said finally, “was she light or dark?” + + “Light.” + + “Was she more beautiful than I am?” + + “I don’t know,” said Amory shortly. + + 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. + + “Light a match,” she whispered. “I want to see you.” + + Scratch! Flare! + + 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. + + “It’s black as pitch.” + + “We’re just voices now,” murmured Eleanor, “little lonesome + voices. Light another.” + + “That was my last match.” + + Suddenly he caught her in his arms. + + “You _are_ 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. + + + THE END OF SUMMER + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old + plug at seven o’clock.” + + “Don’t be a spoil-sport—remember, you have a tendency toward + wavering that prevents you from being the entire light of my + life.” + + Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, + grasped her hand. + + “Say I am—_quick_, or I’ll pull you over and make you ride behind + me.” + + She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly. + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “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. + + 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. + + 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 _know_ that you were Beauty for an + afternoon. + + 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 + _must_ 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 + _more_ 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.... + + 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. + + “Good Lord! It’s quiet here!” whispered Eleanor; “much more + lonesome than the woods.” + + “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.” + + “The long slope of a long hill.” + + “And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it.” + + “And thee and me, last and most important.” + + 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. + + “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.” + + The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and + shivered. + + “Are you very cold?” asked Amory. + + “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.” + + 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. + + “Rotten, rotten old world,” broke out Eleanor suddenly, “and the + wretchedest thing of all is me—oh, _why_ 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. + + “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 _real_ love in the world is + ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of jealousy.” + She finished as suddenly as she began. + + “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....” + + 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. + + “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. + + “I can’t—I can’t kiss you now—I’m more sensitive.” + + “You’re more stupid then,” he declared rather impatiently. + “Intellect is no protection from sex any more than convention + is...” + + “What is?” she fired up. “The Catholic Church or the maxims of + Confucius?” + + Amory looked up, rather taken aback. + + “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. + + “If there’s a God let him strike me—strike me!” + + “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. + + “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.” + + Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her. + + “Will I?” she said in a queer voice that scared him. “Will I? + Watch! _I’m going over the cliff!_” And before he could interfere + she had turned and was riding breakneck for the end of the + plateau. + + 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. + + “Eleanor!” he cried. + + She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with + sudden tears. + + “Eleanor, are you hurt?” + + “No; I don’t think so,” she said faintly, and then began weeping. + + “My horse dead?” + + “Good God—Yes!” + + “Oh!” she wailed. “I thought I was going over. I didn’t know—” + + 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. + + “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—” + + 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. + + + A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER + + “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? _What leered out + of the dark in the ghostly clover?_ 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.” + + + A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED “SUMMER STORM” + + “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...” + + + + + CHAPTER 4. The Supercilious Sacrifice + + + 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. + + “Well—Amory Blaine!” + + 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. + + “Come on down, goopher!” cried Alec. + + 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. + + “Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully.” + + “How d’y do?” + + “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.” + + Amory considered. + + “That’s an idea.” + + “Step in—move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at + you.” + + Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, + vermilion-lipped blonde. + + “Hello, Doug Fairbanks,” she said flippantly. “Walking for + exercise or hunting for company?” + + “I was counting the waves,” replied Amory gravely. “I’m going in + for statistics.” + + “Don’t kid me, Doug.” + + When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the + car among deep shadows. + + “What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?” he demanded, + as he produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug. + + Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason + for coming to the coast. + + “Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?” he asked + instead. + + “Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park—” + + “Lord, Alec! It’s hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are + all three dead.” + + Alec shivered. + + “Don’t talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough.” + + Jill seemed to agree. + + “Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways,” she commented. “Tell him to + drink deep—it’s good and scarce these days.” + + “What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are—” + + “Why, New York, I suppose—” + + “I mean to-night, because if you haven’t got a room yet you’d + better help me out.” + + “Glad to.” + + “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?” + + Amory was willing, if he could get in right away. + + “You’ll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name.” + + Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left + the car and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel. + + 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. + + “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. + + 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. + + He remembered a poem he had read months before: + + “Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, I waste my years + sailing along the sea—” + + Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that + waste implied. He felt that life had rejected him. + + “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. + + 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. + + Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away. + + He became rigid. + + “Don’t make a sound!” It was Alec’s voice. “Jill—do you hear me?” + + “Yes—” breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the + bathroom. + + 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. + + “My God!” came the girl’s voice again. “You’ll have to let them + in.” + + “Sh!” + + 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. + + “Amory!” an anxious whisper. + + “What’s the trouble?” + + “It’s house detectives. My God, Amory—they’re just looking for a + test-case—” + + “Well, better let them in.” + + “You don’t understand. They can get me under the Mann Act.” + + The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure + in the darkness. + + Amory tried to plan quickly. + + “You make a racket and let them in your room,” he suggested + anxiously, “and I’ll get her out by this door.” + + “They’re here too, though. They’ll watch this door.” + + “Can’t you give a wrong name?” + + “No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they’d trail + the auto license number.” + + “Say you’re married.” + + “Jill says one of the house detectives knows her.” + + 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: + + “Open up or we’ll break the door in!” + + 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. + + 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. + + ... Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for + having done so much for him.... + + ... 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. + + Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; + sacrifice should be eternally supercilious. + + _Weep not for me but for thy children._ + + That—thought Amory—would be somehow the way God would talk to me. + + 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.... + + “Do what I say, Alec—do what I say. Do you understand?” + + Alec looked at him dumbly—his face a tableau of anguish. + + “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?” + + “I hear you.” The voice was curiously strained, the eyes never + for a second left Amory’s. + + “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.” + + 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. + + “You’re here with me,” he said sternly. “You’ve been with me all + evening.” + + She nodded, gave a little half cry. + + 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. + + “You’ve been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!” + + Amory laughed. + + “Well?” + + The leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a + check suit. + + “All right, Olson.” + + “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. + + The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously. + + “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 _this_.” He shook his head + implying that he had struggled over Amory but now gave him up. + + “Well,” said Amory rather impatiently, “what do you want us to + do?” + + “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. + + “Anybody else here?” demanded Olson, trying to look keen and + ferret-like. + + “Fellow who had the rooms,” said Amory carelessly. “He’s drunk as + an owl, though. Been in there asleep since six o’clock.” + + “I’ll take a look at him presently.” + + “How did you find out?” asked Amory curiously. + + “Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman.” + + Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if + rather untidily arrayed. + + “Now then,” began Olson, producing a note-book, “I want your real + names—no damn John Smith or Mary Brown.” + + “Wait a minute,” said Amory quietly. “Just drop that big-bully + stuff. We merely got caught, that’s all.” + + Olson glared at him. + + “Name?” he snapped. + + Amory gave his name and New York address. + + “And the lady?” + + “Miss Jill—” + + “Say,” cried Olson indignantly, “just ease up on the nursery + rhymes. What’s your name? Sarah Murphy? Minnie Jackson?” + + “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.” + + “Come on now!” + + “Shut up!” cried Amory at Olson. + + An instant’s pause. + + “Stella Robbins,” she faltered finally. “General Delivery, + Rugway, New Hampshire.” + + Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very + ponderously. + + “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.” + + “It doesn’t want to get in the papers,” cried Jill fiercely. “Let + us off! Huh!” + + 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. + + “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?” + + “I see.” + + “You’re gettin’ off light—damn light—but—” + + “Come on,” said Amory briskly. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t + need a valedictory.” + + 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. + + “Would you mind taking off your hat? There’s a lady in the + elevator.” + + 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. + + “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. + + “Good-by,” said Olson. He reached in his pocket suggestively, but + Amory snorted, and, taking the girl’s arm, turned away. + + “Where did you tell the driver to go?” she asked as they whirled + along the dim street. + + “The station.” + + “If that guy writes my mother—” + + “He won’t. Nobody’ll ever know about this—except our friends and + enemies.” + + Dawn was breaking over the sea. + + “It’s getting blue,” she said. + + “It does very well,” agreed Amory critically, and then as an + after-thought: “It’s almost breakfast-time—do you want something + to eat?” + + “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.” + + 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.” + + “I’ll remember.” + + He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of + an all-night restaurant. + + “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. + + “He used to be. He probably won’t want to be any more—and never + understand why.” + + “It was sorta crazy you takin’ all that blame. Is he pretty + important? Kinda more important than you are?” + + Amory laughed. + + “That remains to be seen,” he answered. “That’s the question.” + + + THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS + + 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 _not_ his wife. + + Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was + a longer paragraph of which the first words were: + + “Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of + their daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, + Connecticut—” + + 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. + + 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. + + He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains + of the room in Atlantic City. + + + + + CHAPTER 5. The Egotist Becomes a Personage + + + “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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + “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!” + + 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. + + 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: + + Question.—Well—what’s the situation? + + Answer.—That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name. + + Q.—You have the Lake Geneva estate. + + A.—But I intend to keep it. + + Q.—Can you live? + + 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. + + Q.—Be definite. + + 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. + + Q.—Do you want a lot of money? + + A.—No. I am merely afraid of being poor. + + Q.—Very afraid? + + A.—Just passively afraid. + + Q.—Where are you drifting? + + A.—Don’t ask _me!_ + + Q.—Don’t you care? + + A.—Rather. I don’t want to commit moral suicide. + + Q.—Have you no interests left? + + 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. + + Q.—An interesting idea. + + A.—That’s why a “good man going wrong” attracts people. They + stand around and literally _warm themselves_ at the calories of + virtue he gives off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and + the faces simper in delight—“How _innocent_ 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. + + Q.—All your calories gone? + + A.—All of them. I’m beginning to warm myself at other people’s + virtue. + + Q.—Are you corrupt? + + A.—I think so. I’m not sure. I’m not sure about good and evil at + all any more. + + Q.—Is that a bad sign in itself? + + A.—Not necessarily. + + Q.—What would be the test of corruption? + + 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. + + Q.—Where are you drifting? + + This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind’s most familiar + state—a grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior + impressions and physical reactions. + + 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— + + 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. + + “Hello,” said Amory. + + “Got a pass?” + + “No. Is this private?” + + “This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club.” + + “Oh! I didn’t know. I’m just resting.” + + “Well—” began the man dubiously. + + “I’ll go if you want me to.” + + 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. + + “Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man,” he said slowly. + + + IN THE DROOPING HOURS + + 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. + + 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.... + + + Amory smiled a bit. + + “You’re too much wrapped up in yourself,” he heard some one say. + And again— + + “Get out and do some real work—” + + “Stop worrying—” + + He fancied a possible future comment of his own. + + “Yes—I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made + me morbid to think too much about myself.” + + + 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. + + 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. + + + STILL WEEDING + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory + knew, not essentially older than he. + + 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.” + + 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.... + + 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. + + 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.... + + 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.... + + 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. + + In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the + entrance of the labyrinth. + + + 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. + + + MONSIGNOR + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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.” + + On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a + sense of security. + + + THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES + + 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. + + 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. + + “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. + + “You bet I do. Thanks.” + + 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. + + 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. + + “Going far?” asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested + way. + + “Quite a stretch.” + + “Hiking for exercise?” + + “No,” responded Amory succinctly, “I’m walking because I can’t + afford to ride.” + + “Oh.” + + Then again: + + “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. + + “Have you a trade?” + + No—Amory had no trade. + + “Clerk, eh?” + + No—Amory was not a clerk. + + “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. + + Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him + could think of only one thing to say. + + “Of course I want a great lot of money—” + + The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. + + “That’s what every one wants nowadays, but they don’t want to + work for it.” + + “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?” + + “Of course not,” said the secretary indignantly. + + “But,” continued Amory disregarding him, “being very poor at + present I am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte.” + + Both men glanced at him curiously. + + “These bomb throwers—” The little man ceased as words lurched + ponderously from the big man’s chest. + + “If I thought you were a bomb thrower I’d run you over to the + Newark jail. That’s what I think of Socialists.” + + Amory laughed. + + “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.” + + “Well,” said Amory, “if being an idealist is both safe and + lucrative, I might try it.” + + “What’s your difficulty? Lost your job?” + + “Not exactly, but—well, call it that.” + + “What was it?” + + “Writing copy for an advertising agency.” + + “Lots of money in advertising.” + + Amory smiled discreetly. + + “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—” + + “Who’s he?” demanded the little man suspiciously. + + “Well,” said Amory, “he’s a—he’s an intellectual personage not + very well known at present.” + + The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped + rather suddenly as Amory’s burning eyes turned on him. + + “What are you laughing at?” + + “These _intellectual_ people—” + + “Do you know what it means?” + + The little man’s eyes twitched nervously. + + “Why, it _usually_ means—” + + “It _always_ 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.” + + “You object to the fact that capital controls printing?” said the + big man, fixing him with his goggles. + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “You’ve brought it on yourselves,” insisted Amory. “You people + never make concessions until they’re wrung out of you.” + + “What people?” + + “Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by + inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the + moneyed class.” + + “Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money + he’d be any more willing to give it up?” + + “No, but what’s that got to do with it?” + + The older man considered. + + “No, I’ll admit it hasn’t. It rather sounds as if it had though.” + + “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.” + + “Just exactly what is the question?” + + Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question + was. + + + AMORY COINS A PHRASE + + “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.” + + Amory paused and decided that it wasn’t such a bad phrase. + + “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.” + + “He’s the natural radical?” + + “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.” + + “Why not?” + + “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.” + + “But it appears,” said the big man. + + “Where?—in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered + weeklies.” + + “All right—go on.” + + “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.” + + 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. + + “Go on talking,” said the big man. “I’ve been wanting to hear one + of you fellows.” + + + GOING FASTER + + “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 _dawdling_ 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. + + “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.” + + “All right,” said the big man, his goggles indicating neither + approval nor objection. + + “Next I’d have a fair trial of government ownership of all + industries.” + + “That’s been proven a failure.” + + “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.” + + “They wouldn’t give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo—” + + “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.” + + “You said a while ago that it was.” + + “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.” + + The big man made a sound that was very like _boo_. + + “That’s the silliest thing you’ve said yet.” + + “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.” + + “Kids—child’s play!” scoffed his antagonist. + + “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.” + + “I don’t agree with you.” + + “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.” + + A fierce hiss came from the little man. + + “_Machine-guns!_” + + “Ah, but you’ve taught them their use.” + + The big man shook his head. + + “In this country there are enough property owners not to permit + that sort of thing.” + + Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and + non-property owners; he decided to change the subject. + + But the big man was aroused. + + “When you talk of ‘taking things away,’ you’re on dangerous + ground.” + + “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.” + + “Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?” + + “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.” + + “Don’t you believe in moderation?” + + “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.” + + “What is it?” + + “That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their + stomachs are essentially the same.” + + + THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS + + “If you took all the money in the world,” said the little man + with much profundity, “and divided it up in equ—” + + “Oh, shut up!” said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the + little man’s enraged stare, he went on with his argument. + + “The human stomach—” he began; but the big man interrupted rather + impatiently. + + “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.” + + When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as + if resolved this time to have his say out. + + “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.” + + Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly. + + “Listen to that! _That’s_ what makes me discouraged with + progress. _Listen_ 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.” + + The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with + rage. Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man. + + “These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend + here, who _think_ 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!” + + The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled + at the little man. + + “You’re catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?” + + 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. + + “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.” + + “I am both interested and amused,” said the big man. “You are + very young.” + + “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.” + + “You talk glibly.” + + “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.” + + “But, if you’re not sure—” + + “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_ was ineligible, + because some silly old men thought we should _all_ profit by + conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed business. I’m in + love with change and I’ve killed my conscience—” + + “So you’ll go along crying that we must go faster.” + + “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.” + + “But you don’t believe all this Socialist patter you talk.” + + “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.” + + “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.” + + “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.” + + For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked: + + “What was your university?” + + “Princeton.” + + The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his + goggles altered slightly. + + “I sent my son to Princeton.” + + “Did you?” + + “Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed + last year in France.” + + “I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular + friends.” + + “He was—a—quite a fine boy. We were very close.” + + 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— + + The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed + around by a huge hedge and a tall iron fence. + + “Won’t you come in for lunch?” + + Amory shook his head. + + “Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I’ve got to get on.” + + 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. + + “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.” + + “Same to you, sir,” cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand. + + + “OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM” + + 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. + + “I am selfish,” he thought. + + “This is not a quality that will change when I ‘see human + suffering’ or ‘lose my parents’ or ‘help others.’ + + “This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living + part. + + “It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that + selfishness that I can bring poise and balance into my life. + + “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.” + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + 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. + + Amory wanted to feel “William Dayfield, 1864.” + + 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. + + + 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.... + + 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.... + + 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!... + + “It’s all a poor substitute at best,” he said sadly. + + 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.... + + He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. + + “I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all.” + + + + + + + + Appendix: Production notes for eBook edition 11 + + 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”.) + + 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. + + 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. + + In edition 11, underscores are used to denote words and phrases + italicized for emphasis. + + 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. + + 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: + + Aeschylus blase cafe debut debutante elan elite Encyclopaedia + matinee minutiae paean regime soupcon unaesthetic + + Less-commonly-used 8-bit word forms in this book include: + + anaemic bleme coeur manoeuvered mediaevalist tete-a-tete and the + name “Borge”. + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's This Side of Paradise, by F. 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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. + + diff --git a/805-0.zip b/805-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c72067 --- /dev/null +++ b/805-0.zip diff --git a/805-8.txt b/805-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..920b57a --- /dev/null +++ b/805-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11795 @@ +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 + +Posting Date: August 6, 2008 [EBook #805] +Release Date: February, 1997 +[Last updated: June 22, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIS SIDE OF PARADISE *** + + + + +Produced by David Reed, and Ken Reeder + + + + + +THIS SIDE OF PARADISE + +By F. Scott Fitzgerald + + + ... Well this side of Paradise!... + There's little comfort in the wise. + --Rupert Brooke. + + + Experience is the name so many people + give to their mistakes. + --Oscar Wilde. + + + + To SIGOURNEY FAY + + + + +CONTENTS + + BOOK ONE: The Romantic Egotist + 1. AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE + 2. SPIRES AND GARGOYLES + 3. THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS + 4. NARCISSUS OFF DUTY + + [INTERLUDE: MAY, 1917-FEBRUARY, 1919. ] + + BOOK TWO: The Education of a Personage + 1. THE DEBUTANTE + 2. EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE + 3. YOUNG IRONY + 4. THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE + 5. THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE + + + + + +BOOK ONE--The Romantic Egotist + + + +CHAPTER 1. Amory, Son of Beatrice + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Amory." + +"Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for his mother; she encouraged it.) + +"Dear, don't _think_ 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." + +"All right." + +"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." + +Amory's penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled hair at +his mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her. + +"Amory." + +"Oh, _yes_." + +"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." + +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." + +"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; _here_, 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.... + +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. + +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. + +"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 _me_, my dear--" + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company--quite the +cardinal's right-hand man." + +"Amory will go to him one day, I know," breathed the beautiful lady, +"and Monsignor Darcy will understand him as he understood me." + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +A KISS FOR AMORY + +His lip curled when he read it. + + "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. + +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: + +"Aw--I b'lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was _lawgely_ an +affair of the middul _clawses_," or + +"Washington came of very good blood--aw, quite good--I b'lieve." + +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. + +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. + +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: + + 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. + + ***** + +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: + +"My _dear_ Mrs. St. Claire, I'm _frightfully_ 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." + +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. + +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. + +"Miss Myra," he said. + +To his surprise the butler grinned horribly. + +"Oh, yeah," he declared, "she's here." He was unaware that his failure +to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly. + +"But," continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, "she's the +only one what _is_ here. The party's gone." + +Amory gasped in sudden horror. + +"What?" + +"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." + +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. + +"'Lo, Amory." + +"'Lo, Myra." He had described the state of his vitality. + +"Well--you _got_ here, _any_ways." + +"Well--I'll tell you. I guess you don't know about the auto accident," +he romanced. + +Myra's eyes opened wide. + +"Who was it to?" + +"Well," he continued desperately, "uncle 'n aunt 'n I." + +"Was any one _killed?_" + +Amory paused and then nodded. + +"Your uncle?"--alarm. + +"Oh, no just a horse--a sorta gray horse." + +At this point the Erse butler snickered. + +"Probably killed the engine," he suggested. Amory would have put him on +the rack without a scruple. + +"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--" + +"Well, I couldn't help it, could I?" + +"So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the bobs +before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory." + +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. + +"What?" inquired Myra. + +"Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ 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 +blas seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude. + +"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right--let's hurry." + +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 +_English_, sort of." + +"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. + +"Why--yes--sure." + +He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes. + +"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." + +Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling +from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp. + +"Oh, _Amory_, don't smoke. You'll stunt your _growth!_" + +"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." + +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." + +Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely +improper. + +Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden +turn she was jolted against him; their hands touched. + +"You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. "Don't you know that?" + +He shook his head. + +"Nobody cares." + +Myra hesitated. + +"_I_ care." + +Something stirred within Amory. + +"Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody +knows that." + +"No, I haven't," very slowly. + +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. + +"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. + +"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I wanta talk +to you--I _got_ to talk to you." + +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. + +"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!" + +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. + +"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 +_good_." + +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. + +"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' _hard_, sorta, to the +chaperon." + +"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra. + +"How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at +last. + +"Oh--always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing with +Marylyn and I to-morrow?" + +"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." + +Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell +Marylyn! Here on the couch with this _wonderful_-looking boy--the little +fire--the sense that they were alone in the great building-- + +Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate. + +"I like you the first twenty-five," she confessed, her voice trembling, +"and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth." + +Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had not even +noticed it. + +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. + +"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. + +"Kiss me again." Her voice came out of a great void. + +"I don't want to," he heard himself saying. There was another pause. + +"I don't want to!" he repeated passionately. + +Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great bow on +the back of her head trembling sympathetically. + +"I hate you!" she cried. "Don't you ever dare to speak to me again!" + +"What?" stammered Amory. + +"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!" + +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. + +The door opened suddenly, and Myra's mother appeared on the threshold, +fumbling with her lorgnette. + +"Well," she began, adjusting it benignantly, "the man at the desk told +me you two children were up here--How do you do, Amory." + +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. + +"Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well--" + +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: + + "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." + + ***** + +SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +"Poor little Count," he cried. "Oh, _poor_ little _Count!_" + +After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of emotional +acting. + + ***** + +Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in literature +occurred in Act III of "Arsene Lupin." + +They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees. The +line was: + +"If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best thing +is to be a great criminal." + + ***** + +Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it: + + "Marylyn and Sallee, + Those are the girls for me. + Marylyn stands above + Sallee in that sweet, deep love." + +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. + +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. + +He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly fond of +the cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart. + + ***** + +School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard authors. +His masters considered him idle, unreliable and superficially clever. + + ***** + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + +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. + +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. + +Physically.--Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He was. He +fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple dancer. + +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. + +Mentally.--Complete, unquestioned superiority. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE + +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. + +"Dear boy--you're _so_ tall... look behind and see if there's anything +coming..." + +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. + +"You _are_ 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." + +"Don't embarrass me," murmured Amory. + +"But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a +_set_--don't they? Is your underwear purple, too?" + +Amory grunted impolitely. + +"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 +_know_." + +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. + +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. + +"Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird time +after I left you." + +"Did you, Beatrice?" + +"When I had my last breakdown"--she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant +feat. + +"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 _shattered_, my dear, and in his _grave_--long in +his grave." + +Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker. + +"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?" + +Amory had snickered. + +"What, Amory?" + +"I said go on, Beatrice." + +"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--" + +"Are you quite well now, Beatrice?" + +"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." + +Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his +head gently against her shoulder. + +"Poor Beatrice--poor Beatrice." + +"Tell me about _you_, Amory. Did you have two _horrible_ years?" + +Amory considered lying, and then decided against it. + +"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. + +"Beatrice," he said suddenly, "I want to go away to school. Everybody in +Minneapolis is going to go away to school." + +Beatrice showed some alarm. + +"But you're only fifteen." + +"Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I _want_ to, +Beatrice." + +On Beatrice's suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the +walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying: + +"Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, +you can go to school." + +"Yes?" + +"To St. Regis's in Connecticut." + +Amory felt a quick excitement. + +"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." + +"What are you going to do, Beatrice?" + +"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--" + +Amory did not answer, so his mother continued: + +"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?" + +Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the Japanese +invasion. + +"When do I go to school?" + +"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." + +"To who?" + +"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--" + +"Dear Beatrice--" + + ***** + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair +and we'll have a chat." + +"I've just come from school--St. Regis's, you know." + +"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--" + +Amory nodded vehemently. + +"Hate 'em all. Like English and history." + +"Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but I'm glad you're +going to St. Regis's." + +"Why?" + +"Because it's a gentleman's school, and democracy won't hit you so +early. You'll find plenty of that in college." + +"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." + +Monsignor chuckled. + +"I'm one, you know." + +"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--" + +"And Yale is November, crisp and energetic," finished Monsignor. + +"That's it." + +They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. + +"I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie," announced Amory. + +"Of course you were--and for Hannibal--" + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +... 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. + +But the trumpets were sounding for Amory's preliminary skirmish with his +own generation. + +"You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is +where we are not," said Monsignor. + +"I _am_ sorry--" + +"No, you're not. No one person in the world is necessary to you or to +me." + +"Well--" + +"Good-by." + + ***** + +THE EGOTIST DOWN + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + + ***** + +INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR + +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. + +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. + +"Amory," he began. "I've sent for you on a personal matter." + +"Yes, sir." + +"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." + +"Yes, sir," Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as +if he were an admitted failure. + +"But I've noticed," continued the older man blindly, "that you're not +very popular with the boys." + +"No, sir." Amory licked his lips. + +"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--" + +Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely controlling +his voice when he spoke. + +"I know--oh, _don't_ you s'pose I know." His voice rose. "I know what +they think; do you s'pose you have to _tell_ me!" He paused. "I'm--I've +got to go back now--hope I'm not rude--" + +He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked to his +house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped. + +"That _damn_ old fool!" he cried wildly. "As if I didn't _know!_" + +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." + + ***** + +INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL + +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. + + "Oh--you--wonderful girl, + What a wonderful girl you are--" + +sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately. + + "All--your--wonderful words + Thrill me through--" + +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! + +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: + +"What a _remarkable_-looking boy!" + +This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem +handsome to the population of New York. + +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: + +"I'd marry that girl to-night." + +There was no need to ask what girl he referred to. + +"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people," +continued Paskert. + +Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of +Paskert. It sounded so mature. + +"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?" + +"No, _sir_, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with emphasis, +"and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell." + +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. + +"Yes, _sir_, I'd marry that girl to-night!" + + ***** + +HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE + +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. + + ***** + +THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Got tobacco?" whispered Rahill one night, putting his head inside the +door five minutes after lights. + +"Sure." + +"I'm coming in." + +"Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don't you." + +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. + +"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--" + +"Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?" + +"I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers." + +"I'm not." + +"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. + +"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." + +"You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly. + +"A what?" + +"A slicker." + +"What the devil's that?" + +"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." + +"Who is one? What makes you one?" + +Amory considered. + +"Why--why, I suppose that the _sign_ of it is when a fellow slicks his +hair back with water." + +"Like Carstairs?" + +"Yes--sure. He's a slicker." + +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. + +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. + +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." + + + "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. + + + "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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles + + +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. + +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. + +"Chocolate sundae," he told a colored person. + +"Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?" + +"Why--yes." + +"Bacon bun?" + +"Why--yes." + +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 blas and casually critical, +which was as near as he could analyze the prevalent facial expression. + +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. + +"Come in!" + +A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the doorway. + +"Got a hammer?" + +"No--sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one." + +The stranger advanced into the room. + +"You an inmate of this asylum?" + +Amory nodded. + +"Awful barn for the rent we pay." + +Amory had to agree that it was. + +"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." + +The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself. + +"My name's Holiday." + +"Blaine's my name." + +They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned. + +"Where'd you prep?" + +"Andover--where did you?" + +"St. Regis's." + +"Oh, did you? I had a cousin there." + +They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he +was to meet his brother for dinner at six. + +"Come along and have a bite with us." + +"All right." + +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. + +"I hear Commons is pretty bad," said Amory. + +"That's the rumor. But you've got to eat there--or pay anyways." + +"Crime!" + +"Imposition!" + +"Oh, at Princeton you've got to swallow everything the first year. It's +like a damned prep school." + +Amory agreed. + +"Lot of pep, though," he insisted. "I wouldn't have gone to Yale for a +million." + +"Me either." + +"You going out for anything?" inquired Amory of the elder brother. + +"Not me--Burne here is going out for the Prince--the Daily Princetonian, +you know." + +"Yes, I know." + +"You going out for anything?" + +"Why--yes. I'm going to take a whack at freshman football." + +"Play at St. Regis's?" + +"Some," admitted Amory depreciatingly, "but I'm getting so damned thin." + +"You're not thin." + +"Well, I used to be stocky last fall." + +"Oh!" + +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. + +"Yoho!" + +"Oh, honey-baby--you're so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!" + +"Clinch!" + +"Oh, Clinch!" + +"Kiss her, kiss 'at lady, quick!" + +"Oh-h-h--!" + +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. + + + "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!" + +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. + +"Want a sundae--I mean a jigger?" asked Kerry. + +"Sure." + +They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to 12. + +"Wonderful night." + +"It's a whiz." + +"You men going to unpack?" + +"Guess so. Come on, Burne." + +Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade them +good night. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + "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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 mlange 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"But just now, Amory, you're only a sweaty bourgeois." + +Amory lay for a moment without speaking. + +"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." + +"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." + +Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows. + +"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." + +"Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, "you're a literary +genius. It's up to you." + +"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." + +"Well--go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy +D'Invilliers in the Lit." + +Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table. + +"Read his latest effort?" + +"Never miss 'em. They're rare." + +Amory glanced through the issue. + +"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he?" + +"Yeah." + +"Listen to this! My God! + + + "'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--' + + +"Now, what the devil does that mean?" + +"It's a pantry scene." + + + "'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!' + + +"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." + +"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." + +Amory tossed the magazine on the table. + +"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." + +"Why decide?" suggested Kerry. "Better drift, like me. I'm going to sail +into prominence on Burne's coat-tails." + +"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." + +"You're thinking too much about yourself." + +Amory sat up at this. + +"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." + +"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." + + ***** + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +Amory grinned. + +"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--" + +"What line do you throw 'em?" demanded Kerry. "I've tried everything, +and the mad wags aren't even afraid of me." + +"You're the 'nice boy' type," suggested Amory. + +"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." + +"Sulk," suggested Amory. "Tell 'em you're wild and have 'em reform +you--go home furious--come back in half an hour--startle 'em." + +Kerry shook his head. + +"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." + +Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as "good old Amory." He failed +completely. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book for a +moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily: + +"Ha! Great stuff!" + +The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial +embarrassment. + +"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. + +"No," Amory answered. "I was referring to Bernard Shaw." He turned the +book around in explanation. + +"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?" + +"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.) + +"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 _him_ 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. + +"Ever read any Oscar Wilde?" he asked. + +"No. Who wrote it?" + +"It's a man--don't you know?" + +"Oh, surely." A faint chord was struck in Amory's memory. "Wasn't the +comic opera, 'Patience,' written about him?" + +"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." + +"Why, I'd like it a lot--thanks." + +"Don't you want to come up to the room? I've got a few other books." + +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. + +"Yes, I'll go." + +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. + +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. + +One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany's poems +to the music of Kerry's graphophone. + +"Chant!" cried Tom. "Don't recite! Chant!" + +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. + +"Put on 'Hearts and Flowers'!" he howled. "Oh, my Lord, I'm going to +cast a kitten." + +"Shut off the damn graphophone," Amory cried, rather red in the face. +"I'm not giving an exhibition." + +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." + +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: + + "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..." + +"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. + +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. + + ***** + +A DAMP SYMBOLIC INTERLUDE + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"I'm very damn wet!" he said aloud to the sun-dial. + + ***** + +HISTORICAL + +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. + +That was his total reaction. + + ***** + +"HA-HA HORTENSE!" + +"All right, ponies!" + +"Shake it up!" + +"Hey, ponies--how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a mean +hip?" + +"Hey, _ponies!_" + +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. + +"All right. We'll take the pirate song." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +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 _conspicuously_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +"PETTING" + +On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant contact with that +great current American phenomenon, the "petting party." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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 _try_ to find her. + +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. + +"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. + +"I don't know. I'm just full of the devil." + +"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?" + +"No--but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to deserve +it?" + +"And you didn't feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of the +things you said? You just wanted to be--" + +"Oh, let's go in," she interrupted, "if you want to _analyze_. Let's not +_talk_ about it." + +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. + + ***** + +DESCRIPTIVE + +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. + + ***** + +ISABELLE + +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. + +"Isabelle!" called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the +dressing-room. + +"I'm ready." She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her throat. + +"I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. It'll be +just a minute." + +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: + +"You remember Amory Blaine, of _course_. 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." + +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: + +"How do you mean he's heard about me? What sort of things?" + +Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with her more +exotic cousin. + +"He knows you're--you're considered beautiful and all that"--she +paused--"and I guess he knows you've been kissed." + +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. + +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 _he_ dress like that boy there, who walked calmly down a +bustling business street, in moccasins and winter-carnival costume? How +very _Western!_ 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.... + +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, +_force_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +During this inspection Amory was quietly watching. + +"Don't _you_ think so?" she said suddenly, turning to him, +innocent-eyed. + +There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their table. Amory +struggled to Isabelle's side, and whispered: + +"You're my dinner partner, you know. We're all coached for each other." + +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: + +"I've heard a lot about you since you wore braids--" + +"Wasn't it funny this afternoon--" + +Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her face was always enough +answer for any one, but she decided to speak. + +"How--from whom?" + +"From everybody--for all the years since you've been away." She blushed +appropriately. On her right Froggy was _hors de combat_ already, +although he hadn't quite realized it. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Oh--what?" Isabelle's face was a study in enraptured curiosity. + +Amory shook his head. + +"I don't know you very well yet." + +"Will you tell me--afterward?" she half whispered. + +He nodded. + +"We'll sit out." + +Isabelle nodded. + +"Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes?" she said. + +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. + + ***** + +BABES IN THE WOODS + +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 blas +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. + +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 _making_ my evening." + +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. + +Boys who passed the door looked in enviously--girls who passed only +laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves. + +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. + +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. + +"Is Froggy a good friend of yours?" she asked. + +"Rather--why?" + +"He's a bum dancer." + +Amory laughed. + +"He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his arms." + +She appreciated this. + +"You're awfully good at sizing people up." + +Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people for +her. Then they talked about hands. + +"You've got awfully nice hands," she said. "They look as if you played +the piano. Do you?" + +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. + +"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: + +"I don't know whether or not you know what you--what I'm going to say. +Lordy, Isabelle--this _sounds_ like a line, but it isn't." + +"I know," said Isabelle softly. + +"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. + +"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: + +"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." + +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: + + + "Give me your hand + I'll understand + We're off to slumberland." + + +Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt Amory's hand close +over hers. + +"Isabelle," he whispered. "You know I'm mad about you. You _do_ give a +darn about me." + +"Yes." + +"How much do you care--do you like any one better?" + +"No." He could scarcely hear her, although he bent so near that he felt +her breath against his cheek. + +"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--" + +"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. + + + "Moonlight is bright, + Kiss me good night." + + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +"No," she answered. "I don't do that sort of thing any more; he asked me +to, but I said no." + +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--? + +"Fourteen angels were watching o'er them," sang Sally sleepily from the +next room. + +"Damn!" muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious lump and +exploring the cold sheets cautiously. "Damn!" + + ***** + +CARNIVAL + +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. + +"Oh, let me see--" he said one night to a flabbergasted delegation, +"what club do you represent?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hi, Dibby--'gratulations!" + +"Goo' boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap." + +"Say, Kerry--" + +"Oh, Kerry--I hear you went Tiger with all the weight-lifters!" "Well, I +didn't go Cottage--the parlor-snakes' delight." + +"They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid--Did he sign up the +first day?--oh, _no_. Tore over to Murray-Dodge on a bicycle--afraid it +was a mistake." + +"How'd you get into Cap--you old roue?" + +"'Gratulations!" + +"'Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Where'd you get the car?" demanded Amory cynically. + +"Sacred trust, but don't be a critical goopher or you can't go!" + +"I think I'll sleep," Amory said calmly, resettling himself and reaching +beside the bed for a cigarette. + +"Sleep!" + +"Why not? I've got a class at eleven-thirty." + +"You damned gloom! Of course, if you don't want to go to the coast--" + +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. + +"Who's going?" he demanded as he wriggled into his B. V. D.'s. + +"Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse Ferrenby and--oh about +five or six. Speed it up, kid!" + +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. + +"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." + +"Anybody got any money?" suggested Ferrenby, turning around from the +front seat. + +There was an emphatic negative chorus. + +"That makes it interesting." + +"Money--what's money? We can sell the car." + +"Charge him salvage or something." + +"How're we going to get food?" asked Amory. + +"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." + +"Three days," Amory mused, "and I've got classes." + +"One of the days is the Sabbath." + +"Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with over a month and a +half to go." + +"Throw him out!" + +"It's a long walk back." + +"Amory, you're running it out, if I may coin a new phrase." + +"Hadn't you better get some dope on yourself, Amory?" + +Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the +scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow. + + + "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--" + + +"What's the matter, Amory? Amory's thinking about poetry, about the +pretty birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye." + +"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." + +"Oh," said Kerry respectfully, "these important men--" + +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. + +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.... + +"Oh, good Lord! _Look_ at it!" he cried. + +"What?" + +"Let me out, quick--I haven't seen it for eight years! Oh, gentlefolk, +stop the car!" + +"What an odd child!" remarked Alec. + +"I do believe he's a bit eccentric." + +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. + +"Now we'll get lunch," ordered Kerry, wandering up with the crowd. "Come +on, Amory, tear yourself away and get practical." + +"We'll try the best hotel first," he went on, "and thence and so forth." + +They strolled along the boardwalk to the most imposing hostelry in +sight, and, entering the dining-room, scattered about a table. + +"Eight Bronxes," commanded Alec, "and a club sandwich and Juliennes. The +food for one. Hand the rest around." + +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. + +"What's the bill?" + +Some one scanned it. + +"Eight twenty-five." + +"Rotten overcharge. We'll give them two dollars and one for the waiter. +Kerry, collect the small change." + +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. + +"Some mistake, sir." + +Kerry took the bill and examined it critically. + +"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. + +"Won't he send after us?" + +"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--" + +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. + +"You see, Amory, we're Marxian Socialists," explained Kerry. "We don't +believe in property and we're putting it to the great test." + +"Night will descend," Amory suggested. + +"Watch, and put your trust in Holiday." + +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. + +"Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me present Messrs. Connage, Sloane, +Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine." + +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. + +"She prefers her native dishes," said Alec gravely to the waiter, "but +any coarse food will do." + +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. + +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 _noblesse oblige_ +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. +... + +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. + +"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." + +Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation. + +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. + +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 + + "Beaches of Lukanon before the sealers came." + + +It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Oh, Alec, I believe I'm tired of college," he said sadly, as they +walked the dusk together. + +"I think I am, too, in a way." + +"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." + +"Me, too." + +"I'd like to quit." + +"What does your girl say?" + +"Oh!" Amory gasped in horror. "She wouldn't _think_ of marrying... that +is, not now. I mean the future, you know." + +"My girl would. I'm engaged." + +"Are you really?" + +"Yes. Don't say a word to anybody, please, but I am. I may not come back +next year." + +"But you're only twenty! Give up college?" + +"Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago--" + +"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." + +"What a waste these nights are!" agreed Alec. + +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. + + ... Oh it's so hard to write you what I really _feel_ when I + think about you so much; you've gotten to mean to me a _dream_ 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 _frank_ 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 + _you_ 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 _thought_ 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 _best_. + + 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 blas, because it's not that. It's just + that I'm in love. Oh, _dearest_ 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.... + +And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them infinitely +charming, infinitely new. + + ***** + +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. + +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. + +"Let's borrow bicycles and take a ride," Amory suggested. + +"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." + +They found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court and rode out about +half-past three along the Lawrenceville Road. + +"What are you going to do this summer, Amory?" + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"You consider you taught me that, don't you?" he asked quizzically, +eying Amory in the half dark. + +Amory laughed quietly. + +"Didn't I?" + +"Sometimes," he said slowly, "I think you're my bad angel. I might have +been a pretty fair poet." + +"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." + +"Yes," he agreed, "you're right. I wouldn't have liked it. Still, it's +hard to be made a cynic at twenty." + +"I was born one," Amory murmured. "I'm a cynical idealist." He paused +and wondered if that meant anything. + +They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to ride +back. + +"It's good, this ride, isn't it?" Tom said presently. + +"Yes; it's a good finish, it's knock-out; everything's good to-night. +Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle!" + +"Oh, you and your Isabelle! I'll bet she's a simple one... let's say +some poetry." + +So Amory declaimed "The Ode to a Nightingale" to the bushes they passed. + +"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." + +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. + + ***** + +UNDER THE ARC-LIGHT + +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. + +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. ... + + + 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.... + + +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: + +"You Princeton boys?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, there's one of you killed here, and two others about dead." + +"_My God!_" + +"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. + +They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that head--that +hair--that hair... and then they turned the form over. + +"It's Dick--Dick Humbird!" + +"Oh, Christ!" + +"Feel his heart!" + +Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking triumph: + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _God!_..." He +threw himself face downward on the floor and broke into dry sobs. + +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. _He_ 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. + +"Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby." + +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. + + ***** + +CRESCENDO! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I say, old man, I've got an awfully nice--" + +"Sorry, Kaye, but I'm set for this one. I've got to cut in on a fella." + +"Well, the next one?" + +"What--ah--er--I swear I've got to go cut in--look me up when she's got +a dance free." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + + + +CHAPTER 3. The Egotist Considers + + +"Ouch! Let me go!" + +He dropped his arms to his sides. + +"What's the matter?" + +"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. + +"Oh, Isabelle," he reproached himself, "I'm a goopher. Really, I'm +sorry--I shouldn't have held you so close." + +She looked up impatiently. + +"Oh, Amory, of course you couldn't help it, and it didn't hurt much; but +what _are_ we going to do about it?" + +"_Do_ about it?" he asked. "Oh--that spot; it'll disappear in a second." + +"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 _just_ +the height of your shoulder." + +"Massage it," he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination to +laugh. + +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. + +"Oh, Amory," she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic face, +"I'll just make my whole neck _flame_ if I rub it. What'll I do?" + +A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn't resist repeating it +aloud. + + "All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand." + + +She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like ice. + +"You're not very sympathetic." + +Amory mistook her meaning. + +"Isabelle, darling, I think it'll--" + +"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Haven't I enough on my mind and you stand +there and _laugh!_" + +Then he slipped again. + +"Well, it _is_ funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day about +a sense of humor being--" + +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. + +"Oh, shut up!" she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway toward her +room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion. + +"Damn!" + +When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her +shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that endured +through dinner. + +"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." + +Isabelle considered glumly. + +"I hate to be laughed at," she said finally. + +"I won't laugh any more. I'm not laughing now, am I?" + +"You did." + +"Oh, don't be so darned feminine." + +Her lips curled slightly. + +"I'll be anything I want." + +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, _pleading_, +with a doughty warrior like Isabelle. + +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.... + +Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil's food in the pantry, +and Amory announced a decision. + +"I'm leaving early in the morning." + +"Why?" + +"Why not?" he countered. + +"There's no need." + +"However, I'm going." + +"Well, if you insist on being ridiculous--" + +"Oh, don't put it that way," he objected. + +"--just because I won't let you kiss me. Do you think--" + +"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." + +She hesitated. + +"I really don't know what to think about you," she began, in a feeble, +perverse attempt at conciliation. "You're so funny." + +"How?" + +"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?" + +Amory flushed. He _had_ told her a lot of things. + +"Yes." + +"Well, you didn't seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you're +just plain conceited." + +"No, I'm not," he hesitated. "At Princeton--" + +"Oh, you and Princeton! You'd think that was the world, the way you +talk! Perhaps you _can_ write better than anybody else on your old +Princetonian; maybe the freshmen _do_ think you're important--" + +"You don't understand--" + +"Yes, I do," she interrupted. "I _do_, because you're always talking +about yourself and I used to like it; now I don't." + +"Have I to-night?" + +"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." + +"I make you think, do I?" Amory repeated with a touch of vanity. + +"You're a nervous strain"--this emphatically--"and when you analyze +every little emotion and instinct I just don't have 'em." + +"I know." Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly. + +"Let's go." She stood up. + +He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. + +"What train can I get?" + +"There's one about 9:11 if you really must go." + +"Yes, I've got to go, really. Good night." + +"Good night." + +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. + +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. + +There was a knock at the door. + +"The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir." + +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: + + + "Each life unfulfilled, you see, + It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; + We have not sighed deep, laughed free, + Starved, feasted, despaired--been happy." + + +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! + +"Damn her!" he said bitterly, "she's spoiled my year!" + + ***** + +THE SUPERMAN GROWS CARELESS + +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. + +"Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point be?" + +Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material and +tries to concentrate. + +"Oh--ah--I'm damned if I know, Mr. Rooney." + +"Oh, why of course, of course you can't _use_ that formula. _That's_ +what I wanted you to say." + +"Why, sure, of course." + +"Do you see why?" + +"You bet--I suppose so." + +"If you don't see, tell me. I'm here to show you." + +"Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don't mind, I wish you'd go over that again." + +"Gladly. Now here's 'A'..." + +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 _had_ 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. + +"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.... + +Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that filled +the room would come the inevitable helpless cry: + +"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. + +There was always his luck. + +He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered from +the room. + +"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." + +"Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?" + +"'Cause you deserve it. Anybody that'd risk what you were in line for +_ought_ to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman." + +"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: + +"Oh, Tom, any mail?" + +Alec's head appeared against the yellow square of light. + +"Yes, your result's here." + +His heart clamored violently. + +"What is it, blue or pink?" + +"Don't know. Better come up." + +He walked into the room and straight over to the table, and then +suddenly noticed that there were other people in the room. + +"'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. + +"We have here quite a slip of paper." + +"Open it, Amory." + +"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." + +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. + +"Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emotions." + +He tore it open and held the slip up to the light. + +"Well?" + +"Pink or blue?" + +"Say what it is." + +"We're all ears, Amory." + +"Smile or swear--or something." + +There was a pause... a small crowd of seconds swept by... then he looked +again and another crowd went on into time. + +"Blue as the sky, gentlemen...." + + ***** + +AFTERMATH + +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. + +"Your own laziness," said Alec later. + +"No--something deeper than that. I've begun to feel that I was meant to +lose this chance." + +"They're rather off you at the club, you know; every man that doesn't +come through makes our crowd just so much weaker." + +"I hate that point of view." + +"Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a comeback." + +"No--I'm through--as far as ever being a power in college is concerned." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Your system broke, you mean." + +"Maybe." + +"Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one quick, or just bum +around for two more years as a has-been?" + +"I don't know yet..." + +"Oh, Amory, buck up!" + +"Maybe." + +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: + + 1. The fundamental Amory. + + 2. Amory plus Beatrice. + + 3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. + +Then St. Regis' had pulled him to pieces and started him over again: + + 4. Amory plus St. Regis'. + + 5. Amory plus St. Regis' plus Princeton. + +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: + + 6. The fundamental Amory. + + ***** + +FINANCIAL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + "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 _practical_ 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 _once_ a week, because I + imagine all sorts of horrible things if I don't hear from you. + Affectionately, MOTHER." + + ***** + +FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM "PERSONAGE" + +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. + +"I've felt like leaving college, Monsignor." + +"Why?" + +"All my career's gone up in smoke; you think it's petty and all that, +but--" + +"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." + +Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his egotistic +highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had left his voice. + +"What would you do if you left college?" asked Monsignor. + +"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." + +"You know you wouldn't like to go." + +"Sometimes I would--to-night I'd go in a second." + +"Well, you'd have to be very much more tired of life than I think you +are. I know you." + +"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." + +"Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I'm not worried about you; you +seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally." + +"No," Amory objected. "I've lost half my personality in a year." + +"Not a bit of it!" scoffed Monsignor. "You've lost a great amount of +vanity and that's all." + +"Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I'd gone through another fifth form at St. +Regis's." + +"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." + +"What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?" + +"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." + +"But, Monsignor, I can't do the next thing." + +"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." + +"Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of thing I +should do." + +"We have to do it because we're not personalities, but personages." + +"That's a good line--what do you mean?" + +"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." + +"And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off when I +needed them." Amory continued the simile eagerly. + +"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." + +"But, on the other hand, if I haven't my possessions, I'm helpless!" + +"Absolutely." + +"That's certainly an idea." + +"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!" + +"How clear you can make things!" + +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. + +"Why do I make lists?" Amory asked him one night. "Lists of all sorts of +things?" + +"Because you're a mediaevalist," Monsignor answered. "We both are. It's +the passion for classifying and finding a type." + +"It's a desire to get something definite." + +"It's the nucleus of scholastic philosophy." + +"I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up here. +It was a pose, I guess." + +"Don't worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest pose of +all. Pose--" + +"Yes?" + +"But do the next thing." + +After Amory returned to college he received several letters from +Monsignor which gave him more egotistic food for consumption. + + 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. + + +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. + +Together with Tom D'Invilliers, he sought among the lights of Princeton +for some one who might found the Great American Poetic Tradition. + +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. + +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. + + + "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 _highest rules of criticism_ + For _cheap_ and _careless_ 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 _narrow-minded earth_ + The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth." + + +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. + + ***** + +THE DEVIL + +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. + +"Table for four in the middle of the floor," yelled Phoebe. "Hurry, old +dear, tell 'em we're here!" + +"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. + +"There's Findle Margotson, from New Haven!" she cried above the uproar. +"'Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!" + +"Oh, Axia!" he shouted in salutation. "C'mon over to our table." "No!" +Amory whispered. + +"Can't do it, Findle; I'm with somebody else! Call me up to-morrow about +one o'clock!" + +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. + +"There's a natural damn fool," commented Amory. + +"Oh, he's all right. Here's the old jitney waiter. If you ask me, I want +a double Daiquiri." + +"Make it four." + +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. + +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. + +"Who's that pale fool watching us?" he complained indignantly. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Where now?" + +"Up to the flat," suggested Phoebe. "We've got brandy and fizz--and +everything's slow down here to-night." + +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. + +"Phoebe's great stuff," confided Sloane, sotto voce. + +"I'm only going to stay half an hour," Amory said sternly. He wondered +if it sounded priggish. + +"Hell y' say," protested Sloane. "We're here now--don't le's rush." + +"I don't like this place," Amory said sulkily, "and I don't want any +food." + +Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and four +glasses. + +"Amory, pour 'em out," she said, "and we'll drink to Fred Sloane, who +has a rare, distinguished edge." + +"Yes," said Axia, coming in, "and Amory. I like Amory." She sat down +beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder. + +"I'll pour," said Sloane; "you use siphon, Phoebe." + +They filled the tray with glasses. + +"Ready, here she goes!" + +Amory hesitated, glass in hand. + +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.... + +He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia's voice came +out of the void with a strange goodness. + +"Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory's sick--old head going 'round?" + +"Look at that man!" cried Amory, pointing toward the corner divan. + +"You mean that purple zebra!" shrieked Axia facetiously. "Ooo-ee! +Amory's got a purple zebra watching him!" + +Sloane laughed vacantly. + +"Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?" + +There was a silence.... The man regarded Amory quizzically.... Then the +human voices fell faintly on his ear: + +"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.... + +"Come back! Come back!" Axia's arm fell on his. "Amory, dear, you aren't +going, Amory!" He was half-way to the door. + +"Come on, Amory, stick 'th us!" + +"Sick, are you?" + +"Sit down a second!" + +"Take some water." + +"Take a little brandy...." + +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... + +As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the sickly +electric light of the paved hall. + + ***** + +IN THE ALLEY + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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; _but he knew, for the half instant that the gong tanged and +hummed, that it was the face of Dick Humbird._ + +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. + + ***** + +AT THE WINDOW + +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. + +Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the +painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory. + +"For God's sake, let's go back! Let's get off of this--this place!" + +Sloane looked at him in amazement. + +"What do you mean?" + +"This street, it's ghastly! Come on! let's get back to the Avenue!" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting a +cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing him. + +"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." + +"Don't tell me about it!" Amory almost shrieked. "Don't say a word; I'm +tired and pepped out." + +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." + +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. + +"God help us!" Amory cried. + +"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." + +Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair again. + +"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!" + +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. + + + +CHAPTER 4. Narcissus Off Duty + + +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. + +"Heard the latest?" said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening with +that triumphant air he always wore after a successful conversational +bout. + +"No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?" + +"Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going to +resign from their clubs." + +"What!" + +"Actual fact!" + +"Why!" + +"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." + +"Well, what's the idea of the thing?" + +"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." + +"But this is the real thing?" + +"Absolutely. I think it'll go through." + +"For Pete's sake, tell me more about it." + +"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." + +"Fine! I swear I think it'll be most entertaining. How do they feel up +at Cap and Gown?" + +"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." + +"How do the radicals stand up?" + +"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." + +"And you say almost a third of the junior class are going to resign?" + +"Call it a fourth and be safe." + +"Lord--who'd have thought it possible!" + +There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in. "Hello, +Amory--hello, Tom." + +Amory rose. + +"'Evening, Burne. Don't mind if I seem to rush; I'm going to Renwick's." + +Burne turned to him quickly. + +"You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn't a bit +private. I wish you'd stay." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"How about religion?" Amory asked him. + +"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." + +"Read what?" + +"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.'" + +"What chiefly started you?" + +"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." + +"Poetry?" + +"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." + +"Whitman?" + +"Yes; he's a definite ethical force." + +"Well, I'm ashamed to say that I'm a blank on the subject of Whitman. +How about you, Tom?" + +Tom nodded sheepishly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Are you coming to the Harvard game?" Burne had asked indiscreetly, +merely to make conversation. + +"If you ask me," cried Phyllis quickly. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"But, Burne--why did you _invite_ her if you didn't want her?" + +"Burne, you _know_ you're secretly mad about her--that's the _real_ +trouble." + +"What can _you_ do, Burne? What can _you_ do against Phyllis?" + +But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which consisted +largely of the phrase: "She'll see, she'll see!" + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Phyllis Styles must be _awfully hard up_ to have to come with _those +two_." + +That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. From +that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to orient with +progress.... + +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. + +"Don't you mind losing prestige?" asked Amory one night. They had taken +to exchanging calls several times a week. + +"Of course I don't. What's prestige, at best?" + +"Some people say that you're just a rather original politician." + +He roared with laughter. + +"That's what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it coming." + +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: + +"Of course health counts--a healthy man has twice the chance of being +good," he said. + +"I don't agree with you--I don't believe in 'muscular Christianity.'" + +"I do--I believe Christ had great physical vigor." + +"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." + +"Half of them have." + +"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." + +"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 _do_ +know--personal appearance has a lot to do with it." + +"Coloring?" Amory asked eagerly. + +"Yes." + +"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 +_two-thirds_ of every senior council are light. We looked at pictures +of ten years of them, mind you; that means that out of every _fifteen_ +light-haired men in the senior class _one_ is on the senior council, and +of the dark-haired men it's only one in _fifty_." + +"It's true," Burne agreed. "The light-haired man _is_ 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." + +"People unconsciously admit it," said Amory. "You'll notice a blond +person is _expected_ 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." + +"And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose undoubtedly make +the superior face." + +"I'm not so sure." Amory was all for classical features. + +"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. + +"Aren't they wonderful?" + +Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. + +"Burne, I think they're the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came across. +They look like an old man's home." + +"Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi's eyes." +His tone was reproachful. + +Amory shook his head. + +"No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you want--but ugly they +certainly are." + +Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious foreheads, +and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. + +Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he +persuaded Amory to accompany him. + +"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." + +"That's useless, you know." + +"Quite possibly." + +"We'll go east," Burne suggested, "and down that string of roads through +the woods." + +"Doesn't sound very appealing to me," admitted Amory reluctantly, "but +let's go." + +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. + +"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." + +"Go on," Amory urged eagerly. They were striding toward the woods, +Burne's nervous, enthusiastic voice warming to his subject. + +"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?" + +"I do," Amory admitted. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Well," Burne said suddenly, after a few moments' silence, "we're +half-way through, let's turn back." + +On the return he launched into a discussion of will. + +"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." + +"How about great criminals?" + +"They're usually insane. If not, they're weak. There is no such thing as +a strong, sane criminal." + +"Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about the superman?" + +"Well?" + +"He's evil, I think, yet he's strong and sane." + +"I've never met him. I'll bet, though, that he's stupid or insane." + +"I've met him over and over and he's neither. That's why I think you're +wrong." + +"I'm sure I'm not--and so I don't believe in imprisonment except for the +insane." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"It's a bad time to admit it--people are beginning to think he's odd." + +"He's way over their heads--you know you think so yourself when you +talk to him--Good Lord, Tom, you _used_ to stand out against 'people.' +Success has completely conventionalized you." + +Tom grew rather annoyed. + +"What's he trying to do--be excessively holy?" + +"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." + +"He certainly is getting in wrong." + +"Have you talked to him lately?" + +"No." + +"Then you haven't any conception of him." + +The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how the +sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus. + +"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." + +The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a +recitation. + +"Whither bound, Tsar?" + +"Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby," he waved a copy of the +morning's Princetonian at Amory. "He wrote this editorial." + +"Going to flay him alive?" + +"No--but he's got me all balled up. Either I've misjudged him or he's +suddenly become the world's worst radical." + +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. + +"Hello, Jesse." + +"Hello there, Savonarola." + +"I just read your editorial." + +"Good boy--didn't know you stooped that low." + +"Jesse, you startled me." + +"How so?" + +"Aren't you afraid the faculty'll get after you if you pull this +irreligious stuff?" + +"What?" + +"Like this morning." + +"What the devil--that editorial was on the coaching system." + +"Yes, but that quotation--" + +Jesse sat up. + +"What quotation?" + +"You know: 'He who is not with me is against me.'" + +"Well--what about it?" + +Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed. + +"Well, you say here--let me see." Burne opened the paper and read: +"'_He who is not with me is against me_, as that gentleman said who +was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and puerile +generalities.'" + +"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." + +Burne roared with laughter. + +"Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse." + +"Who said it, for Pete's sake?" + +"Well," said Burne, recovering his voice, "St. Matthew attributes it to +Christ." + +"My God!" cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the waste-basket. + + ***** + +AMORY WRITES A POEM + +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--? + +Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very soft, +vibrant voice: "Oh, I'm such a poor little fool; _do_ tell me when I do +wrong." + +The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of +Isabelle. + +He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble rapidly: + + "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, _did_ 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." + + ***** + +STILL CALM + +"Ghosts are such dumb things," said Alec, "they're slow-witted. I can +always outguess a ghost." + +"How?" asked Tom. + +"Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use _any_ +discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom." + +"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. + +"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 +_cleared_--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. _Always, always_ run the stick in viciously first--_never_ look +first!" + +"Of course, that's the ancient Celtic school," said Tom gravely. + +"Yes--but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to clear +the closets and also for behind all doors--" + +"And the bed," Amory suggested. + +"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 _almost always_ under the bed." + +"Well" Amory began. + +Alec waved him into silence. + +"Of _course_ 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." + +"All that's very interesting, Tom." + +"Isn't it?" Alec beamed proudly. "All my own, too--the Sir Oliver Lodge +of the new world." + +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. + +"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." + +Amory looked up innocently. + +"What?" + +"What?" mimicked Alec. "Are you trying to read yourself into a rhapsody +with--let's see the book." + +He snatched it; regarded it derisively. + +"Well?" said Amory a little stiffly. + +"'The Life of St. Teresa,'" read Alec aloud. "Oh, my gosh!" + +"Say, Alec." + +"What?" + +"Does it bother you?" + +"Does what bother me?" + +"My acting dazed and all that?" + +"Why, no--of course it doesn't _bother_ me." + +"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." + +"You're getting a reputation for being eccentric," said Alec, laughing, +"if that's what you mean." + +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. + +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. + +Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an interesting +P. S.: + + "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." + + +Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor.... + + ***** + +CLARA + +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. + +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 _girls' boarding-schools_ 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. + +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. + +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 _knitting_ and +_embroidery_), 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. + +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. + +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. + +"You _are_ remarkable, aren't you!" Amory was becoming trite from where +he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six o'clock. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Tell me about yourself." And she gave the answer that Adam must have +given. + +"There's nothing to tell." + +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 _different_ 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. + +"_Nobody_ seems to bore you," he objected. + +"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. + +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 +_them_ as being among the saved). + + ***** + +ST. CECILIA + + "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." + + +"Do you like me?" + +"Of course I do," said Clara seriously. + +"Why?" + +"Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are spontaneous in +each of us--or were originally." + +"You're implying that I haven't used myself very well?" + +Clara hesitated. + +"Well, I can't judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot more, +and I've been sheltered." + +"Oh, don't stall, please, Clara," Amory interrupted; "but do talk about +me a little, won't you?" + +"Surely, I'd adore to." She didn't smile. + +"That's sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully +conceited?" + +"Well--no, you have tremendous vanity, but it'll amuse the people who +notice its preponderance." + +"I see." + +"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." + +"Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let me say a +word." + +"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." + +"But I am, potentially." + +"And you say you're a weak character, that you've no will." + +"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--" + +"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." + +"You certainly interest me. If this isn't boring you, go on." + +"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." + +"Yes," objected Amory, "but isn't it lack of will-power to let my +imagination shinny on the wrong side?" + +"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." + +"Well, I'll be darned!" exclaimed Amory in surprise, "that's the last +thing I expected." + +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. + +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. + +"I'll bet she won't stay single long." + +"Well, don't scream it out. She ain't lookin' for no advice." + +"_Ain't_ she beautiful!" + + (Enter a floor-walker--silence till he moves forward, smirking.) + +"Society person, ain't she?" + +"Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say." + +"Gee! girls, _ain't_ she some kid!" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it all that night. He +couldn't help it. + +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. + +"I think," he said and his voice trembled, "that if I lost faith in you +I'd lose faith in God." + +She looked at him with such a startled face that he asked her the +matter. + +"Nothing," she said slowly, "only this: five men have said that to me +before, and it frightens me." + +"Oh, Clara, is that your fate!" + +She did not answer. + +"I suppose love to you is--" he began. + +She turned like a flash. + +"I have never been in love." + +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: + +"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--" + +She shook her head. + +"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. + +"Amory." + +"What?" + +"You're not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did you?" + +"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--" + +"There you go--running through your catalogue of emotions in five +seconds." + +He smiled unwillingly. + +"Don't make me out such a light-weight, Clara; you _are_ depressing +sometimes." + +"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." + +"There's so much spring in the air--there's so much lazy sweetness in +your heart." + +She dropped his arm. + +"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." + +And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like two mad +children gone wild with pale-blue twilight. + +"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." + +"Oh, Clara!" Amory said; "what a devil you could have been if the Lord +had just bent your soul a little the other way!" + +"Maybe," she answered; "but I think not. I'm never really wild and never +have been. That little outburst was pure spring." + +"And you are, too," said he. + +They were walking along now. + +"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." + +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: + +"Oh, if I could only have gotten _you!_" Oh, the enormous conceit of the +man! + +But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara's bright +soul still gleamed on the ways they had trod. + +"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..." + + ***** + +AMORY IS RESENTFUL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"But, Amory, listen--" + +"Burne, we'd just argue--" + +"Very well." + +"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 +_German?_" + +"Some of them are, of course." + +"How do you know they aren't _all_ pro-German--just a lot of weak +ones--with German-Jewish names." + +"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." + +Amory's heart sank. + +"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--" + +"I doubt it," he interrupted. + +"Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me." + +"I know what you mean, and that's why I'm not sure I'll agitate." + +"You're one man, Burne--going to talk to people who won't listen--with +all God's given you." + +"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." + +"Go on." + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"I'm going next week." + +"I'll see you, of course." + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + +"Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal Richelieu," suggested +Alec, who was lounging in the window-seat as Burne and Amory shook +hands. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Have you ever read anything of theirs?" asked Tom shrewdly. + +"No," Amory admitted. + +"Neither have I," he said laughing. + +"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!" + +Amory subsided, and the subject dropped. + +"What are you going to do, Amory?" + +"Infantry or aviation, I can't make up my mind--I hate mechanics, but +then of course aviation's the thing for me--" + +"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." + +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. + + + Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep + Who sowed the bitter harvest that your children go to reap-- + +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. + + + "They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin was about, + They shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried out--" + + +But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that out. + +"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. + + + "You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, + You thanked him for your 'glorious gains'--reproached him for + 'Cathay.'" + + +Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time? Now he needed +something to rhyme with: + + + "You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong + before..." + + +Well, anyway.... + + + "You met your children in your home--'I've fixed it up!' you cried, + Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuously--died." + +"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." + +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. + +"Here's a poem to the Victorians, sir," he said coldly. + +The professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly through +the door. + +Here is what he had written: + + + "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." + + + ***** + +THE END OF MANY THINGS + +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. + +"This is the great protest against the superman," said Amory. + +"I suppose so," Alec agreed. + +"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." + +"And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral sense." + +"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?" + +"What brings it about?" + +"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." + +"God! Haven't we raked the universe over the coals for four years?" + +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. + +"The grass is full of ghosts to-night." + +"The whole campus is alive with them." + +They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver of the +slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees. + +"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." + +A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch--broken voices for +some long parting. + +"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." + +"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--" + +"Good-by, Aaron Burr," Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, "you +and I knew strange corners of life." + +His voice echoed in the stillness. + +"The torches are out," whispered Tom. "Ah, Messalina, the long shadows +are building minarets on the stadium--" + +For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and then +they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes. + +"Damn!" + +"Damn!" + +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. + +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. + + + + +INTERLUDE + +May, 1917-February, 1919 + + +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. + + +MY DEAR BOY: + +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 _plump!_ 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.... + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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.... + +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.... + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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 _will_ smoke +and read all night-- + +At any rate here it is: + + +A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to the War Against the King of +Foreign. + + "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." + +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. + + ***** + +EMBARKING AT NIGHT + +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: + + + "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." + + +A letter from Amory, headed "Brest, March 11th, 1919," to Lieutenant T. +P. D'Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga. + + +DEAR BAUDELAIRE:-- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + S'ever, dear Boswell, + + SAMUEL JOHNSON. + + + + +BOOK TWO--The Education of a Personage + + + +CHAPTER 1. The Debutante + + +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. + +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. + +An indistinguishable mumble from the next room. + +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. + +More chatter outside and a girl's voice, a very spoiled voice, says: "Of +all the stupid people--" + +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. + +CECELIA: Pink? + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes! + +CECELIA: _Very_ snappy? + +ROSALIND: Yes! + +CECELIA: I've got it! + +(She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and commences to +shimmy enthusiastically.) + +ROSALIND: (Outside) What are you doing--trying it on? + +(CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right shoulder. + +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.) + +ALEC: So _that's_ where you all are! Amory Blaine is here. + +CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs. + +ALEC: Oh, he _is_ down-stairs. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him I'm +sorry that I can't meet him now. + +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. + +(This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.) + +CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How do you +mean--temperamental? You used to say that about him in letters. + +ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff. + +CECELIA: Does he play the piano? + +ALEC: Don't think so. + +CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink? + +ALEC: Yes--nothing queer about him. + +CECELIA: Money? + +ALEC: Good Lord--ask him, he used to have a lot, and he's got some +income now. + +(MRS. CONNAGE appears.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we're glad to have any friend of yours-- + +ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory. + +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 _all_ the attention. + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming here and hooking me. + +(MRS. CONNAGE goes.) + +ALEC: Rosalind hasn't changed a bit. + +CECELIA: (In a lower tone) She's awfully spoiled. + +ALEC: She'll meet her match to-night. + +CECELIA: Who--Mr. Amory Blaine? + +(ALEC nods.) + +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. + +ALEC: They love it. + +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. + +ALEC: Personality runs in our family. + +CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got to me. + +ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself? + +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. + +(Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind's almost finished so I can go down and meet your +friend. + +(ALEC and his mother go out.) + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother-- + +CECELIA: Mother's gone down. + +(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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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.) + +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. + +CECELIA: Glad you're coming out? + +ROSALIND: Yes; aren't you? + +CECELIA: (Cynically) You're glad so you can get married and live on Long +Island with the _fast younger married set_. You want life to be a chain +of flirtation with a man for every link. + +ROSALIND: _Want_ it to be one! You mean I've _found_ it one. + +CECELIA: Ha! + +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. + +CECELIA: It must be an awful strain. + +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. + +CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting you +do. + +ROSALIND: Sometimes when I've felt particularly radiant I've thought, +why should this be wasted on one man? + +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. + +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. + +CECELIA: Well, I'm glad I don't have all your worries. I'm engaged. + +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. + +CECELIA: You won't tell her, though, because I know things I could +tell--and you're too selfish! + +ROSALIND: (A little annoyed) Run along, little girl! Who are you engaged +to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store? + +CECELIA: Cheap wit--good-by, darling, I'll see you later. + +ROSALIND: Oh, be _sure_ and do that--you're such a help. + +(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.) + +HE: Oh, I'm sorry. I thought-- + +SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you're Amory Blaine, aren't you? + +HE: (Regarding her closely) And you're Rosalind? + +SHE: I'm going to call you Amory--oh, come in--it's all right--mother'll +be right in--(under her breath) unfortunately. + +HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for me. + +SHE: This is No Man's Land. + +HE: This is where you--you--(pause) + +SHE: Yes--all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) See, here's my +rouge--eye pencils. + +HE: I didn't know you were that way. + +SHE: What did you expect? + +HE: I thought you'd be sort of--sort of--sexless, you know, swim and +play golf. + +SHE: Oh, I do--but not in business hours. + +HE: Business? + +SHE: Six to two--strictly. + +HE: I'd like to have some stock in the corporation. + +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. + +HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition. + +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. + +HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on women. + +SHE: I'm not really feminine, you know--in my mind. + +HE: (Interested) Go on. + +SHE: No, you--you go on--you've made me talk about myself. That's +against the rules. + +HE: Rules? + +SHE: My own rules--but you--Oh, Amory, I hear you're brilliant. The +family expects _so_ much of you. + +HE: How encouraging! + +SHE: Alec said you'd taught him to think. Did you? I didn't believe any +one could. + +HE: No. I'm really quite dull. + +(He evidently doesn't intend this to be taken seriously.) + +SHE: Liar. + +HE: I'm--I'm religious--I'm literary. I've--I've even written poems. + +SHE: Vers libre--splendid! (She declaims.) + + + "The trees are green, + The birds are singing in the trees, + The girl sips her poison + The bird flies away the girl dies." + + +HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind. + +SHE: (Suddenly) I like you. + +HE: Don't. + +SHE: Modest too-- + +HE: I'm afraid of you. I'm always afraid of a girl--until I've kissed +her. + +SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over. + +HE: So I'll always be afraid of you. + +SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will. + +(A slight hesitation on both their parts.) + +HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing to ask. + +SHE: (Knowing what's coming) After five minutes. + +HE: But will you--kiss me? Or are you afraid? + +SHE: I'm never afraid--but your reasons are so poor. + +HE: Rosalind, I really _want_ to kiss you. + +SHE: So do I. + +(They kiss--definitely and thoroughly.) + +HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity satisfied? + +SHE: Is yours? + +HE: No, it's only aroused. + +(He looks it.) + +SHE: (Dreamily) I've kissed dozens of men. I suppose I'll kiss dozens +more. + +HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could--like that. + +SHE: Most people like the way I kiss. + +HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, Rosalind. + +SHE: No--my curiosity is generally satisfied at one. + +HE: (Discouraged) Is that a rule? + +SHE: I make rules to fit the cases. + +HE: You and I are somewhat alike--except that I'm years older in +experience. + +SHE: How old are you? + +HE: Almost twenty-three. You? + +SHE: Nineteen--just. + +HE: I suppose you're the product of a fashionable school. + +SHE: No--I'm fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence--I've +forgotten why. + +HE: What's your general trend? + +SHE: Oh, I'm bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond of +admiration-- + +HE: (Suddenly) I don't want to fall in love with you-- + +SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to. + +HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love your mouth. + +SHE: Hush! Please don't fall in love with my mouth--hair, eyes, +shoulders, slippers--but _not_ my mouth. Everybody falls in love with my +mouth. + +HE: It's quite beautiful. + +SHE: It's too small. + +HE: No it isn't--let's see. + +(He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.) + +SHE: (Rather moved) Say something sweet. + +HE: (Frightened) Lord help me. + +SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don't--if it's so hard. + +HE: Shall we pretend? So soon? + +SHE: We haven't the same standards of time as other people. + +HE: Already it's--other people. + +SHE: Let's pretend. + +HE: No--I can't--it's sentiment. + +SHE: You're not sentimental? + +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. + +SHE: And you're not? (With her eyes half-closed.) You probably flatter +yourself that that's a superior attitude. + +HE: Well--Rosalind, Rosalind, don't argue--kiss me again. + +SHE: (Quite chilly now) No--I have no desire to kiss you. + +HE: (Openly taken aback) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago. + +SHE: This is now. + +HE: I'd better go. + +SHE: I suppose so. + +(He goes toward the door.) + +SHE: Oh! + +(He turns.) + +SHE: (Laughing) Score--Home Team: One hundred--Opponents: Zero. + +(He starts back.) + +SHE: (Quickly) Rain--no game. + +(He goes out.) + +(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.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Good--I've been wanting to speak to you alone before we go +down-stairs. + +ROSALIND: Heavens! you frighten me! + +MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you've been a very expensive proposition. + +ROSALIND: (Resignedly) Yes. + +MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn't what he once had. + +ROSALIND: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don't talk about money. + +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. + +ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Well--what is it? + +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. + +ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it _is_ better. + +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-- + +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. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor friends +of your father's that I want you to meet to-night--youngish men. + +ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five? + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not? + +ROSALIND: Oh, _quite_ all right--they know life and are so adorably +tired looking (shakes her head)--but they _will_ dance. + +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. + +ROSALIND: Mother, I never _think_ about money. + +MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to think about it. + +ROSALIND: (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I'll marry a ton of it--out of +sheer boredom. + +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. + +ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie? + +MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes. + +ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. They're +all wrong. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you to-night. + +ROSALIND: Don't you think I'm beautiful? + +MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. + +(From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of +a drum. MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Come! + +ROSALIND: One minute! + +(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.) + +CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming out +is _such_ 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. + +(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.) + + ***** + +SEVERAL HOURS LATER + +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. + +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. + +GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I've changed. I feel the same +toward you. + +ROSALIND: But you don't look the same to me. + +GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I +was so blas, so indifferent--I still am. + +ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown +eyes and thin legs. + +GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They're still thin and brown. You're a vampire, +that's all. + +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. + +GILLESPIE: I love you. + +ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it. + +GILLESPIE: And you haven't kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that +after a girl was kissed she was--was--won. + +ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every +time you see me. + +GILLESPIE: Are you serious? + +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. + +GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men? + +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. + +GILLESPIE: And then? + +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! + +(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, +a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.) + +RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind. + +ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven't got +too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie. + +(They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.) + +RYDER: Your party is certainly a success. + +ROSALIND: Is it--I haven't seen it lately. I'm weary--Do you mind +sitting out a minute? + +RYDER: Mind--I'm delighted. You know I loathe this "rushing" idea. See a +girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow. + +ROSALIND: Dawson! + +RYDER: What? + +ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me. + +RYDER: (Startled) What--Oh--you know you're remarkable! + +ROSALIND: Because you know I'm an awful proposition. Any one who marries +me will have his hands full. I'm mean--mighty mean. + +RYDER: Oh, I wouldn't say that. + +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. + +(Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.) + +CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission. + +ALEC: (Gloomily) I'll go if you want me to. + +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. + +ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don't want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind. + +CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want. + +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. + +CECELIA: He's very good looking. + +ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won't marry him, but a girl doesn't have +to marry a man to break his heart. + +CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret. + +ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It's lucky for some that the +Lord gave you a pug nose. + +(Enter MRS. CONNAGE.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind? + +ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you've come to the best people to find +out. She'd naturally be with us. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to +meet her. + +ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls. + +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-- + +ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn't you better send the butler through the cellar? + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don't think she'd be there? + +CECELIA: He's only joking, mother. + +ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high +hurdler. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Let's look right away. + +(They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.) + +GILLESPIE: Rosalind--Once more I ask you. Don't you care a blessed thing +about me? + +(AMORY walks in briskly.) + +AMORY: My dance. + +ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine. + +GILLESPIE: I've met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren't you? + +AMORY: Yes. + +GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I've been there. It's in the--the Middle West, +isn't it? + +AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I'd rather be +provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning. + +GILLESPIE: What! + +AMORY: Oh, no offense. + +(GILLESPIE bows and leaves.) + +ROSALIND: He's too much _people_. + +AMORY: I was in love with a _people_ once. + +ROSALIND: So? + +AMORY: Oh, yes--her name was Isabelle--nothing at all to her except what +I read into her. + +ROSALIND: What happened? + +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. + +ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical? + +AMORY: Oh--drive a car, but can't change a tire. + +ROSALIND: What are you going to do? + +AMORY: Can't say--run for President, write-- + +ROSALIND: Greenwich Village? + +AMORY: Good heavens, no--I said write--not drink. + +ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely. + +AMORY: I feel as if I'd known you for ages. + +ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the "pyramid" story? + +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. + +ROSALIND: I've suggested pretending. + +AMORY: If we did it would be very big. + +ROSALIND: Why? + +AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great +loves. + +ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend. + +(Very deliberately they kiss.) + +AMORY: I can't say sweet things. But you _are_ beautiful. + +ROSALIND: Not that. + +AMORY: What then? + +ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing--only I want sentiment, real +sentiment--and I never find it. + +AMORY: I never find anything else in the world--and I loathe it. + +ROSALIND: It's so hard to find a male to gratify one's artistic taste. + +(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the +room. ROSALIND rises.) + +ROSALIND: Listen! they're playing "Kiss Me Again." + +(He looks at her.) + +AMORY: Well? + +ROSALIND: Well? + +AMORY: (Softly--the battle lost) I love you. + +ROSALIND: I love you--now. + +(They kiss.) + +AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done? + +ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don't talk. Kiss me again. + +AMORY: I don't know why or how, but I love you--from the moment I saw +you. + +ROSALIND: Me too--I--I--oh, to-night's to-night. + +(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: "Oh, +excuse me," and goes.) + +ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don't let me go--I don't care who +knows what I do. + +AMORY: Say it! + +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! + +(He kisses her again.) + + ***** + +KISMET + +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. + +"It may be an insane love-affair," she told her anxious mother, "but +it's not inane." + +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. + +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. + +For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement +and was hurrying into line with his generation. + + ***** + +A LITTLE INTERLUDE + +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. + +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. + +"Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business to-day?" + +Amory sprawled on a couch. + +"I loathed it as usual!" The momentary vision of the bustling agency was +displaced quickly by another picture. + +"My God! She's wonderful!" + +Tom sighed. + +"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." + +Another sigh came from the window--quite a resigned sigh. + +"She's life and hope and happiness, my whole world now." + +He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid. + +"Oh, _Golly_, Tom!" + + ***** + +BITTER SWEET + +"Sit like we do," she whispered. + +He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle +inside them. + +"I knew you'd come to-night," she said softly, "like summer, just when I +needed you most... darling... darling..." + +His lips moved lazily over her face. + +"You _taste_ so good," he sighed. + +"How do you mean, lover?" + +"Oh, just sweet, just sweet..." he held her closer. + +"Amory," she whispered, "when you're ready for me I'll marry you." + +"We won't have much at first." + +"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." + +"Tell me..." + +"You know, don't you? Oh, you know." + +"Yes, but I want to hear you say it." + +"I love you, Amory, with all my heart." + +"Always, will you?" + +"All my life--Oh, Amory--" + +"What?" + +"I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to +have your babies." + +"But I haven't any people." + +"Don't laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me." + +"I'll do what you want," he said. + +"No, I'll do what _you_ want. We're _you_--not me. Oh, you're so much a +part, so much all of me..." + +He closed his eyes. + +"I'm so happy that I'm frightened. Wouldn't it be awful if this was--was +the high point?..." + +She looked at him dreamily. + +"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--" + +"Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony...." + +"And, Amory, we're beautiful, I know. I'm sure God loves us--" + +"He loves you. You're his most precious possession." + +"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." + +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. + + ***** + +AQUATIC INCIDENT + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Of course _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." + +Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly all +through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow optimists. + + ***** + +FIVE WEEKS LATER + +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. + +Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in ROSALIND +with a nervous glance. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night? + +(ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.) + +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? + +ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh--what--oh--Amory-- + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so _many_ admirers lately that I +couldn't imagine _which_ 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. + +ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her face.) +Mother--please-- + +MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, _I_ won't interfere. You've already wasted over two +months on a theoretical genius who hasn't a penny to his name, but _go_ +ahead, waste your life on him. _I_ won't interfere. + +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-- + +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 _clever_. (She implies that this quality in +itself is rather vicious.) + +ROSALIND: For heaven's sake, mother-- + +(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.) + +AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory. + +(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.) + +ALEC: Hi, Amory! + +AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he'd meet you at the theatre. + +ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How's the advertising to-day? Write some +brilliant copy? + +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.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car. + +(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.) + +AMORY: Darling girl. + +(They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it with +kisses and holds it to her breast.) + +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! + +(Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry--a tearless +sobbing.) + +AMORY: Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: Oh, we're so darned pitiful! + +AMORY: Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die! + +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. + +ROSALIND: Amory, if you don't sit down I'll scream. + +AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord. + +ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don't you? + +AMORY: Yes. + +ROSALIND: You know I'll always love you-- + +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. + +ROSALIND: There's nothing to tell, I say. I'm just nervous. + +AMORY: Rosalind, you're playing with the idea of marrying Dawson Ryder. + +ROSALIND: (After a pause) He's been asking me to all day. + +AMORY: Well, he's got his nerve! + +ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him. + +AMORY: Don't say that. It hurts me. + +ROSALIND: Don't be a silly idiot. You know you're the only man I've ever +loved, ever will love. + +AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let's get married--next week. + +ROSALIND: We can't. + +AMORY: Why not? + +ROSALIND: Oh, we can't. I'd be your squaw--in some horrible place. + +AMORY: We'll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month all told. + +ROSALIND: Darling, I don't even do my own hair, usually. + +AMORY: I'll do it for you. + +ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks. + +AMORY: Rosalind, you _can't_ 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. + +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. + +AMORY: (Grimly) Go on. + +ROSALIND: Oh--it _is_ Dawson Ryder. He's so reliable, I almost feel that +he'd be a--a background. + +AMORY: You don't love him. + +ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he's a good man and a strong +one. + +AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes--he's that. + +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. + +AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don't look so consciously +suffering. + +AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other! + +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! + +AMORY: It won't--it won't! + +ROSALIND: I'd rather keep it as a beautiful memory--tucked away in my +heart. + +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. + +ROSALIND: Don't! + +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. + +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! + +(Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.) + +AMORY: Come over here and kiss me. + +ROSALIND: No. + +AMORY: Don't you _want_ to kiss me? + +ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly and coolly. + +AMORY: The beginning of the end. + +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-- + +AMORY: And you're afraid to take them with me. + +ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere--you'll say +Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh--but listen: + + "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." + +AMORY: But we haven't had. + +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. + +AMORY: We've got to take our chance for happiness. + +ROSALIND: Dawson says I'd learn to love him. + +(AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life seems +suddenly gone out of him.) + +ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can't do with you, and I can't imagine life +without you. + +AMORY: Rosalind, we're on each other's nerves. It's just that we're both +high-strung, and this week-- + +(His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his face in +her hands, kisses him.) + +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. + +(Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.) + +AMORY: Rosalind-- + +ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go--Don't make it harder! I can't stand it-- + +AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what you're +saying? Do you mean forever? + +(There is a difference somehow in the quality of their suffering.) + +ROSALIND: Can't you see-- + +AMORY: I'm afraid I can't if you love me. You're afraid of taking two +years' knocks with me. + +ROSALIND: I wouldn't be the Rosalind you love. + +AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can't give you up! I can't, that's all! +I've got to have you! + +ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You're being a baby now. + +AMORY: (Wildly) I don't care! You're spoiling our lives! + +ROSALIND: I'm doing the wise thing, the only thing. + +AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder? + +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. + +AMORY: And you love me. + +ROSALIND: That's just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. We +can't have any more scenes like this. + +(She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their eyes +blind again with tears.) + +AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don't! Keep it, please--oh, +don't break my heart! + +(She presses the ring softly into his hand.) + +ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You'd better go. + +AMORY: Good-by-- + +(She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite sadness.) + +ROSALIND: Don't ever forget me, Amory-- + +AMORY: Good-by-- + +(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.) + +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? + +(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.) + + + +CHAPTER 2. Experiments in Convalescence + + +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. + +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. + +"Well, Amory..." + +It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the name. + +"Hello, old boy--" he heard himself saying. + +"Name's Jim Wilson--you've forgotten." + +"Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember." + +"Going to reunion?" + +"You know!" Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to reunion. + +"Get overseas?" + +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. + +"Too bad," he muttered. "Have a drink?" + +Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on the +back. + +"You've had plenty, old boy." + +Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the scrutiny. + +"Plenty, hell!" said Amory finally. "I haven't had a drink to-day." + +Wilson looked incredulous. + +"Have a drink or not?" cried Amory rudely. + +Together they sought the bar. + +"Rye high." + +"I'll just take a Bronx." + +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. + +"'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." + +Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued: + +"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." + +"What are you celebrating, Amory?" + +Amory leaned forward confidentially. + +"Cel'brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can't tell you 'bout +it--" + +He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender: + +"Give him a bromo-seltzer." + +Amory shook his head indignantly. + +"None that stuff!" + +"But listen, Amory, you're making yourself sick. You're white as a +ghost." + +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. + +"Like som'n solid. We go get some--some salad." + +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. + +"We'll go over to Shanley's," suggested Carling, offering an elbow. + +With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion enough to +propel him across Forty-second Street. + +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.... + +... He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a knot in +his shoe-lace. + +"Nemmine," he managed to articulate drowsily. "Sleep in 'em...." + + ***** + +STILL ALCOHOLIC + +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. + +"Hello--what hotel is this--? + +"Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high-balls--" + +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. + +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. + +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--" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"My own girl--my own--Oh--" + +He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from his +eyes. + +"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--" + +And then again: + +"We've been so happy, so very happy...." + +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.... + +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."... + +... 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.... + +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. + +"Decided to commit suicide," he announced suddenly. + +"When? Next year?" + +"Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, get into +a hot bath and open a vein." + +"He's getting morbid!" + +"You need another rye, old boy!" + +"We'll all talk it over to-morrow." + +But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least. + +"Did you ever get that way?" he demanded confidentially fortaccio. + +"Sure!" + +"Often?" + +"My chronic state." + +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.... + +He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown, +disarranged hair and dark blue eyes. + +"Take me home!" she cried. + +"Hello!" said Amory, blinking. + +"I like you," she announced tenderly. + +"I like you too." + +He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of +his party was arguing with him. + +"Fella I was with's a damn fool," confided the blue-eyed woman. "I hate +him. I want to go home with you." + +"You drunk?" queried Amory with intense wisdom. + +She nodded coyly. + +"Go home with him," he advised gravely. "He brought you." + +At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his +detainers and approached. + +"Say!" he said fiercely. "I brought this girl out here and you're +butting in!" + +Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer. + +"You let go that girl!" cried the noisy man. + +Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. + +"You go to hell!" he directed finally, and turned his attention to the +girl. + +"Love first sight," he suggested. + +"I love you," she breathed and nestled close to him. She _did_ have +beautiful eyes. + +Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear. + +"That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and this fellow here brought +her. Better let her go." + +"Let him take care of her, then!" shouted Amory furiously. "I'm no W. Y. +C. A. worker, am I?--am I?" + +"Let her go!" + +"It's _her_ hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!" + +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. + +"Oh, Lord!" cried Amory. + +"Let's go!" + +"Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!" + +"Check, waiter." + +"C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over." + +Amory laughed. + +"You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 'At's the whole trouble." + + ***** + +AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION + +Two mornings later he knocked at the president's door at Bascome and +Barlow's advertising agency. + +"Come in!" + +Amory entered unsteadily. + +"'Morning, Mr. Barlow." + +Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his mouth +slightly ajar that he might better listen. + +"Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven't seen you for several days." + +"No," said Amory. "I'm quitting." + +"Well--well--this is--" + +"I don't like it here." + +"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--" + +"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--" + +Mr. Barlow's face steeled by several ingots of expression. + +"You asked for a position--" + +Amory waved him to silence. + +"And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a week--less +than a good carpenter." + +"You had just started. You'd never worked before," said Mr. Barlow +coolly. + +"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." + +"I'm not going to argue with you, sir," said Mr. Barlow rising. + +"Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I'm quitting." + +They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and then Amory +turned and left the office. + + ***** + +A LITTLE LULL + +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. + +"Well?" + +"Well?" + +"Good Lord, Amory, where'd you get the black eye--and the jaw?" + +Amory laughed. + +"That's a mere nothing." + +He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders. + +"Look here!" + +Tom emitted a low whistle. + +"What hit you?" + +Amory laughed again. + +"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." + +"Who was it?" + +"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." + +Tom lighted a cigarette. + +"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." + +Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette. + +"You sober now?" asked Tom quizzically. + +"Pretty sober. Why?" + +"Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home and live, +so he--" + +A spasm of pain shook Amory. + +"Too bad." + +"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." + +"Sure. Get anybody. I'll leave it to you, Tom." + +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. + +"Got a cardboard box?" + +"No," answered Tom, puzzled. "Why should I have? Oh, yes--there may be +one in Alec's room." + +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... + +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. + +"Going out?" Tom's voice held an undertone of anxiety. + +"Uh-huh." + +"Where?" + +"Couldn't say, old keed." + +"Let's have dinner together." + +"Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I'd eat with him." + +"Oh." + +"By-by." + +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. + +"Hi, Amory!" + +"What'll you have?" + +"Yo-ho! Waiter!" + + ***** + +TEMPERATURE NORMAL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +"I thought I'd better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence," he said rather +ambiguously when he arrived. + +"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." + +"Did he think I'd plunged into Bolshevism?" asked Amory, interested. + +"Oh, he's having a frightful time." + +"Why?" + +"About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity." + +"So?" + +"He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was greatly +distressed because the receiving committee, when they rode in an +automobile, _would_ put their arms around the President." + +"I don't blame him." + +"Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in the army? +You look a great deal older." + +"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." + +"What else?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you're his reincarnation, that your +faith will eventually clarify." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +RESTLESSNESS + +"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. + +"You used to be entertaining before you started to write," he continued. +"Now you save any idea that you think would do to print." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes," said Amory speculatively, "but I'm more than bored; I am +restless." + +"Love and war did for you." + +"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." + +Tom looked up in surprise. + +"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--" + +"I don't agree with you," Tom interrupted. "There never were men placed +in such egotistic positions since--oh, since the French Revolution." + +Amory disagreed violently. + +"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." + +"Then you don't think there will be any more permanent world heroes?" + +"Yes--in history--not in life. Carlyle would have difficulty getting +material for a new chapter on 'The Hero as a Big Man.'" + +"Go on. I'm a good listener to-day." + +"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." + +"Then you blame it on the press?" + +"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." + +Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly. + +"We _want_ 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 _can't_. 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--" + +He paused only to get his breath. + +"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--" + +Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of his connection with +The New Democracy. + +"What's all this got to do with your being bored?" + +Amory considered that it had much to do with it. + +"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." + +"Try fiction," suggested Tom. + +"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. + +"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." + +"You'll find another." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I am," agreed Amory reluctantly. "Yet when I see a happy family it +makes me sick at my stomach--" + +"Happy families try to make people feel that way," said Tom cynically. + + ***** + +TOM THE CENSOR + +There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, wreathed in +smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American literature. Words failed +him. + +"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--" + +"They try." + +"No, they don't even try. Some of them _can_ write, but they won't sit +down and do one honest novel. Most of them _can't_ 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." + +"Is that double entente?" + +"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?" + +"How does little Tommy like the poets?" + +Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely beside +the chair and emitted faint grunts. + +"I'm writing a satire on 'em now, calling it 'Boston Bards and Hearst +Reviewers.'" + +"Let's hear it," said Amory eagerly. + +"I've only got the last few lines done." + +"That's very modern. Let's hear 'em, if they're funny." + +Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud, pausing at +intervals so that Amory could see that it was free verse: + + "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." + + +Amory roared. + +"You win the iron pansy. I'll buy you a meal on the arrogance of the +last two lines." + +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. + +"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.'" + +"It's ghastly!" + +"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--" + +"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--" + +"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." + + ***** + +LOOKING BACKWARD + +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. + + 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. + + ***** + +ANOTHER ENDING + +In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had evidently just +stumbled on his address: + + +MY DEAR BOY:-- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you. + + With greatest affection, + + THAYER DARCY. + + +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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER 3. Young Irony + + +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. + +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: + +"And Amory will have no other adventure like me." + +Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh. + +Eleanor tried to put it on paper once: + + "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." + + +They quarrelled dangerously because Amory maintained that _sea_ and +_see_ couldn't possibly be used as a rhyme. And then Eleanor had part of +another verse that she couldn't find a beginning for: + + "... 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." + + +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. + +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. + +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: + + + "Les sanglots longs + Des violons + De l'automne + Blessent mon coeur + D'une langueur + Monotone." + + +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. + +Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that soared and +hung and fell and blended with the rain: + + + "Tout suffocant + Et bleme quand + Sonne l'heure + Je me souviens + Des jours anciens + Et je pleure...." + + +"Who the devil is there in Ramilly County," muttered Amory aloud, "who +would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?" + +"Somebody's there!" cried the voice unalarmed. "Who are you?--Manfred, +St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?" + +"I'm Don Juan!" Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the +noise of the rain and the wind. + +A delighted shriek came from the haystack. + +"I know who you are--you're the blond boy that likes 'Ulalume'--I +recognize your voice." + +"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. + +"Run back!" came the voice, "and jump and I'll catch your hand--no, not +there--on the other side." + +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. + +"Here you are, Juan," cried she of the damp hair. "Do you mind if I drop +the Don?" + +"You've got a thumb like mine!" he exclaimed. + +"And you're holding my hand, which is dangerous without seeing my face." +He dropped it quickly. + +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. + +"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." + +"I was asked," Amory said joyfully; "you asked me--you know you did." + +"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." + +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. + +"I'm not," she said. + +"Not what?" + +"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." + +"How on earth--" + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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." + +"What color is your hair?" he asked intently. "It's bobbed, isn't it?" + +"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." + +"Answer my question, Madeline." + +"Don't remember them all--besides my name isn't Madeline, it's Eleanor." + +"I might have guessed it. You _look_ like Eleanor--you have that Eleanor +look. You know what I mean." + +There was a silence as they listened to the rain. + +"It's going down my neck, fellow lunatic," she offered finally. + +"Answer my questions." + +"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--" + +"And me," Amory interrupted, "where did you see me?" + +"Oh, you're one of _those_ 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: + + + "'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.' + +"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--" + +"All right," Amory interrupted. "Now go back to yourself." + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"Really! how banal!" + +"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. + +"Go on," Amory said politely. + +"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." + +"Why, you little wretch--" cried Amory indignantly. "Scared of what?" + +"_Yourself!_" 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--" + +"But I _have_ to have a soul," he objected. "I can't be rational--and I +won't be molecular." + +She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and +whispered with a sort of romantic finality: + +"I thought so, Juan, I feared so--you're sentimental. You're not like +me. I'm a romantic little materialist." + +"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.) + +"Epigrams. I'm going home," she said sadly. "Let's get off the haystack +and walk to the cross-roads." + +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. + + ***** + +SEPTEMBER + +Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically. + +"I never fall in love in August or September," he proffered. + +"When then?" + +"Christmas or Easter. I'm a liturgist." + +"Easter!" She turned up her nose. "Huh! Spring in corsets!" + +"Easter _would_ bore spring, wouldn't she? Easter has her hair braided, +wears a tailored suit." + + + "Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. + Over the splendor and speed of thy feet--" + + +quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: "I suppose Hallowe'en is a better +day for autumn than Thanksgiving." + +"Much better--and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but +summer..." + +"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." + +"Fourth of July," Amory suggested facetiously. + +"Don't be funny!" she said, raking him with her eyes. + +"Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?" + +She thought a moment. + +"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. + +"Why?" + +"Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert Brooke." + +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. + +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: + + + "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?" + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"The despairing, dying autumn and our love--how well they harmonize!" +said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by the water. + +"The Indian summer of our hearts--" he ceased. + +"Tell me," she said finally, "was she light or dark?" + +"Light." + +"Was she more beautiful than I am?" + +"I don't know," said Amory shortly. + +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. + +"Light a match," she whispered. "I want to see you." + +Scratch! Flare! + +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. + +"It's black as pitch." + +"We're just voices now," murmured Eleanor, "little lonesome voices. +Light another." + +"That was my last match." + +Suddenly he caught her in his arms. + +"You _are_ 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. + + ***** + +THE END OF SUMMER + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old plug at +seven o'clock." + +"Don't be a spoil-sport--remember, you have a tendency toward wavering +that prevents you from being the entire light of my life." + +Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, grasped +her hand. + +"Say I am--_quick_, or I'll pull you over and make you ride behind me." + +She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + + + 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 _know_ that you were + Beauty for an afternoon. + + +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 _must_ 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 _more_ 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.... + +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. + +"Good Lord! It's quiet here!" whispered Eleanor; "much more lonesome +than the woods." + +"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." + +"The long slope of a long hill." + +"And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it." + +"And thee and me, last and most important." + +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. + +"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." + +The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and +shivered. + +"Are you very cold?" asked Amory. + +"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." + +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. + +"Rotten, rotten old world," broke out Eleanor suddenly, "and the +wretchedest thing of all is me--oh, _why_ 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. + +"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 _real_ love in +the world is ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of +jealousy." She finished as suddenly as she began. + +"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...." + +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. + +"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. + +"I can't--I can't kiss you now--I'm more sensitive." + +"You're more stupid then," he declared rather impatiently. "Intellect is +no protection from sex any more than convention is..." + +"What is?" she fired up. "The Catholic Church or the maxims of +Confucius?" + +Amory looked up, rather taken aback. + +"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. + +"If there's a God let him strike me--strike me!" + +"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. + +"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." + +Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her. + +"Will I?" she said in a queer voice that scared him. "Will I? Watch! +_I'm going over the cliff!_" And before he could interfere she had +turned and was riding breakneck for the end of the plateau. + +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. + +"Eleanor!" he cried. + +She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with sudden +tears. + +"Eleanor, are you hurt?" + +"No; I don't think so," she said faintly, and then began weeping. + +"My horse dead?" + +"Good God--Yes!" + +"Oh!" she wailed. "I thought I was going over. I didn't know--" + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + + ***** + +A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER + + + "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? + _What leered out of the dark in the ghostly clover?_ + 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." + + + ***** + +A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED "SUMMER STORM" + + "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..." + + + +CHAPTER 4. The Supercilious Sacrifice + + +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. + +"Well--Amory Blaine!" + +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. + +"Come on down, goopher!" cried Alec. + +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. + +"Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully." + +"How d'y do?" + +"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." + +Amory considered. + +"That's an idea." + +"Step in--move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at you." + +Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, vermilion-lipped +blonde. + +"Hello, Doug Fairbanks," she said flippantly. "Walking for exercise or +hunting for company?" + +"I was counting the waves," replied Amory gravely. "I'm going in for +statistics." + +"Don't kid me, Doug." + +When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the car among +deep shadows. + +"What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?" he demanded, as he +produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug. + +Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason for +coming to the coast. + +"Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?" he asked instead. + +"Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park--" + +"Lord, Alec! It's hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are all +three dead." + +Alec shivered. + +"Don't talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough." + +Jill seemed to agree. + +"Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways," she commented. "Tell him to drink +deep--it's good and scarce these days." + +"What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are--" + +"Why, New York, I suppose--" + +"I mean to-night, because if you haven't got a room yet you'd better +help me out." + +"Glad to." + +"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?" + +Amory was willing, if he could get in right away. + +"You'll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name." + +Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left the car +and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +He remembered a poem he had read months before: + + + "Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, + I waste my years sailing along the sea--" + +Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that waste +implied. He felt that life had rejected him. + +"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. + +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. + +Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away. + +He became rigid. + +"Don't make a sound!" It was Alec's voice. "Jill--do you hear me?" + +"Yes--" breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the bathroom. + +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. + +"My God!" came the girl's voice again. "You'll have to let them in." + +"Sh!" + +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. + +"Amory!" an anxious whisper. + +"What's the trouble?" + +"It's house detectives. My God, Amory--they're just looking for a +test-case--" + +"Well, better let them in." + +"You don't understand. They can get me under the Mann Act." + +The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure in the +darkness. + +Amory tried to plan quickly. + +"You make a racket and let them in your room," he suggested anxiously, +"and I'll get her out by this door." + +"They're here too, though. They'll watch this door." + +"Can't you give a wrong name?" + +"No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they'd trail the +auto license number." + +"Say you're married." + +"Jill says one of the house detectives knows her." + +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: + +"Open up or we'll break the door in!" + +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. + +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. + +... Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for having +done so much for him.... + +... 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. + +Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; sacrifice +should be eternally supercilious. + +_Weep not for me but for thy children._ + +That--thought Amory--would be somehow the way God would talk to me. + +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.... + +"Do what I say, Alec--do what I say. Do you understand?" + +Alec looked at him dumbly--his face a tableau of anguish. + +"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?" + +"I hear you." The voice was curiously strained, the eyes never for a +second left Amory's. + +"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." + +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. + +"You're here with me," he said sternly. "You've been with me all +evening." + +She nodded, gave a little half cry. + +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. + +"You've been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!" + +Amory laughed. + +"Well?" + +The leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a check +suit. + +"All right, Olson." + +"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. + +The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously. + +"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 _this_." He shook his head implying that he had +struggled over Amory but now gave him up. + +"Well," said Amory rather impatiently, "what do you want us to do?" + +"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. + +"Anybody else here?" demanded Olson, trying to look keen and +ferret-like. + +"Fellow who had the rooms," said Amory carelessly. "He's drunk as an +owl, though. Been in there asleep since six o'clock." + +"I'll take a look at him presently." + +"How did you find out?" asked Amory curiously. + +"Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman." + +Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if rather +untidily arrayed. + +"Now then," began Olson, producing a note-book, "I want your real +names--no damn John Smith or Mary Brown." + +"Wait a minute," said Amory quietly. "Just drop that big-bully stuff. We +merely got caught, that's all." + +Olson glared at him. + +"Name?" he snapped. + +Amory gave his name and New York address. + +"And the lady?" + +"Miss Jill--" + +"Say," cried Olson indignantly, "just ease up on the nursery rhymes. +What's your name? Sarah Murphy? Minnie Jackson?" + +"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." + +"Come on now!" + +"Shut up!" cried Amory at Olson. + +An instant's pause. + +"Stella Robbins," she faltered finally. "General Delivery, Rugway, New +Hampshire." + +Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very ponderously. + +"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." + +"It doesn't want to get in the papers," cried Jill fiercely. "Let us +off! Huh!" + +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. + +"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?" + +"I see." + +"You're gettin' off light--damn light--but--" + +"Come on," said Amory briskly. "Let's get out of here. We don't need a +valedictory." + +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. + +"Would you mind taking off your hat? There's a lady in the elevator." + +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. + +"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. + +"Good-by," said Olson. He reached in his pocket suggestively, but Amory +snorted, and, taking the girl's arm, turned away. + +"Where did you tell the driver to go?" she asked as they whirled along +the dim street. + +"The station." + +"If that guy writes my mother--" + +"He won't. Nobody'll ever know about this--except our friends and +enemies." + +Dawn was breaking over the sea. + +"It's getting blue," she said. + +"It does very well," agreed Amory critically, and then as an +after-thought: "It's almost breakfast-time--do you want something to +eat?" + +"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." + +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." + +"I'll remember." + +He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of an +all-night restaurant. + +"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. + +"He used to be. He probably won't want to be any more--and never +understand why." + +"It was sorta crazy you takin' all that blame. Is he pretty important? +Kinda more important than you are?" + +Amory laughed. + +"That remains to be seen," he answered. "That's the question." + + ***** + +THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS + +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 _not_ his wife. + +Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was a +longer paragraph of which the first words were: + +"Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of their +daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, Connecticut--" + +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. + +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. + +He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains of the +room in Atlantic City. + + + +CHAPTER 5. The Egotist Becomes a Personage + + + "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." + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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: + +Question.--Well--what's the situation? + +Answer.--That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name. + +Q.--You have the Lake Geneva estate. + +A.--But I intend to keep it. + +Q.--Can you live? + +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. + +Q.--Be definite. + +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. + +Q.--Do you want a lot of money? + +A.--No. I am merely afraid of being poor. + +Q.--Very afraid? + +A.--Just passively afraid. + +Q.--Where are you drifting? + +A.--Don't ask _me!_ + +Q.--Don't you care? + +A.--Rather. I don't want to commit moral suicide. + +Q.--Have you no interests left? + +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. + +Q.--An interesting idea. + +A.--That's why a "good man going wrong" attracts people. They stand +around and literally _warm themselves_ at the calories of virtue he +gives off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and the faces simper in +delight--"How _innocent_ 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. + +Q.--All your calories gone? + +A.--All of them. I'm beginning to warm myself at other people's virtue. + +Q.--Are you corrupt? + +A.--I think so. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about good and evil at all +any more. + +Q.--Is that a bad sign in itself? + +A.--Not necessarily. + +Q.--What would be the test of corruption? + +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. + +Q.--Where are you drifting? + +This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind's most familiar state--a +grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior impressions and +physical reactions. + +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-- + +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. + +"Hello," said Amory. + +"Got a pass?" + +"No. Is this private?" + +"This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club." + +"Oh! I didn't know. I'm just resting." + +"Well--" began the man dubiously. + +"I'll go if you want me to." + +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. + +"Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man," he said slowly. + + ***** + +IN THE DROOPING HOURS + +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. + +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.... + + ***** + +Amory smiled a bit. + +"You're too much wrapped up in yourself," he heard some one say. And +again-- + +"Get out and do some real work--" + +"Stop worrying--" + +He fancied a possible future comment of his own. + +"Yes--I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made me +morbid to think too much about myself." + + ***** + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +STILL WEEDING + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory knew, +not essentially older than he. + +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." + +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.... + +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. + +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.... + +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.... + +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. + +In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance +of the labyrinth. + + ***** + +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. + + ***** + +MONSIGNOR + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a sense of +security. + + ***** + +THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"You bet I do. Thanks." + +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. + +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. + +"Going far?" asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested way. + +"Quite a stretch." + +"Hiking for exercise?" + +"No," responded Amory succinctly, "I'm walking because I can't afford to +ride." + +"Oh." + +Then again: + +"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. + +"Have you a trade?" + +No--Amory had no trade. + +"Clerk, eh?" + +No--Amory was not a clerk. + +"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. + +Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him could +think of only one thing to say. + +"Of course I want a great lot of money--" + +The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. + +"That's what every one wants nowadays, but they don't want to work for +it." + +"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?" + +"Of course not," said the secretary indignantly. + +"But," continued Amory disregarding him, "being very poor at present I +am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte." + +Both men glanced at him curiously. + +"These bomb throwers--" The little man ceased as words lurched +ponderously from the big man's chest. + +"If I thought you were a bomb thrower I'd run you over to the Newark +jail. That's what I think of Socialists." + +Amory laughed. + +"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." + +"Well," said Amory, "if being an idealist is both safe and lucrative, I +might try it." + +"What's your difficulty? Lost your job?" + +"Not exactly, but--well, call it that." + +"What was it?" + +"Writing copy for an advertising agency." + +"Lots of money in advertising." + +Amory smiled discreetly. + +"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--" + +"Who's he?" demanded the little man suspiciously. + +"Well," said Amory, "he's a--he's an intellectual personage not very +well known at present." + +The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped rather +suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned on him. + +"What are you laughing at?" + +"These _intellectual_ people--" + +"Do you know what it means?" + +The little man's eyes twitched nervously. + +"Why, it _usually_ means--" + +"It _always_ 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." + +"You object to the fact that capital controls printing?" said the big +man, fixing him with his goggles. + +"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." + +"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." + +"You've brought it on yourselves," insisted Amory. "You people never +make concessions until they're wrung out of you." + +"What people?" + +"Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by +inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the moneyed +class." + +"Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he'd +be any more willing to give it up?" + +"No, but what's that got to do with it?" + +The older man considered. + +"No, I'll admit it hasn't. It rather sounds as if it had though." + +"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." + +"Just exactly what is the question?" + +Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question was. + + ***** + +AMORY COINS A PHRASE + +"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." + +Amory paused and decided that it wasn't such a bad phrase. + +"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." + +"He's the natural radical?" + +"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." + +"Why not?" + +"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." + +"But it appears," said the big man. + +"Where?--in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered weeklies." + +"All right--go on." + +"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." + +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. + +"Go on talking," said the big man. "I've been wanting to hear one of you +fellows." + + ***** + +GOING FASTER + +"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 _dawdling_ +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. + +"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." + +"All right," said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval +nor objection. + +"Next I'd have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries." + +"That's been proven a failure." + +"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." + +"They wouldn't give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo--" + +"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." + +"You said a while ago that it was." + +"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." + +The big man made a sound that was very like _boo_. + +"That's the silliest thing you've said yet." + +"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." + +"Kids--child's play!" scoffed his antagonist. + +"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." + +"I don't agree with you." + +"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." + +A fierce hiss came from the little man. + +"_Machine-guns!_" + +"Ah, but you've taught them their use." + +The big man shook his head. + +"In this country there are enough property owners not to permit that +sort of thing." + +Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property +owners; he decided to change the subject. + +But the big man was aroused. + +"When you talk of 'taking things away,' you're on dangerous ground." + +"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." + +"Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?" + +"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." + +"Don't you believe in moderation?" + +"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." + +"What is it?" + +"That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs +are essentially the same." + + ***** + +THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS + +"If you took all the money in the world," said the little man with much +profundity, "and divided it up in equ--" + +"Oh, shut up!" said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the little +man's enraged stare, he went on with his argument. + +"The human stomach--" he began; but the big man interrupted rather +impatiently. + +"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." + +When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as if +resolved this time to have his say out. + +"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." + +Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly. + +"Listen to that! _That's_ what makes me discouraged with progress. +_Listen_ 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." + +The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage. +Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man. + +"These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who +_think_ 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!" + +The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the +little man. + +"You're catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?" + +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. + +"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." + +"I am both interested and amused," said the big man. "You are very +young." + +"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." + +"You talk glibly." + +"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." + +"But, if you're not sure--" + +"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_ was ineligible, because some silly old men thought we +should _all_ profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed +business. I'm in love with change and I've killed my conscience--" + +"So you'll go along crying that we must go faster." + +"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." + +"But you don't believe all this Socialist patter you talk." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked: + +"What was your university?" + +"Princeton." + +The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles +altered slightly. + +"I sent my son to Princeton." + +"Did you?" + +"Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed last +year in France." + +"I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends." + +"He was--a--quite a fine boy. We were very close." + +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-- + +The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a +huge hedge and a tall iron fence. + +"Won't you come in for lunch?" + +Amory shook his head. + +"Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I've got to get on." + +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. + +"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." + +"Same to you, sir," cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand. + + ***** + +"OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM" + +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. + +"I am selfish," he thought. + +"This is not a quality that will change when I 'see human suffering' or +'lose my parents' or 'help others.' + +"This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living part. + +"It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that selfishness +that I can bring poise and balance into my life. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +Amory wanted to feel "William Dayfield, 1864." + +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. + + ***** + +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.... + +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.... + +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!... + +"It's all a poor substitute at best," he said sadly. + +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.... + +He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. + +"I know myself," he cried, "but that is all." + + + + + + +Appendix: Production notes for eBook edition 11 + +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".) + +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. + +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. + +In edition 11, underscores are used to denote words and phrases +italicized for emphasis. + +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. + +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: + + Aeschylus blase cafe debut debutante elan elite Encyclopaedia + matinee minutiae paean regime soupcon unaesthetic + +Less-commonly-used 8-bit word forms in this book include: + + anaemic bleme coeur manoeuvered mediaevalist tete-a-tete + and the name "Borge". + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's This Side of Paradise, by F. 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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. diff --git a/805-8.zip b/805-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3859b20 --- /dev/null +++ b/805-8.zip diff --git a/805-h.zip b/805-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1b6c2c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/805-h.zip 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. 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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 + +Posting Date: August 6, 2008 [EBook #805] +Release Date: February, 1997 +[Last updated: June 22, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIS SIDE OF PARADISE *** + + + + +Produced by David Reed, and Ken Reeder + + + + + +THIS SIDE OF PARADISE + +By F. Scott Fitzgerald + + + ... Well this side of Paradise!... + There's little comfort in the wise. + --Rupert Brooke. + + + Experience is the name so many people + give to their mistakes. + --Oscar Wilde. + + + + To SIGOURNEY FAY + + + + +CONTENTS + + BOOK ONE: The Romantic Egotist + 1. AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE + 2. SPIRES AND GARGOYLES + 3. THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS + 4. NARCISSUS OFF DUTY + + [INTERLUDE: MAY, 1917-FEBRUARY, 1919. ] + + BOOK TWO: The Education of a Personage + 1. THE DEBUTANTE + 2. EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE + 3. YOUNG IRONY + 4. THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE + 5. THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE + + + + + +BOOK ONE--The Romantic Egotist + + + +CHAPTER 1. Amory, Son of Beatrice + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Amory." + +"Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for his mother; she encouraged it.) + +"Dear, don't _think_ 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." + +"All right." + +"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." + +Amory's penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled hair at +his mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her. + +"Amory." + +"Oh, _yes_." + +"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." + +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." + +"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; _here_, 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.... + +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. + +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. + +"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 _me_, my dear--" + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company--quite the +cardinal's right-hand man." + +"Amory will go to him one day, I know," breathed the beautiful lady, +"and Monsignor Darcy will understand him as he understood me." + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +A KISS FOR AMORY + +His lip curled when he read it. + + "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. + +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: + +"Aw--I b'lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was _lawgely_ an +affair of the middul _clawses_," or + +"Washington came of very good blood--aw, quite good--I b'lieve." + +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. + +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. + +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: + + 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. + + ***** + +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: + +"My _dear_ Mrs. St. Claire, I'm _frightfully_ 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." + +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. + +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. + +"Miss Myra," he said. + +To his surprise the butler grinned horribly. + +"Oh, yeah," he declared, "she's here." He was unaware that his failure +to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly. + +"But," continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, "she's the +only one what _is_ here. The party's gone." + +Amory gasped in sudden horror. + +"What?" + +"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." + +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. + +"'Lo, Amory." + +"'Lo, Myra." He had described the state of his vitality. + +"Well--you _got_ here, _any_ways." + +"Well--I'll tell you. I guess you don't know about the auto accident," +he romanced. + +Myra's eyes opened wide. + +"Who was it to?" + +"Well," he continued desperately, "uncle 'n aunt 'n I." + +"Was any one _killed?_" + +Amory paused and then nodded. + +"Your uncle?"--alarm. + +"Oh, no just a horse--a sorta gray horse." + +At this point the Erse butler snickered. + +"Probably killed the engine," he suggested. Amory would have put him on +the rack without a scruple. + +"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--" + +"Well, I couldn't help it, could I?" + +"So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the bobs +before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory." + +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. + +"What?" inquired Myra. + +"Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ 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 +blase seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude. + +"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right--let's hurry." + +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 +_English_, sort of." + +"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. + +"Why--yes--sure." + +He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes. + +"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." + +Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling +from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp. + +"Oh, _Amory_, don't smoke. You'll stunt your _growth!_" + +"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." + +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." + +Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely +improper. + +Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden +turn she was jolted against him; their hands touched. + +"You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. "Don't you know that?" + +He shook his head. + +"Nobody cares." + +Myra hesitated. + +"_I_ care." + +Something stirred within Amory. + +"Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody +knows that." + +"No, I haven't," very slowly. + +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. + +"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. + +"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I wanta talk +to you--I _got_ to talk to you." + +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. + +"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!" + +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. + +"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 +_good_." + +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. + +"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' _hard_, sorta, to the +chaperon." + +"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra. + +"How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at +last. + +"Oh--always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing with +Marylyn and I to-morrow?" + +"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." + +Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell +Marylyn! Here on the couch with this _wonderful_-looking boy--the little +fire--the sense that they were alone in the great building-- + +Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate. + +"I like you the first twenty-five," she confessed, her voice trembling, +"and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth." + +Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had not even +noticed it. + +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. + +"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. + +"Kiss me again." Her voice came out of a great void. + +"I don't want to," he heard himself saying. There was another pause. + +"I don't want to!" he repeated passionately. + +Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great bow on +the back of her head trembling sympathetically. + +"I hate you!" she cried. "Don't you ever dare to speak to me again!" + +"What?" stammered Amory. + +"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!" + +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. + +The door opened suddenly, and Myra's mother appeared on the threshold, +fumbling with her lorgnette. + +"Well," she began, adjusting it benignantly, "the man at the desk told +me you two children were up here--How do you do, Amory." + +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. + +"Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well--" + +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: + + "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." + + ***** + +SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +"Poor little Count," he cried. "Oh, _poor_ little _Count!_" + +After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of emotional +acting. + + ***** + +Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in literature +occurred in Act III of "Arsene Lupin." + +They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees. The +line was: + +"If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best thing +is to be a great criminal." + + ***** + +Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it: + + "Marylyn and Sallee, + Those are the girls for me. + Marylyn stands above + Sallee in that sweet, deep love." + +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. + +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. + +He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly fond of +the cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart. + + ***** + +School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard authors. +His masters considered him idle, unreliable and superficially clever. + + ***** + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + +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. + +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. + +Physically.--Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He was. He +fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple dancer. + +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. + +Mentally.--Complete, unquestioned superiority. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE + +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. + +"Dear boy--you're _so_ tall... look behind and see if there's anything +coming..." + +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. + +"You _are_ 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." + +"Don't embarrass me," murmured Amory. + +"But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a +_set_--don't they? Is your underwear purple, too?" + +Amory grunted impolitely. + +"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 +_know_." + +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. + +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. + +"Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird time +after I left you." + +"Did you, Beatrice?" + +"When I had my last breakdown"--she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant +feat. + +"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 _shattered_, my dear, and in his _grave_--long in +his grave." + +Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker. + +"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?" + +Amory had snickered. + +"What, Amory?" + +"I said go on, Beatrice." + +"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--" + +"Are you quite well now, Beatrice?" + +"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." + +Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his +head gently against her shoulder. + +"Poor Beatrice--poor Beatrice." + +"Tell me about _you_, Amory. Did you have two _horrible_ years?" + +Amory considered lying, and then decided against it. + +"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. + +"Beatrice," he said suddenly, "I want to go away to school. Everybody in +Minneapolis is going to go away to school." + +Beatrice showed some alarm. + +"But you're only fifteen." + +"Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I _want_ to, +Beatrice." + +On Beatrice's suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the +walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying: + +"Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, +you can go to school." + +"Yes?" + +"To St. Regis's in Connecticut." + +Amory felt a quick excitement. + +"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." + +"What are you going to do, Beatrice?" + +"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--" + +Amory did not answer, so his mother continued: + +"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?" + +Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the Japanese +invasion. + +"When do I go to school?" + +"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." + +"To who?" + +"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--" + +"Dear Beatrice--" + + ***** + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair +and we'll have a chat." + +"I've just come from school--St. Regis's, you know." + +"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--" + +Amory nodded vehemently. + +"Hate 'em all. Like English and history." + +"Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but I'm glad you're +going to St. Regis's." + +"Why?" + +"Because it's a gentleman's school, and democracy won't hit you so +early. You'll find plenty of that in college." + +"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." + +Monsignor chuckled. + +"I'm one, you know." + +"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--" + +"And Yale is November, crisp and energetic," finished Monsignor. + +"That's it." + +They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. + +"I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie," announced Amory. + +"Of course you were--and for Hannibal--" + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +... 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. + +But the trumpets were sounding for Amory's preliminary skirmish with his +own generation. + +"You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is +where we are not," said Monsignor. + +"I _am_ sorry--" + +"No, you're not. No one person in the world is necessary to you or to +me." + +"Well--" + +"Good-by." + + ***** + +THE EGOTIST DOWN + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + + ***** + +INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR + +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. + +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. + +"Amory," he began. "I've sent for you on a personal matter." + +"Yes, sir." + +"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." + +"Yes, sir," Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as +if he were an admitted failure. + +"But I've noticed," continued the older man blindly, "that you're not +very popular with the boys." + +"No, sir." Amory licked his lips. + +"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--" + +Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely controlling +his voice when he spoke. + +"I know--oh, _don't_ you s'pose I know." His voice rose. "I know what +they think; do you s'pose you have to _tell_ me!" He paused. "I'm--I've +got to go back now--hope I'm not rude--" + +He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked to his +house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped. + +"That _damn_ old fool!" he cried wildly. "As if I didn't _know!_" + +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." + + ***** + +INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL + +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. + + "Oh--you--wonderful girl, + What a wonderful girl you are--" + +sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately. + + "All--your--wonderful words + Thrill me through--" + +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! + +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: + +"What a _remarkable_-looking boy!" + +This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem +handsome to the population of New York. + +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: + +"I'd marry that girl to-night." + +There was no need to ask what girl he referred to. + +"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people," +continued Paskert. + +Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of +Paskert. It sounded so mature. + +"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?" + +"No, _sir_, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with emphasis, +"and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell." + +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. + +"Yes, _sir_, I'd marry that girl to-night!" + + ***** + +HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE + +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. + + ***** + +THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Got tobacco?" whispered Rahill one night, putting his head inside the +door five minutes after lights. + +"Sure." + +"I'm coming in." + +"Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don't you." + +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. + +"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--" + +"Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?" + +"I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers." + +"I'm not." + +"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. + +"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." + +"You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly. + +"A what?" + +"A slicker." + +"What the devil's that?" + +"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." + +"Who is one? What makes you one?" + +Amory considered. + +"Why--why, I suppose that the _sign_ of it is when a fellow slicks his +hair back with water." + +"Like Carstairs?" + +"Yes--sure. He's a slicker." + +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. + +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. + +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." + + + "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. + + + "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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles + + +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. + +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. + +"Chocolate sundae," he told a colored person. + +"Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?" + +"Why--yes." + +"Bacon bun?" + +"Why--yes." + +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 blase and casually critical, +which was as near as he could analyze the prevalent facial expression. + +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. + +"Come in!" + +A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the doorway. + +"Got a hammer?" + +"No--sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one." + +The stranger advanced into the room. + +"You an inmate of this asylum?" + +Amory nodded. + +"Awful barn for the rent we pay." + +Amory had to agree that it was. + +"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." + +The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself. + +"My name's Holiday." + +"Blaine's my name." + +They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned. + +"Where'd you prep?" + +"Andover--where did you?" + +"St. Regis's." + +"Oh, did you? I had a cousin there." + +They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he +was to meet his brother for dinner at six. + +"Come along and have a bite with us." + +"All right." + +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. + +"I hear Commons is pretty bad," said Amory. + +"That's the rumor. But you've got to eat there--or pay anyways." + +"Crime!" + +"Imposition!" + +"Oh, at Princeton you've got to swallow everything the first year. It's +like a damned prep school." + +Amory agreed. + +"Lot of pep, though," he insisted. "I wouldn't have gone to Yale for a +million." + +"Me either." + +"You going out for anything?" inquired Amory of the elder brother. + +"Not me--Burne here is going out for the Prince--the Daily Princetonian, +you know." + +"Yes, I know." + +"You going out for anything?" + +"Why--yes. I'm going to take a whack at freshman football." + +"Play at St. Regis's?" + +"Some," admitted Amory depreciatingly, "but I'm getting so damned thin." + +"You're not thin." + +"Well, I used to be stocky last fall." + +"Oh!" + +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. + +"Yoho!" + +"Oh, honey-baby--you're so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!" + +"Clinch!" + +"Oh, Clinch!" + +"Kiss her, kiss 'at lady, quick!" + +"Oh-h-h--!" + +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. + + + "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!" + +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. + +"Want a sundae--I mean a jigger?" asked Kerry. + +"Sure." + +They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to 12. + +"Wonderful night." + +"It's a whiz." + +"You men going to unpack?" + +"Guess so. Come on, Burne." + +Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade them +good night. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + "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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 melange 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"But just now, Amory, you're only a sweaty bourgeois." + +Amory lay for a moment without speaking. + +"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." + +"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." + +Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows. + +"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." + +"Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, "you're a literary +genius. It's up to you." + +"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." + +"Well--go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy +D'Invilliers in the Lit." + +Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table. + +"Read his latest effort?" + +"Never miss 'em. They're rare." + +Amory glanced through the issue. + +"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he?" + +"Yeah." + +"Listen to this! My God! + + + "'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--' + + +"Now, what the devil does that mean?" + +"It's a pantry scene." + + + "'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!' + + +"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." + +"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." + +Amory tossed the magazine on the table. + +"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." + +"Why decide?" suggested Kerry. "Better drift, like me. I'm going to sail +into prominence on Burne's coat-tails." + +"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." + +"You're thinking too much about yourself." + +Amory sat up at this. + +"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." + +"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." + + ***** + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +Amory grinned. + +"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--" + +"What line do you throw 'em?" demanded Kerry. "I've tried everything, +and the mad wags aren't even afraid of me." + +"You're the 'nice boy' type," suggested Amory. + +"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." + +"Sulk," suggested Amory. "Tell 'em you're wild and have 'em reform +you--go home furious--come back in half an hour--startle 'em." + +Kerry shook his head. + +"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." + +Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as "good old Amory." He failed +completely. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book for a +moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily: + +"Ha! Great stuff!" + +The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial +embarrassment. + +"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. + +"No," Amory answered. "I was referring to Bernard Shaw." He turned the +book around in explanation. + +"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?" + +"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.) + +"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 _him_ 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. + +"Ever read any Oscar Wilde?" he asked. + +"No. Who wrote it?" + +"It's a man--don't you know?" + +"Oh, surely." A faint chord was struck in Amory's memory. "Wasn't the +comic opera, 'Patience,' written about him?" + +"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." + +"Why, I'd like it a lot--thanks." + +"Don't you want to come up to the room? I've got a few other books." + +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. + +"Yes, I'll go." + +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. + +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. + +One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany's poems +to the music of Kerry's graphophone. + +"Chant!" cried Tom. "Don't recite! Chant!" + +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. + +"Put on 'Hearts and Flowers'!" he howled. "Oh, my Lord, I'm going to +cast a kitten." + +"Shut off the damn graphophone," Amory cried, rather red in the face. +"I'm not giving an exhibition." + +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." + +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: + + "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..." + +"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. + +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. + + ***** + +A DAMP SYMBOLIC INTERLUDE + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"I'm very damn wet!" he said aloud to the sun-dial. + + ***** + +HISTORICAL + +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. + +That was his total reaction. + + ***** + +"HA-HA HORTENSE!" + +"All right, ponies!" + +"Shake it up!" + +"Hey, ponies--how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a mean +hip?" + +"Hey, _ponies!_" + +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. + +"All right. We'll take the pirate song." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +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 _conspicuously_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +"PETTING" + +On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant contact with that +great current American phenomenon, the "petting party." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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 _try_ to find her. + +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. + +"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. + +"I don't know. I'm just full of the devil." + +"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?" + +"No--but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to deserve +it?" + +"And you didn't feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of the +things you said? You just wanted to be--" + +"Oh, let's go in," she interrupted, "if you want to _analyze_. Let's not +_talk_ about it." + +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. + + ***** + +DESCRIPTIVE + +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. + + ***** + +ISABELLE + +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. + +"Isabelle!" called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the +dressing-room. + +"I'm ready." She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her throat. + +"I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. It'll be +just a minute." + +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: + +"You remember Amory Blaine, of _course_. 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." + +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: + +"How do you mean he's heard about me? What sort of things?" + +Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with her more +exotic cousin. + +"He knows you're--you're considered beautiful and all that"--she +paused--"and I guess he knows you've been kissed." + +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. + +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 _he_ dress like that boy there, who walked calmly down a +bustling business street, in moccasins and winter-carnival costume? How +very _Western!_ 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.... + +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, +_force_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +During this inspection Amory was quietly watching. + +"Don't _you_ think so?" she said suddenly, turning to him, +innocent-eyed. + +There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their table. Amory +struggled to Isabelle's side, and whispered: + +"You're my dinner partner, you know. We're all coached for each other." + +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: + +"I've heard a lot about you since you wore braids--" + +"Wasn't it funny this afternoon--" + +Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her face was always enough +answer for any one, but she decided to speak. + +"How--from whom?" + +"From everybody--for all the years since you've been away." She blushed +appropriately. On her right Froggy was _hors de combat_ already, +although he hadn't quite realized it. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Oh--what?" Isabelle's face was a study in enraptured curiosity. + +Amory shook his head. + +"I don't know you very well yet." + +"Will you tell me--afterward?" she half whispered. + +He nodded. + +"We'll sit out." + +Isabelle nodded. + +"Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes?" she said. + +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. + + ***** + +BABES IN THE WOODS + +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 blase +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. + +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 _making_ my evening." + +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. + +Boys who passed the door looked in enviously--girls who passed only +laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves. + +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. + +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. + +"Is Froggy a good friend of yours?" she asked. + +"Rather--why?" + +"He's a bum dancer." + +Amory laughed. + +"He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his arms." + +She appreciated this. + +"You're awfully good at sizing people up." + +Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people for +her. Then they talked about hands. + +"You've got awfully nice hands," she said. "They look as if you played +the piano. Do you?" + +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. + +"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: + +"I don't know whether or not you know what you--what I'm going to say. +Lordy, Isabelle--this _sounds_ like a line, but it isn't." + +"I know," said Isabelle softly. + +"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. + +"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: + +"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." + +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: + + + "Give me your hand + I'll understand + We're off to slumberland." + + +Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt Amory's hand close +over hers. + +"Isabelle," he whispered. "You know I'm mad about you. You _do_ give a +darn about me." + +"Yes." + +"How much do you care--do you like any one better?" + +"No." He could scarcely hear her, although he bent so near that he felt +her breath against his cheek. + +"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--" + +"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. + + + "Moonlight is bright, + Kiss me good night." + + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +"No," she answered. "I don't do that sort of thing any more; he asked me +to, but I said no." + +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--? + +"Fourteen angels were watching o'er them," sang Sally sleepily from the +next room. + +"Damn!" muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious lump and +exploring the cold sheets cautiously. "Damn!" + + ***** + +CARNIVAL + +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. + +"Oh, let me see--" he said one night to a flabbergasted delegation, +"what club do you represent?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hi, Dibby--'gratulations!" + +"Goo' boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap." + +"Say, Kerry--" + +"Oh, Kerry--I hear you went Tiger with all the weight-lifters!" "Well, I +didn't go Cottage--the parlor-snakes' delight." + +"They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid--Did he sign up the +first day?--oh, _no_. Tore over to Murray-Dodge on a bicycle--afraid it +was a mistake." + +"How'd you get into Cap--you old roue?" + +"'Gratulations!" + +"'Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Where'd you get the car?" demanded Amory cynically. + +"Sacred trust, but don't be a critical goopher or you can't go!" + +"I think I'll sleep," Amory said calmly, resettling himself and reaching +beside the bed for a cigarette. + +"Sleep!" + +"Why not? I've got a class at eleven-thirty." + +"You damned gloom! Of course, if you don't want to go to the coast--" + +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. + +"Who's going?" he demanded as he wriggled into his B. V. D.'s. + +"Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse Ferrenby and--oh about +five or six. Speed it up, kid!" + +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. + +"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." + +"Anybody got any money?" suggested Ferrenby, turning around from the +front seat. + +There was an emphatic negative chorus. + +"That makes it interesting." + +"Money--what's money? We can sell the car." + +"Charge him salvage or something." + +"How're we going to get food?" asked Amory. + +"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." + +"Three days," Amory mused, "and I've got classes." + +"One of the days is the Sabbath." + +"Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with over a month and a +half to go." + +"Throw him out!" + +"It's a long walk back." + +"Amory, you're running it out, if I may coin a new phrase." + +"Hadn't you better get some dope on yourself, Amory?" + +Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the +scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow. + + + "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--" + + +"What's the matter, Amory? Amory's thinking about poetry, about the +pretty birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye." + +"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." + +"Oh," said Kerry respectfully, "these important men--" + +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. + +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.... + +"Oh, good Lord! _Look_ at it!" he cried. + +"What?" + +"Let me out, quick--I haven't seen it for eight years! Oh, gentlefolk, +stop the car!" + +"What an odd child!" remarked Alec. + +"I do believe he's a bit eccentric." + +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. + +"Now we'll get lunch," ordered Kerry, wandering up with the crowd. "Come +on, Amory, tear yourself away and get practical." + +"We'll try the best hotel first," he went on, "and thence and so forth." + +They strolled along the boardwalk to the most imposing hostelry in +sight, and, entering the dining-room, scattered about a table. + +"Eight Bronxes," commanded Alec, "and a club sandwich and Juliennes. The +food for one. Hand the rest around." + +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. + +"What's the bill?" + +Some one scanned it. + +"Eight twenty-five." + +"Rotten overcharge. We'll give them two dollars and one for the waiter. +Kerry, collect the small change." + +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. + +"Some mistake, sir." + +Kerry took the bill and examined it critically. + +"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. + +"Won't he send after us?" + +"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--" + +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. + +"You see, Amory, we're Marxian Socialists," explained Kerry. "We don't +believe in property and we're putting it to the great test." + +"Night will descend," Amory suggested. + +"Watch, and put your trust in Holiday." + +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. + +"Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me present Messrs. Connage, Sloane, +Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine." + +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. + +"She prefers her native dishes," said Alec gravely to the waiter, "but +any coarse food will do." + +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. + +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 _noblesse oblige_ +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. +... + +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. + +"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." + +Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation. + +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. + +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 + + "Beaches of Lukanon before the sealers came." + + +It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Oh, Alec, I believe I'm tired of college," he said sadly, as they +walked the dusk together. + +"I think I am, too, in a way." + +"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." + +"Me, too." + +"I'd like to quit." + +"What does your girl say?" + +"Oh!" Amory gasped in horror. "She wouldn't _think_ of marrying... that +is, not now. I mean the future, you know." + +"My girl would. I'm engaged." + +"Are you really?" + +"Yes. Don't say a word to anybody, please, but I am. I may not come back +next year." + +"But you're only twenty! Give up college?" + +"Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago--" + +"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." + +"What a waste these nights are!" agreed Alec. + +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. + + ... Oh it's so hard to write you what I really _feel_ when I + think about you so much; you've gotten to mean to me a _dream_ 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 _frank_ 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 + _you_ 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 _thought_ 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 _best_. + + 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 blase, because it's not that. It's just + that I'm in love. Oh, _dearest_ 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.... + +And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them infinitely +charming, infinitely new. + + ***** + +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. + +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. + +"Let's borrow bicycles and take a ride," Amory suggested. + +"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." + +They found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court and rode out about +half-past three along the Lawrenceville Road. + +"What are you going to do this summer, Amory?" + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"You consider you taught me that, don't you?" he asked quizzically, +eying Amory in the half dark. + +Amory laughed quietly. + +"Didn't I?" + +"Sometimes," he said slowly, "I think you're my bad angel. I might have +been a pretty fair poet." + +"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." + +"Yes," he agreed, "you're right. I wouldn't have liked it. Still, it's +hard to be made a cynic at twenty." + +"I was born one," Amory murmured. "I'm a cynical idealist." He paused +and wondered if that meant anything. + +They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to ride +back. + +"It's good, this ride, isn't it?" Tom said presently. + +"Yes; it's a good finish, it's knock-out; everything's good to-night. +Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle!" + +"Oh, you and your Isabelle! I'll bet she's a simple one... let's say +some poetry." + +So Amory declaimed "The Ode to a Nightingale" to the bushes they passed. + +"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." + +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. + + ***** + +UNDER THE ARC-LIGHT + +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. + +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. ... + + + 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.... + + +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: + +"You Princeton boys?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, there's one of you killed here, and two others about dead." + +"_My God!_" + +"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. + +They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that head--that +hair--that hair... and then they turned the form over. + +"It's Dick--Dick Humbird!" + +"Oh, Christ!" + +"Feel his heart!" + +Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking triumph: + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _God!_..." He +threw himself face downward on the floor and broke into dry sobs. + +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. _He_ 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. + +"Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby." + +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. + + ***** + +CRESCENDO! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I say, old man, I've got an awfully nice--" + +"Sorry, Kaye, but I'm set for this one. I've got to cut in on a fella." + +"Well, the next one?" + +"What--ah--er--I swear I've got to go cut in--look me up when she's got +a dance free." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + + + +CHAPTER 3. The Egotist Considers + + +"Ouch! Let me go!" + +He dropped his arms to his sides. + +"What's the matter?" + +"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. + +"Oh, Isabelle," he reproached himself, "I'm a goopher. Really, I'm +sorry--I shouldn't have held you so close." + +She looked up impatiently. + +"Oh, Amory, of course you couldn't help it, and it didn't hurt much; but +what _are_ we going to do about it?" + +"_Do_ about it?" he asked. "Oh--that spot; it'll disappear in a second." + +"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 _just_ +the height of your shoulder." + +"Massage it," he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination to +laugh. + +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. + +"Oh, Amory," she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic face, +"I'll just make my whole neck _flame_ if I rub it. What'll I do?" + +A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn't resist repeating it +aloud. + + "All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand." + + +She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like ice. + +"You're not very sympathetic." + +Amory mistook her meaning. + +"Isabelle, darling, I think it'll--" + +"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Haven't I enough on my mind and you stand +there and _laugh!_" + +Then he slipped again. + +"Well, it _is_ funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day about +a sense of humor being--" + +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. + +"Oh, shut up!" she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway toward her +room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion. + +"Damn!" + +When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her +shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that endured +through dinner. + +"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." + +Isabelle considered glumly. + +"I hate to be laughed at," she said finally. + +"I won't laugh any more. I'm not laughing now, am I?" + +"You did." + +"Oh, don't be so darned feminine." + +Her lips curled slightly. + +"I'll be anything I want." + +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, _pleading_, +with a doughty warrior like Isabelle. + +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.... + +Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil's food in the pantry, +and Amory announced a decision. + +"I'm leaving early in the morning." + +"Why?" + +"Why not?" he countered. + +"There's no need." + +"However, I'm going." + +"Well, if you insist on being ridiculous--" + +"Oh, don't put it that way," he objected. + +"--just because I won't let you kiss me. Do you think--" + +"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." + +She hesitated. + +"I really don't know what to think about you," she began, in a feeble, +perverse attempt at conciliation. "You're so funny." + +"How?" + +"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?" + +Amory flushed. He _had_ told her a lot of things. + +"Yes." + +"Well, you didn't seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you're +just plain conceited." + +"No, I'm not," he hesitated. "At Princeton--" + +"Oh, you and Princeton! You'd think that was the world, the way you +talk! Perhaps you _can_ write better than anybody else on your old +Princetonian; maybe the freshmen _do_ think you're important--" + +"You don't understand--" + +"Yes, I do," she interrupted. "I _do_, because you're always talking +about yourself and I used to like it; now I don't." + +"Have I to-night?" + +"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." + +"I make you think, do I?" Amory repeated with a touch of vanity. + +"You're a nervous strain"--this emphatically--"and when you analyze +every little emotion and instinct I just don't have 'em." + +"I know." Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly. + +"Let's go." She stood up. + +He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. + +"What train can I get?" + +"There's one about 9:11 if you really must go." + +"Yes, I've got to go, really. Good night." + +"Good night." + +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. + +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. + +There was a knock at the door. + +"The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir." + +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: + + + "Each life unfulfilled, you see, + It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; + We have not sighed deep, laughed free, + Starved, feasted, despaired--been happy." + + +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! + +"Damn her!" he said bitterly, "she's spoiled my year!" + + ***** + +THE SUPERMAN GROWS CARELESS + +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. + +"Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point be?" + +Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material and +tries to concentrate. + +"Oh--ah--I'm damned if I know, Mr. Rooney." + +"Oh, why of course, of course you can't _use_ that formula. _That's_ +what I wanted you to say." + +"Why, sure, of course." + +"Do you see why?" + +"You bet--I suppose so." + +"If you don't see, tell me. I'm here to show you." + +"Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don't mind, I wish you'd go over that again." + +"Gladly. Now here's 'A'..." + +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 _had_ 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. + +"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.... + +Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that filled +the room would come the inevitable helpless cry: + +"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. + +There was always his luck. + +He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered from +the room. + +"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." + +"Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?" + +"'Cause you deserve it. Anybody that'd risk what you were in line for +_ought_ to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman." + +"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: + +"Oh, Tom, any mail?" + +Alec's head appeared against the yellow square of light. + +"Yes, your result's here." + +His heart clamored violently. + +"What is it, blue or pink?" + +"Don't know. Better come up." + +He walked into the room and straight over to the table, and then +suddenly noticed that there were other people in the room. + +"'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. + +"We have here quite a slip of paper." + +"Open it, Amory." + +"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." + +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. + +"Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emotions." + +He tore it open and held the slip up to the light. + +"Well?" + +"Pink or blue?" + +"Say what it is." + +"We're all ears, Amory." + +"Smile or swear--or something." + +There was a pause... a small crowd of seconds swept by... then he looked +again and another crowd went on into time. + +"Blue as the sky, gentlemen...." + + ***** + +AFTERMATH + +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. + +"Your own laziness," said Alec later. + +"No--something deeper than that. I've begun to feel that I was meant to +lose this chance." + +"They're rather off you at the club, you know; every man that doesn't +come through makes our crowd just so much weaker." + +"I hate that point of view." + +"Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a comeback." + +"No--I'm through--as far as ever being a power in college is concerned." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Your system broke, you mean." + +"Maybe." + +"Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one quick, or just bum +around for two more years as a has-been?" + +"I don't know yet..." + +"Oh, Amory, buck up!" + +"Maybe." + +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: + + 1. The fundamental Amory. + + 2. Amory plus Beatrice. + + 3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. + +Then St. Regis' had pulled him to pieces and started him over again: + + 4. Amory plus St. Regis'. + + 5. Amory plus St. Regis' plus Princeton. + +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: + + 6. The fundamental Amory. + + ***** + +FINANCIAL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + "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 _practical_ 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 _once_ a week, because I + imagine all sorts of horrible things if I don't hear from you. + Affectionately, MOTHER." + + ***** + +FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM "PERSONAGE" + +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. + +"I've felt like leaving college, Monsignor." + +"Why?" + +"All my career's gone up in smoke; you think it's petty and all that, +but--" + +"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." + +Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his egotistic +highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had left his voice. + +"What would you do if you left college?" asked Monsignor. + +"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." + +"You know you wouldn't like to go." + +"Sometimes I would--to-night I'd go in a second." + +"Well, you'd have to be very much more tired of life than I think you +are. I know you." + +"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." + +"Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I'm not worried about you; you +seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally." + +"No," Amory objected. "I've lost half my personality in a year." + +"Not a bit of it!" scoffed Monsignor. "You've lost a great amount of +vanity and that's all." + +"Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I'd gone through another fifth form at St. +Regis's." + +"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." + +"What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?" + +"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." + +"But, Monsignor, I can't do the next thing." + +"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." + +"Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of thing I +should do." + +"We have to do it because we're not personalities, but personages." + +"That's a good line--what do you mean?" + +"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." + +"And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off when I +needed them." Amory continued the simile eagerly. + +"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." + +"But, on the other hand, if I haven't my possessions, I'm helpless!" + +"Absolutely." + +"That's certainly an idea." + +"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!" + +"How clear you can make things!" + +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. + +"Why do I make lists?" Amory asked him one night. "Lists of all sorts of +things?" + +"Because you're a mediaevalist," Monsignor answered. "We both are. It's +the passion for classifying and finding a type." + +"It's a desire to get something definite." + +"It's the nucleus of scholastic philosophy." + +"I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up here. +It was a pose, I guess." + +"Don't worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest pose of +all. Pose--" + +"Yes?" + +"But do the next thing." + +After Amory returned to college he received several letters from +Monsignor which gave him more egotistic food for consumption. + + 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. + + +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. + +Together with Tom D'Invilliers, he sought among the lights of Princeton +for some one who might found the Great American Poetic Tradition. + +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. + +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. + + + "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 _highest rules of criticism_ + For _cheap_ and _careless_ 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 _narrow-minded earth_ + The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth." + + +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. + + ***** + +THE DEVIL + +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. + +"Table for four in the middle of the floor," yelled Phoebe. "Hurry, old +dear, tell 'em we're here!" + +"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. + +"There's Findle Margotson, from New Haven!" she cried above the uproar. +"'Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!" + +"Oh, Axia!" he shouted in salutation. "C'mon over to our table." "No!" +Amory whispered. + +"Can't do it, Findle; I'm with somebody else! Call me up to-morrow about +one o'clock!" + +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. + +"There's a natural damn fool," commented Amory. + +"Oh, he's all right. Here's the old jitney waiter. If you ask me, I want +a double Daiquiri." + +"Make it four." + +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. + +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. + +"Who's that pale fool watching us?" he complained indignantly. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Where now?" + +"Up to the flat," suggested Phoebe. "We've got brandy and fizz--and +everything's slow down here to-night." + +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. + +"Phoebe's great stuff," confided Sloane, sotto voce. + +"I'm only going to stay half an hour," Amory said sternly. He wondered +if it sounded priggish. + +"Hell y' say," protested Sloane. "We're here now--don't le's rush." + +"I don't like this place," Amory said sulkily, "and I don't want any +food." + +Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and four +glasses. + +"Amory, pour 'em out," she said, "and we'll drink to Fred Sloane, who +has a rare, distinguished edge." + +"Yes," said Axia, coming in, "and Amory. I like Amory." She sat down +beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder. + +"I'll pour," said Sloane; "you use siphon, Phoebe." + +They filled the tray with glasses. + +"Ready, here she goes!" + +Amory hesitated, glass in hand. + +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.... + +He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia's voice came +out of the void with a strange goodness. + +"Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory's sick--old head going 'round?" + +"Look at that man!" cried Amory, pointing toward the corner divan. + +"You mean that purple zebra!" shrieked Axia facetiously. "Ooo-ee! +Amory's got a purple zebra watching him!" + +Sloane laughed vacantly. + +"Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?" + +There was a silence.... The man regarded Amory quizzically.... Then the +human voices fell faintly on his ear: + +"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.... + +"Come back! Come back!" Axia's arm fell on his. "Amory, dear, you aren't +going, Amory!" He was half-way to the door. + +"Come on, Amory, stick 'th us!" + +"Sick, are you?" + +"Sit down a second!" + +"Take some water." + +"Take a little brandy...." + +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... + +As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the sickly +electric light of the paved hall. + + ***** + +IN THE ALLEY + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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; _but he knew, for the half instant that the gong tanged and +hummed, that it was the face of Dick Humbird._ + +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. + + ***** + +AT THE WINDOW + +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. + +Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the +painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory. + +"For God's sake, let's go back! Let's get off of this--this place!" + +Sloane looked at him in amazement. + +"What do you mean?" + +"This street, it's ghastly! Come on! let's get back to the Avenue!" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting a +cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing him. + +"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." + +"Don't tell me about it!" Amory almost shrieked. "Don't say a word; I'm +tired and pepped out." + +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." + +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. + +"God help us!" Amory cried. + +"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." + +Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair again. + +"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!" + +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. + + + +CHAPTER 4. Narcissus Off Duty + + +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. + +"Heard the latest?" said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening with +that triumphant air he always wore after a successful conversational +bout. + +"No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?" + +"Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going to +resign from their clubs." + +"What!" + +"Actual fact!" + +"Why!" + +"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." + +"Well, what's the idea of the thing?" + +"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." + +"But this is the real thing?" + +"Absolutely. I think it'll go through." + +"For Pete's sake, tell me more about it." + +"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." + +"Fine! I swear I think it'll be most entertaining. How do they feel up +at Cap and Gown?" + +"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." + +"How do the radicals stand up?" + +"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." + +"And you say almost a third of the junior class are going to resign?" + +"Call it a fourth and be safe." + +"Lord--who'd have thought it possible!" + +There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in. "Hello, +Amory--hello, Tom." + +Amory rose. + +"'Evening, Burne. Don't mind if I seem to rush; I'm going to Renwick's." + +Burne turned to him quickly. + +"You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn't a bit +private. I wish you'd stay." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"How about religion?" Amory asked him. + +"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." + +"Read what?" + +"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.'" + +"What chiefly started you?" + +"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." + +"Poetry?" + +"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." + +"Whitman?" + +"Yes; he's a definite ethical force." + +"Well, I'm ashamed to say that I'm a blank on the subject of Whitman. +How about you, Tom?" + +Tom nodded sheepishly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Are you coming to the Harvard game?" Burne had asked indiscreetly, +merely to make conversation. + +"If you ask me," cried Phyllis quickly. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"But, Burne--why did you _invite_ her if you didn't want her?" + +"Burne, you _know_ you're secretly mad about her--that's the _real_ +trouble." + +"What can _you_ do, Burne? What can _you_ do against Phyllis?" + +But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which consisted +largely of the phrase: "She'll see, she'll see!" + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Phyllis Styles must be _awfully hard up_ to have to come with _those +two_." + +That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. From +that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to orient with +progress.... + +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. + +"Don't you mind losing prestige?" asked Amory one night. They had taken +to exchanging calls several times a week. + +"Of course I don't. What's prestige, at best?" + +"Some people say that you're just a rather original politician." + +He roared with laughter. + +"That's what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it coming." + +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: + +"Of course health counts--a healthy man has twice the chance of being +good," he said. + +"I don't agree with you--I don't believe in 'muscular Christianity.'" + +"I do--I believe Christ had great physical vigor." + +"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." + +"Half of them have." + +"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." + +"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 _do_ +know--personal appearance has a lot to do with it." + +"Coloring?" Amory asked eagerly. + +"Yes." + +"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 +_two-thirds_ of every senior council are light. We looked at pictures +of ten years of them, mind you; that means that out of every _fifteen_ +light-haired men in the senior class _one_ is on the senior council, and +of the dark-haired men it's only one in _fifty_." + +"It's true," Burne agreed. "The light-haired man _is_ 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." + +"People unconsciously admit it," said Amory. "You'll notice a blond +person is _expected_ 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." + +"And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose undoubtedly make +the superior face." + +"I'm not so sure." Amory was all for classical features. + +"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. + +"Aren't they wonderful?" + +Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. + +"Burne, I think they're the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came across. +They look like an old man's home." + +"Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi's eyes." +His tone was reproachful. + +Amory shook his head. + +"No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you want--but ugly they +certainly are." + +Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious foreheads, +and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. + +Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he +persuaded Amory to accompany him. + +"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." + +"That's useless, you know." + +"Quite possibly." + +"We'll go east," Burne suggested, "and down that string of roads through +the woods." + +"Doesn't sound very appealing to me," admitted Amory reluctantly, "but +let's go." + +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. + +"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." + +"Go on," Amory urged eagerly. They were striding toward the woods, +Burne's nervous, enthusiastic voice warming to his subject. + +"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?" + +"I do," Amory admitted. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Well," Burne said suddenly, after a few moments' silence, "we're +half-way through, let's turn back." + +On the return he launched into a discussion of will. + +"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." + +"How about great criminals?" + +"They're usually insane. If not, they're weak. There is no such thing as +a strong, sane criminal." + +"Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about the superman?" + +"Well?" + +"He's evil, I think, yet he's strong and sane." + +"I've never met him. I'll bet, though, that he's stupid or insane." + +"I've met him over and over and he's neither. That's why I think you're +wrong." + +"I'm sure I'm not--and so I don't believe in imprisonment except for the +insane." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"It's a bad time to admit it--people are beginning to think he's odd." + +"He's way over their heads--you know you think so yourself when you +talk to him--Good Lord, Tom, you _used_ to stand out against 'people.' +Success has completely conventionalized you." + +Tom grew rather annoyed. + +"What's he trying to do--be excessively holy?" + +"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." + +"He certainly is getting in wrong." + +"Have you talked to him lately?" + +"No." + +"Then you haven't any conception of him." + +The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how the +sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus. + +"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." + +The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a +recitation. + +"Whither bound, Tsar?" + +"Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby," he waved a copy of the +morning's Princetonian at Amory. "He wrote this editorial." + +"Going to flay him alive?" + +"No--but he's got me all balled up. Either I've misjudged him or he's +suddenly become the world's worst radical." + +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. + +"Hello, Jesse." + +"Hello there, Savonarola." + +"I just read your editorial." + +"Good boy--didn't know you stooped that low." + +"Jesse, you startled me." + +"How so?" + +"Aren't you afraid the faculty'll get after you if you pull this +irreligious stuff?" + +"What?" + +"Like this morning." + +"What the devil--that editorial was on the coaching system." + +"Yes, but that quotation--" + +Jesse sat up. + +"What quotation?" + +"You know: 'He who is not with me is against me.'" + +"Well--what about it?" + +Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed. + +"Well, you say here--let me see." Burne opened the paper and read: +"'_He who is not with me is against me_, as that gentleman said who +was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and puerile +generalities.'" + +"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." + +Burne roared with laughter. + +"Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse." + +"Who said it, for Pete's sake?" + +"Well," said Burne, recovering his voice, "St. Matthew attributes it to +Christ." + +"My God!" cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the waste-basket. + + ***** + +AMORY WRITES A POEM + +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--? + +Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very soft, +vibrant voice: "Oh, I'm such a poor little fool; _do_ tell me when I do +wrong." + +The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of +Isabelle. + +He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble rapidly: + + "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, _did_ 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." + + ***** + +STILL CALM + +"Ghosts are such dumb things," said Alec, "they're slow-witted. I can +always outguess a ghost." + +"How?" asked Tom. + +"Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use _any_ +discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom." + +"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. + +"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 +_cleared_--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. _Always, always_ run the stick in viciously first--_never_ look +first!" + +"Of course, that's the ancient Celtic school," said Tom gravely. + +"Yes--but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to clear +the closets and also for behind all doors--" + +"And the bed," Amory suggested. + +"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 _almost always_ under the bed." + +"Well" Amory began. + +Alec waved him into silence. + +"Of _course_ 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." + +"All that's very interesting, Tom." + +"Isn't it?" Alec beamed proudly. "All my own, too--the Sir Oliver Lodge +of the new world." + +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. + +"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." + +Amory looked up innocently. + +"What?" + +"What?" mimicked Alec. "Are you trying to read yourself into a rhapsody +with--let's see the book." + +He snatched it; regarded it derisively. + +"Well?" said Amory a little stiffly. + +"'The Life of St. Teresa,'" read Alec aloud. "Oh, my gosh!" + +"Say, Alec." + +"What?" + +"Does it bother you?" + +"Does what bother me?" + +"My acting dazed and all that?" + +"Why, no--of course it doesn't _bother_ me." + +"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." + +"You're getting a reputation for being eccentric," said Alec, laughing, +"if that's what you mean." + +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. + +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. + +Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an interesting +P. S.: + + "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." + + +Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor.... + + ***** + +CLARA + +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. + +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 _girls' boarding-schools_ 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. + +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. + +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 _knitting_ and +_embroidery_), 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. + +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. + +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. + +"You _are_ remarkable, aren't you!" Amory was becoming trite from where +he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six o'clock. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Tell me about yourself." And she gave the answer that Adam must have +given. + +"There's nothing to tell." + +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 _different_ 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. + +"_Nobody_ seems to bore you," he objected. + +"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. + +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 +_them_ as being among the saved). + + ***** + +ST. CECILIA + + "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." + + +"Do you like me?" + +"Of course I do," said Clara seriously. + +"Why?" + +"Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are spontaneous in +each of us--or were originally." + +"You're implying that I haven't used myself very well?" + +Clara hesitated. + +"Well, I can't judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot more, +and I've been sheltered." + +"Oh, don't stall, please, Clara," Amory interrupted; "but do talk about +me a little, won't you?" + +"Surely, I'd adore to." She didn't smile. + +"That's sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully +conceited?" + +"Well--no, you have tremendous vanity, but it'll amuse the people who +notice its preponderance." + +"I see." + +"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." + +"Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let me say a +word." + +"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." + +"But I am, potentially." + +"And you say you're a weak character, that you've no will." + +"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--" + +"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." + +"You certainly interest me. If this isn't boring you, go on." + +"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." + +"Yes," objected Amory, "but isn't it lack of will-power to let my +imagination shinny on the wrong side?" + +"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." + +"Well, I'll be darned!" exclaimed Amory in surprise, "that's the last +thing I expected." + +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. + +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. + +"I'll bet she won't stay single long." + +"Well, don't scream it out. She ain't lookin' for no advice." + +"_Ain't_ she beautiful!" + + (Enter a floor-walker--silence till he moves forward, smirking.) + +"Society person, ain't she?" + +"Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say." + +"Gee! girls, _ain't_ she some kid!" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it all that night. He +couldn't help it. + +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. + +"I think," he said and his voice trembled, "that if I lost faith in you +I'd lose faith in God." + +She looked at him with such a startled face that he asked her the +matter. + +"Nothing," she said slowly, "only this: five men have said that to me +before, and it frightens me." + +"Oh, Clara, is that your fate!" + +She did not answer. + +"I suppose love to you is--" he began. + +She turned like a flash. + +"I have never been in love." + +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: + +"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--" + +She shook her head. + +"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. + +"Amory." + +"What?" + +"You're not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did you?" + +"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--" + +"There you go--running through your catalogue of emotions in five +seconds." + +He smiled unwillingly. + +"Don't make me out such a light-weight, Clara; you _are_ depressing +sometimes." + +"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." + +"There's so much spring in the air--there's so much lazy sweetness in +your heart." + +She dropped his arm. + +"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." + +And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like two mad +children gone wild with pale-blue twilight. + +"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." + +"Oh, Clara!" Amory said; "what a devil you could have been if the Lord +had just bent your soul a little the other way!" + +"Maybe," she answered; "but I think not. I'm never really wild and never +have been. That little outburst was pure spring." + +"And you are, too," said he. + +They were walking along now. + +"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." + +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: + +"Oh, if I could only have gotten _you!_" Oh, the enormous conceit of the +man! + +But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara's bright +soul still gleamed on the ways they had trod. + +"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..." + + ***** + +AMORY IS RESENTFUL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"But, Amory, listen--" + +"Burne, we'd just argue--" + +"Very well." + +"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 +_German?_" + +"Some of them are, of course." + +"How do you know they aren't _all_ pro-German--just a lot of weak +ones--with German-Jewish names." + +"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." + +Amory's heart sank. + +"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--" + +"I doubt it," he interrupted. + +"Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me." + +"I know what you mean, and that's why I'm not sure I'll agitate." + +"You're one man, Burne--going to talk to people who won't listen--with +all God's given you." + +"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." + +"Go on." + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"I'm going next week." + +"I'll see you, of course." + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + +"Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal Richelieu," suggested +Alec, who was lounging in the window-seat as Burne and Amory shook +hands. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Have you ever read anything of theirs?" asked Tom shrewdly. + +"No," Amory admitted. + +"Neither have I," he said laughing. + +"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!" + +Amory subsided, and the subject dropped. + +"What are you going to do, Amory?" + +"Infantry or aviation, I can't make up my mind--I hate mechanics, but +then of course aviation's the thing for me--" + +"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." + +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. + + + Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep + Who sowed the bitter harvest that your children go to reap-- + +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. + + + "They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin was about, + They shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried out--" + + +But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that out. + +"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. + + + "You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, + You thanked him for your 'glorious gains'--reproached him for + 'Cathay.'" + + +Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time? Now he needed +something to rhyme with: + + + "You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong + before..." + + +Well, anyway.... + + + "You met your children in your home--'I've fixed it up!' you cried, + Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuously--died." + +"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." + +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. + +"Here's a poem to the Victorians, sir," he said coldly. + +The professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly through +the door. + +Here is what he had written: + + + "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." + + + ***** + +THE END OF MANY THINGS + +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. + +"This is the great protest against the superman," said Amory. + +"I suppose so," Alec agreed. + +"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." + +"And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral sense." + +"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?" + +"What brings it about?" + +"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." + +"God! Haven't we raked the universe over the coals for four years?" + +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. + +"The grass is full of ghosts to-night." + +"The whole campus is alive with them." + +They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver of the +slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees. + +"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." + +A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch--broken voices for +some long parting. + +"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." + +"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--" + +"Good-by, Aaron Burr," Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, "you +and I knew strange corners of life." + +His voice echoed in the stillness. + +"The torches are out," whispered Tom. "Ah, Messalina, the long shadows +are building minarets on the stadium--" + +For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and then +they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes. + +"Damn!" + +"Damn!" + +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. + +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. + + + + +INTERLUDE + +May, 1917-February, 1919 + + +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. + + +MY DEAR BOY: + +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 _plump!_ 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.... + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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.... + +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.... + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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 _will_ smoke +and read all night-- + +At any rate here it is: + + +A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to the War Against the King of +Foreign. + + "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." + +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. + + ***** + +EMBARKING AT NIGHT + +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: + + + "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." + + +A letter from Amory, headed "Brest, March 11th, 1919," to Lieutenant T. +P. D'Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga. + + +DEAR BAUDELAIRE:-- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + S'ever, dear Boswell, + + SAMUEL JOHNSON. + + + + +BOOK TWO--The Education of a Personage + + + +CHAPTER 1. The Debutante + + +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. + +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. + +An indistinguishable mumble from the next room. + +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. + +More chatter outside and a girl's voice, a very spoiled voice, says: "Of +all the stupid people--" + +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. + +CECELIA: Pink? + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes! + +CECELIA: _Very_ snappy? + +ROSALIND: Yes! + +CECELIA: I've got it! + +(She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and commences to +shimmy enthusiastically.) + +ROSALIND: (Outside) What are you doing--trying it on? + +(CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right shoulder. + +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.) + +ALEC: So _that's_ where you all are! Amory Blaine is here. + +CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs. + +ALEC: Oh, he _is_ down-stairs. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him I'm +sorry that I can't meet him now. + +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. + +(This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.) + +CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How do you +mean--temperamental? You used to say that about him in letters. + +ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff. + +CECELIA: Does he play the piano? + +ALEC: Don't think so. + +CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink? + +ALEC: Yes--nothing queer about him. + +CECELIA: Money? + +ALEC: Good Lord--ask him, he used to have a lot, and he's got some +income now. + +(MRS. CONNAGE appears.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we're glad to have any friend of yours-- + +ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory. + +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 _all_ the attention. + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming here and hooking me. + +(MRS. CONNAGE goes.) + +ALEC: Rosalind hasn't changed a bit. + +CECELIA: (In a lower tone) She's awfully spoiled. + +ALEC: She'll meet her match to-night. + +CECELIA: Who--Mr. Amory Blaine? + +(ALEC nods.) + +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. + +ALEC: They love it. + +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. + +ALEC: Personality runs in our family. + +CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got to me. + +ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself? + +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. + +(Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind's almost finished so I can go down and meet your +friend. + +(ALEC and his mother go out.) + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother-- + +CECELIA: Mother's gone down. + +(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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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.) + +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. + +CECELIA: Glad you're coming out? + +ROSALIND: Yes; aren't you? + +CECELIA: (Cynically) You're glad so you can get married and live on Long +Island with the _fast younger married set_. You want life to be a chain +of flirtation with a man for every link. + +ROSALIND: _Want_ it to be one! You mean I've _found_ it one. + +CECELIA: Ha! + +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. + +CECELIA: It must be an awful strain. + +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. + +CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting you +do. + +ROSALIND: Sometimes when I've felt particularly radiant I've thought, +why should this be wasted on one man? + +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. + +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. + +CECELIA: Well, I'm glad I don't have all your worries. I'm engaged. + +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. + +CECELIA: You won't tell her, though, because I know things I could +tell--and you're too selfish! + +ROSALIND: (A little annoyed) Run along, little girl! Who are you engaged +to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store? + +CECELIA: Cheap wit--good-by, darling, I'll see you later. + +ROSALIND: Oh, be _sure_ and do that--you're such a help. + +(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.) + +HE: Oh, I'm sorry. I thought-- + +SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you're Amory Blaine, aren't you? + +HE: (Regarding her closely) And you're Rosalind? + +SHE: I'm going to call you Amory--oh, come in--it's all right--mother'll +be right in--(under her breath) unfortunately. + +HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for me. + +SHE: This is No Man's Land. + +HE: This is where you--you--(pause) + +SHE: Yes--all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) See, here's my +rouge--eye pencils. + +HE: I didn't know you were that way. + +SHE: What did you expect? + +HE: I thought you'd be sort of--sort of--sexless, you know, swim and +play golf. + +SHE: Oh, I do--but not in business hours. + +HE: Business? + +SHE: Six to two--strictly. + +HE: I'd like to have some stock in the corporation. + +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. + +HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition. + +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. + +HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on women. + +SHE: I'm not really feminine, you know--in my mind. + +HE: (Interested) Go on. + +SHE: No, you--you go on--you've made me talk about myself. That's +against the rules. + +HE: Rules? + +SHE: My own rules--but you--Oh, Amory, I hear you're brilliant. The +family expects _so_ much of you. + +HE: How encouraging! + +SHE: Alec said you'd taught him to think. Did you? I didn't believe any +one could. + +HE: No. I'm really quite dull. + +(He evidently doesn't intend this to be taken seriously.) + +SHE: Liar. + +HE: I'm--I'm religious--I'm literary. I've--I've even written poems. + +SHE: Vers libre--splendid! (She declaims.) + + + "The trees are green, + The birds are singing in the trees, + The girl sips her poison + The bird flies away the girl dies." + + +HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind. + +SHE: (Suddenly) I like you. + +HE: Don't. + +SHE: Modest too-- + +HE: I'm afraid of you. I'm always afraid of a girl--until I've kissed +her. + +SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over. + +HE: So I'll always be afraid of you. + +SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will. + +(A slight hesitation on both their parts.) + +HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing to ask. + +SHE: (Knowing what's coming) After five minutes. + +HE: But will you--kiss me? Or are you afraid? + +SHE: I'm never afraid--but your reasons are so poor. + +HE: Rosalind, I really _want_ to kiss you. + +SHE: So do I. + +(They kiss--definitely and thoroughly.) + +HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity satisfied? + +SHE: Is yours? + +HE: No, it's only aroused. + +(He looks it.) + +SHE: (Dreamily) I've kissed dozens of men. I suppose I'll kiss dozens +more. + +HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could--like that. + +SHE: Most people like the way I kiss. + +HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, Rosalind. + +SHE: No--my curiosity is generally satisfied at one. + +HE: (Discouraged) Is that a rule? + +SHE: I make rules to fit the cases. + +HE: You and I are somewhat alike--except that I'm years older in +experience. + +SHE: How old are you? + +HE: Almost twenty-three. You? + +SHE: Nineteen--just. + +HE: I suppose you're the product of a fashionable school. + +SHE: No--I'm fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence--I've +forgotten why. + +HE: What's your general trend? + +SHE: Oh, I'm bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond of +admiration-- + +HE: (Suddenly) I don't want to fall in love with you-- + +SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to. + +HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love your mouth. + +SHE: Hush! Please don't fall in love with my mouth--hair, eyes, +shoulders, slippers--but _not_ my mouth. Everybody falls in love with my +mouth. + +HE: It's quite beautiful. + +SHE: It's too small. + +HE: No it isn't--let's see. + +(He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.) + +SHE: (Rather moved) Say something sweet. + +HE: (Frightened) Lord help me. + +SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don't--if it's so hard. + +HE: Shall we pretend? So soon? + +SHE: We haven't the same standards of time as other people. + +HE: Already it's--other people. + +SHE: Let's pretend. + +HE: No--I can't--it's sentiment. + +SHE: You're not sentimental? + +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. + +SHE: And you're not? (With her eyes half-closed.) You probably flatter +yourself that that's a superior attitude. + +HE: Well--Rosalind, Rosalind, don't argue--kiss me again. + +SHE: (Quite chilly now) No--I have no desire to kiss you. + +HE: (Openly taken aback) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago. + +SHE: This is now. + +HE: I'd better go. + +SHE: I suppose so. + +(He goes toward the door.) + +SHE: Oh! + +(He turns.) + +SHE: (Laughing) Score--Home Team: One hundred--Opponents: Zero. + +(He starts back.) + +SHE: (Quickly) Rain--no game. + +(He goes out.) + +(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.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Good--I've been wanting to speak to you alone before we go +down-stairs. + +ROSALIND: Heavens! you frighten me! + +MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you've been a very expensive proposition. + +ROSALIND: (Resignedly) Yes. + +MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn't what he once had. + +ROSALIND: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don't talk about money. + +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. + +ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Well--what is it? + +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. + +ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it _is_ better. + +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-- + +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. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor friends +of your father's that I want you to meet to-night--youngish men. + +ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five? + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not? + +ROSALIND: Oh, _quite_ all right--they know life and are so adorably +tired looking (shakes her head)--but they _will_ dance. + +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. + +ROSALIND: Mother, I never _think_ about money. + +MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to think about it. + +ROSALIND: (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I'll marry a ton of it--out of +sheer boredom. + +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. + +ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie? + +MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes. + +ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. They're +all wrong. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you to-night. + +ROSALIND: Don't you think I'm beautiful? + +MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. + +(From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of +a drum. MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Come! + +ROSALIND: One minute! + +(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.) + +CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming out +is _such_ 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. + +(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.) + + ***** + +SEVERAL HOURS LATER + +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. + +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. + +GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I've changed. I feel the same +toward you. + +ROSALIND: But you don't look the same to me. + +GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I +was so blase, so indifferent--I still am. + +ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown +eyes and thin legs. + +GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They're still thin and brown. You're a vampire, +that's all. + +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. + +GILLESPIE: I love you. + +ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it. + +GILLESPIE: And you haven't kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that +after a girl was kissed she was--was--won. + +ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every +time you see me. + +GILLESPIE: Are you serious? + +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. + +GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men? + +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. + +GILLESPIE: And then? + +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! + +(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, +a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.) + +RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind. + +ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven't got +too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie. + +(They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.) + +RYDER: Your party is certainly a success. + +ROSALIND: Is it--I haven't seen it lately. I'm weary--Do you mind +sitting out a minute? + +RYDER: Mind--I'm delighted. You know I loathe this "rushing" idea. See a +girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow. + +ROSALIND: Dawson! + +RYDER: What? + +ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me. + +RYDER: (Startled) What--Oh--you know you're remarkable! + +ROSALIND: Because you know I'm an awful proposition. Any one who marries +me will have his hands full. I'm mean--mighty mean. + +RYDER: Oh, I wouldn't say that. + +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. + +(Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.) + +CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission. + +ALEC: (Gloomily) I'll go if you want me to. + +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. + +ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don't want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind. + +CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want. + +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. + +CECELIA: He's very good looking. + +ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won't marry him, but a girl doesn't have +to marry a man to break his heart. + +CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret. + +ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It's lucky for some that the +Lord gave you a pug nose. + +(Enter MRS. CONNAGE.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind? + +ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you've come to the best people to find +out. She'd naturally be with us. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to +meet her. + +ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls. + +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-- + +ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn't you better send the butler through the cellar? + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don't think she'd be there? + +CECELIA: He's only joking, mother. + +ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high +hurdler. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Let's look right away. + +(They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.) + +GILLESPIE: Rosalind--Once more I ask you. Don't you care a blessed thing +about me? + +(AMORY walks in briskly.) + +AMORY: My dance. + +ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine. + +GILLESPIE: I've met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren't you? + +AMORY: Yes. + +GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I've been there. It's in the--the Middle West, +isn't it? + +AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I'd rather be +provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning. + +GILLESPIE: What! + +AMORY: Oh, no offense. + +(GILLESPIE bows and leaves.) + +ROSALIND: He's too much _people_. + +AMORY: I was in love with a _people_ once. + +ROSALIND: So? + +AMORY: Oh, yes--her name was Isabelle--nothing at all to her except what +I read into her. + +ROSALIND: What happened? + +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. + +ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical? + +AMORY: Oh--drive a car, but can't change a tire. + +ROSALIND: What are you going to do? + +AMORY: Can't say--run for President, write-- + +ROSALIND: Greenwich Village? + +AMORY: Good heavens, no--I said write--not drink. + +ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely. + +AMORY: I feel as if I'd known you for ages. + +ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the "pyramid" story? + +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. + +ROSALIND: I've suggested pretending. + +AMORY: If we did it would be very big. + +ROSALIND: Why? + +AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great +loves. + +ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend. + +(Very deliberately they kiss.) + +AMORY: I can't say sweet things. But you _are_ beautiful. + +ROSALIND: Not that. + +AMORY: What then? + +ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing--only I want sentiment, real +sentiment--and I never find it. + +AMORY: I never find anything else in the world--and I loathe it. + +ROSALIND: It's so hard to find a male to gratify one's artistic taste. + +(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the +room. ROSALIND rises.) + +ROSALIND: Listen! they're playing "Kiss Me Again." + +(He looks at her.) + +AMORY: Well? + +ROSALIND: Well? + +AMORY: (Softly--the battle lost) I love you. + +ROSALIND: I love you--now. + +(They kiss.) + +AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done? + +ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don't talk. Kiss me again. + +AMORY: I don't know why or how, but I love you--from the moment I saw +you. + +ROSALIND: Me too--I--I--oh, to-night's to-night. + +(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: "Oh, +excuse me," and goes.) + +ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don't let me go--I don't care who +knows what I do. + +AMORY: Say it! + +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! + +(He kisses her again.) + + ***** + +KISMET + +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. + +"It may be an insane love-affair," she told her anxious mother, "but +it's not inane." + +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. + +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. + +For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement +and was hurrying into line with his generation. + + ***** + +A LITTLE INTERLUDE + +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. + +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. + +"Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business to-day?" + +Amory sprawled on a couch. + +"I loathed it as usual!" The momentary vision of the bustling agency was +displaced quickly by another picture. + +"My God! She's wonderful!" + +Tom sighed. + +"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." + +Another sigh came from the window--quite a resigned sigh. + +"She's life and hope and happiness, my whole world now." + +He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid. + +"Oh, _Golly_, Tom!" + + ***** + +BITTER SWEET + +"Sit like we do," she whispered. + +He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle +inside them. + +"I knew you'd come to-night," she said softly, "like summer, just when I +needed you most... darling... darling..." + +His lips moved lazily over her face. + +"You _taste_ so good," he sighed. + +"How do you mean, lover?" + +"Oh, just sweet, just sweet..." he held her closer. + +"Amory," she whispered, "when you're ready for me I'll marry you." + +"We won't have much at first." + +"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." + +"Tell me..." + +"You know, don't you? Oh, you know." + +"Yes, but I want to hear you say it." + +"I love you, Amory, with all my heart." + +"Always, will you?" + +"All my life--Oh, Amory--" + +"What?" + +"I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to +have your babies." + +"But I haven't any people." + +"Don't laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me." + +"I'll do what you want," he said. + +"No, I'll do what _you_ want. We're _you_--not me. Oh, you're so much a +part, so much all of me..." + +He closed his eyes. + +"I'm so happy that I'm frightened. Wouldn't it be awful if this was--was +the high point?..." + +She looked at him dreamily. + +"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--" + +"Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony...." + +"And, Amory, we're beautiful, I know. I'm sure God loves us--" + +"He loves you. You're his most precious possession." + +"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." + +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. + + ***** + +AQUATIC INCIDENT + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Of course _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." + +Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly all +through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow optimists. + + ***** + +FIVE WEEKS LATER + +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. + +Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in ROSALIND +with a nervous glance. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night? + +(ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.) + +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? + +ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh--what--oh--Amory-- + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so _many_ admirers lately that I +couldn't imagine _which_ 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. + +ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her face.) +Mother--please-- + +MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, _I_ won't interfere. You've already wasted over two +months on a theoretical genius who hasn't a penny to his name, but _go_ +ahead, waste your life on him. _I_ won't interfere. + +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-- + +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 _clever_. (She implies that this quality in +itself is rather vicious.) + +ROSALIND: For heaven's sake, mother-- + +(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.) + +AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory. + +(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.) + +ALEC: Hi, Amory! + +AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he'd meet you at the theatre. + +ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How's the advertising to-day? Write some +brilliant copy? + +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.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car. + +(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.) + +AMORY: Darling girl. + +(They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it with +kisses and holds it to her breast.) + +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! + +(Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry--a tearless +sobbing.) + +AMORY: Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: Oh, we're so darned pitiful! + +AMORY: Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die! + +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. + +ROSALIND: Amory, if you don't sit down I'll scream. + +AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord. + +ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don't you? + +AMORY: Yes. + +ROSALIND: You know I'll always love you-- + +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. + +ROSALIND: There's nothing to tell, I say. I'm just nervous. + +AMORY: Rosalind, you're playing with the idea of marrying Dawson Ryder. + +ROSALIND: (After a pause) He's been asking me to all day. + +AMORY: Well, he's got his nerve! + +ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him. + +AMORY: Don't say that. It hurts me. + +ROSALIND: Don't be a silly idiot. You know you're the only man I've ever +loved, ever will love. + +AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let's get married--next week. + +ROSALIND: We can't. + +AMORY: Why not? + +ROSALIND: Oh, we can't. I'd be your squaw--in some horrible place. + +AMORY: We'll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month all told. + +ROSALIND: Darling, I don't even do my own hair, usually. + +AMORY: I'll do it for you. + +ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks. + +AMORY: Rosalind, you _can't_ 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. + +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. + +AMORY: (Grimly) Go on. + +ROSALIND: Oh--it _is_ Dawson Ryder. He's so reliable, I almost feel that +he'd be a--a background. + +AMORY: You don't love him. + +ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he's a good man and a strong +one. + +AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes--he's that. + +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. + +AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don't look so consciously +suffering. + +AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other! + +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! + +AMORY: It won't--it won't! + +ROSALIND: I'd rather keep it as a beautiful memory--tucked away in my +heart. + +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. + +ROSALIND: Don't! + +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. + +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! + +(Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.) + +AMORY: Come over here and kiss me. + +ROSALIND: No. + +AMORY: Don't you _want_ to kiss me? + +ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly and coolly. + +AMORY: The beginning of the end. + +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-- + +AMORY: And you're afraid to take them with me. + +ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere--you'll say +Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh--but listen: + + "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." + +AMORY: But we haven't had. + +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. + +AMORY: We've got to take our chance for happiness. + +ROSALIND: Dawson says I'd learn to love him. + +(AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life seems +suddenly gone out of him.) + +ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can't do with you, and I can't imagine life +without you. + +AMORY: Rosalind, we're on each other's nerves. It's just that we're both +high-strung, and this week-- + +(His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his face in +her hands, kisses him.) + +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. + +(Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.) + +AMORY: Rosalind-- + +ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go--Don't make it harder! I can't stand it-- + +AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what you're +saying? Do you mean forever? + +(There is a difference somehow in the quality of their suffering.) + +ROSALIND: Can't you see-- + +AMORY: I'm afraid I can't if you love me. You're afraid of taking two +years' knocks with me. + +ROSALIND: I wouldn't be the Rosalind you love. + +AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can't give you up! I can't, that's all! +I've got to have you! + +ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You're being a baby now. + +AMORY: (Wildly) I don't care! You're spoiling our lives! + +ROSALIND: I'm doing the wise thing, the only thing. + +AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder? + +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. + +AMORY: And you love me. + +ROSALIND: That's just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. We +can't have any more scenes like this. + +(She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their eyes +blind again with tears.) + +AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don't! Keep it, please--oh, +don't break my heart! + +(She presses the ring softly into his hand.) + +ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You'd better go. + +AMORY: Good-by-- + +(She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite sadness.) + +ROSALIND: Don't ever forget me, Amory-- + +AMORY: Good-by-- + +(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.) + +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? + +(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.) + + + +CHAPTER 2. Experiments in Convalescence + + +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. + +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. + +"Well, Amory..." + +It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the name. + +"Hello, old boy--" he heard himself saying. + +"Name's Jim Wilson--you've forgotten." + +"Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember." + +"Going to reunion?" + +"You know!" Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to reunion. + +"Get overseas?" + +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. + +"Too bad," he muttered. "Have a drink?" + +Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on the +back. + +"You've had plenty, old boy." + +Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the scrutiny. + +"Plenty, hell!" said Amory finally. "I haven't had a drink to-day." + +Wilson looked incredulous. + +"Have a drink or not?" cried Amory rudely. + +Together they sought the bar. + +"Rye high." + +"I'll just take a Bronx." + +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. + +"'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." + +Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued: + +"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." + +"What are you celebrating, Amory?" + +Amory leaned forward confidentially. + +"Cel'brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can't tell you 'bout +it--" + +He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender: + +"Give him a bromo-seltzer." + +Amory shook his head indignantly. + +"None that stuff!" + +"But listen, Amory, you're making yourself sick. You're white as a +ghost." + +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. + +"Like som'n solid. We go get some--some salad." + +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. + +"We'll go over to Shanley's," suggested Carling, offering an elbow. + +With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion enough to +propel him across Forty-second Street. + +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.... + +... He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a knot in +his shoe-lace. + +"Nemmine," he managed to articulate drowsily. "Sleep in 'em...." + + ***** + +STILL ALCOHOLIC + +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. + +"Hello--what hotel is this--? + +"Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high-balls--" + +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. + +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. + +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--" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"My own girl--my own--Oh--" + +He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from his +eyes. + +"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--" + +And then again: + +"We've been so happy, so very happy...." + +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.... + +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."... + +... 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.... + +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. + +"Decided to commit suicide," he announced suddenly. + +"When? Next year?" + +"Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, get into +a hot bath and open a vein." + +"He's getting morbid!" + +"You need another rye, old boy!" + +"We'll all talk it over to-morrow." + +But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least. + +"Did you ever get that way?" he demanded confidentially fortaccio. + +"Sure!" + +"Often?" + +"My chronic state." + +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.... + +He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown, +disarranged hair and dark blue eyes. + +"Take me home!" she cried. + +"Hello!" said Amory, blinking. + +"I like you," she announced tenderly. + +"I like you too." + +He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of +his party was arguing with him. + +"Fella I was with's a damn fool," confided the blue-eyed woman. "I hate +him. I want to go home with you." + +"You drunk?" queried Amory with intense wisdom. + +She nodded coyly. + +"Go home with him," he advised gravely. "He brought you." + +At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his +detainers and approached. + +"Say!" he said fiercely. "I brought this girl out here and you're +butting in!" + +Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer. + +"You let go that girl!" cried the noisy man. + +Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. + +"You go to hell!" he directed finally, and turned his attention to the +girl. + +"Love first sight," he suggested. + +"I love you," she breathed and nestled close to him. She _did_ have +beautiful eyes. + +Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear. + +"That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and this fellow here brought +her. Better let her go." + +"Let him take care of her, then!" shouted Amory furiously. "I'm no W. Y. +C. A. worker, am I?--am I?" + +"Let her go!" + +"It's _her_ hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!" + +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. + +"Oh, Lord!" cried Amory. + +"Let's go!" + +"Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!" + +"Check, waiter." + +"C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over." + +Amory laughed. + +"You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 'At's the whole trouble." + + ***** + +AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION + +Two mornings later he knocked at the president's door at Bascome and +Barlow's advertising agency. + +"Come in!" + +Amory entered unsteadily. + +"'Morning, Mr. Barlow." + +Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his mouth +slightly ajar that he might better listen. + +"Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven't seen you for several days." + +"No," said Amory. "I'm quitting." + +"Well--well--this is--" + +"I don't like it here." + +"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--" + +"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--" + +Mr. Barlow's face steeled by several ingots of expression. + +"You asked for a position--" + +Amory waved him to silence. + +"And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a week--less +than a good carpenter." + +"You had just started. You'd never worked before," said Mr. Barlow +coolly. + +"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." + +"I'm not going to argue with you, sir," said Mr. Barlow rising. + +"Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I'm quitting." + +They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and then Amory +turned and left the office. + + ***** + +A LITTLE LULL + +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. + +"Well?" + +"Well?" + +"Good Lord, Amory, where'd you get the black eye--and the jaw?" + +Amory laughed. + +"That's a mere nothing." + +He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders. + +"Look here!" + +Tom emitted a low whistle. + +"What hit you?" + +Amory laughed again. + +"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." + +"Who was it?" + +"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." + +Tom lighted a cigarette. + +"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." + +Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette. + +"You sober now?" asked Tom quizzically. + +"Pretty sober. Why?" + +"Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home and live, +so he--" + +A spasm of pain shook Amory. + +"Too bad." + +"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." + +"Sure. Get anybody. I'll leave it to you, Tom." + +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. + +"Got a cardboard box?" + +"No," answered Tom, puzzled. "Why should I have? Oh, yes--there may be +one in Alec's room." + +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... + +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. + +"Going out?" Tom's voice held an undertone of anxiety. + +"Uh-huh." + +"Where?" + +"Couldn't say, old keed." + +"Let's have dinner together." + +"Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I'd eat with him." + +"Oh." + +"By-by." + +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. + +"Hi, Amory!" + +"What'll you have?" + +"Yo-ho! Waiter!" + + ***** + +TEMPERATURE NORMAL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +"I thought I'd better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence," he said rather +ambiguously when he arrived. + +"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." + +"Did he think I'd plunged into Bolshevism?" asked Amory, interested. + +"Oh, he's having a frightful time." + +"Why?" + +"About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity." + +"So?" + +"He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was greatly +distressed because the receiving committee, when they rode in an +automobile, _would_ put their arms around the President." + +"I don't blame him." + +"Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in the army? +You look a great deal older." + +"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." + +"What else?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you're his reincarnation, that your +faith will eventually clarify." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +RESTLESSNESS + +"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. + +"You used to be entertaining before you started to write," he continued. +"Now you save any idea that you think would do to print." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes," said Amory speculatively, "but I'm more than bored; I am +restless." + +"Love and war did for you." + +"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." + +Tom looked up in surprise. + +"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--" + +"I don't agree with you," Tom interrupted. "There never were men placed +in such egotistic positions since--oh, since the French Revolution." + +Amory disagreed violently. + +"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." + +"Then you don't think there will be any more permanent world heroes?" + +"Yes--in history--not in life. Carlyle would have difficulty getting +material for a new chapter on 'The Hero as a Big Man.'" + +"Go on. I'm a good listener to-day." + +"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." + +"Then you blame it on the press?" + +"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." + +Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly. + +"We _want_ 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 _can't_. 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--" + +He paused only to get his breath. + +"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--" + +Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of his connection with +The New Democracy. + +"What's all this got to do with your being bored?" + +Amory considered that it had much to do with it. + +"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." + +"Try fiction," suggested Tom. + +"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. + +"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." + +"You'll find another." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I am," agreed Amory reluctantly. "Yet when I see a happy family it +makes me sick at my stomach--" + +"Happy families try to make people feel that way," said Tom cynically. + + ***** + +TOM THE CENSOR + +There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, wreathed in +smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American literature. Words failed +him. + +"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--" + +"They try." + +"No, they don't even try. Some of them _can_ write, but they won't sit +down and do one honest novel. Most of them _can't_ 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." + +"Is that double entente?" + +"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?" + +"How does little Tommy like the poets?" + +Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely beside +the chair and emitted faint grunts. + +"I'm writing a satire on 'em now, calling it 'Boston Bards and Hearst +Reviewers.'" + +"Let's hear it," said Amory eagerly. + +"I've only got the last few lines done." + +"That's very modern. Let's hear 'em, if they're funny." + +Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud, pausing at +intervals so that Amory could see that it was free verse: + + "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." + + +Amory roared. + +"You win the iron pansy. I'll buy you a meal on the arrogance of the +last two lines." + +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. + +"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.'" + +"It's ghastly!" + +"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--" + +"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--" + +"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." + + ***** + +LOOKING BACKWARD + +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. + + 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. + + ***** + +ANOTHER ENDING + +In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had evidently just +stumbled on his address: + + +MY DEAR BOY:-- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you. + + With greatest affection, + + THAYER DARCY. + + +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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER 3. Young Irony + + +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. + +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: + +"And Amory will have no other adventure like me." + +Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh. + +Eleanor tried to put it on paper once: + + "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." + + +They quarrelled dangerously because Amory maintained that _sea_ and +_see_ couldn't possibly be used as a rhyme. And then Eleanor had part of +another verse that she couldn't find a beginning for: + + "... 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." + + +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. + +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. + +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: + + + "Les sanglots longs + Des violons + De l'automne + Blessent mon coeur + D'une langueur + Monotone." + + +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. + +Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that soared and +hung and fell and blended with the rain: + + + "Tout suffocant + Et bleme quand + Sonne l'heure + Je me souviens + Des jours anciens + Et je pleure...." + + +"Who the devil is there in Ramilly County," muttered Amory aloud, "who +would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?" + +"Somebody's there!" cried the voice unalarmed. "Who are you?--Manfred, +St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?" + +"I'm Don Juan!" Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the +noise of the rain and the wind. + +A delighted shriek came from the haystack. + +"I know who you are--you're the blond boy that likes 'Ulalume'--I +recognize your voice." + +"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. + +"Run back!" came the voice, "and jump and I'll catch your hand--no, not +there--on the other side." + +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. + +"Here you are, Juan," cried she of the damp hair. "Do you mind if I drop +the Don?" + +"You've got a thumb like mine!" he exclaimed. + +"And you're holding my hand, which is dangerous without seeing my face." +He dropped it quickly. + +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. + +"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." + +"I was asked," Amory said joyfully; "you asked me--you know you did." + +"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." + +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. + +"I'm not," she said. + +"Not what?" + +"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." + +"How on earth--" + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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." + +"What color is your hair?" he asked intently. "It's bobbed, isn't it?" + +"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." + +"Answer my question, Madeline." + +"Don't remember them all--besides my name isn't Madeline, it's Eleanor." + +"I might have guessed it. You _look_ like Eleanor--you have that Eleanor +look. You know what I mean." + +There was a silence as they listened to the rain. + +"It's going down my neck, fellow lunatic," she offered finally. + +"Answer my questions." + +"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--" + +"And me," Amory interrupted, "where did you see me?" + +"Oh, you're one of _those_ 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: + + + "'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.' + +"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--" + +"All right," Amory interrupted. "Now go back to yourself." + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"Really! how banal!" + +"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. + +"Go on," Amory said politely. + +"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." + +"Why, you little wretch--" cried Amory indignantly. "Scared of what?" + +"_Yourself!_" 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--" + +"But I _have_ to have a soul," he objected. "I can't be rational--and I +won't be molecular." + +She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and +whispered with a sort of romantic finality: + +"I thought so, Juan, I feared so--you're sentimental. You're not like +me. I'm a romantic little materialist." + +"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.) + +"Epigrams. I'm going home," she said sadly. "Let's get off the haystack +and walk to the cross-roads." + +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. + + ***** + +SEPTEMBER + +Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically. + +"I never fall in love in August or September," he proffered. + +"When then?" + +"Christmas or Easter. I'm a liturgist." + +"Easter!" She turned up her nose. "Huh! Spring in corsets!" + +"Easter _would_ bore spring, wouldn't she? Easter has her hair braided, +wears a tailored suit." + + + "Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. + Over the splendor and speed of thy feet--" + + +quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: "I suppose Hallowe'en is a better +day for autumn than Thanksgiving." + +"Much better--and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but +summer..." + +"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." + +"Fourth of July," Amory suggested facetiously. + +"Don't be funny!" she said, raking him with her eyes. + +"Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?" + +She thought a moment. + +"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. + +"Why?" + +"Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert Brooke." + +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. + +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: + + + "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?" + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"The despairing, dying autumn and our love--how well they harmonize!" +said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by the water. + +"The Indian summer of our hearts--" he ceased. + +"Tell me," she said finally, "was she light or dark?" + +"Light." + +"Was she more beautiful than I am?" + +"I don't know," said Amory shortly. + +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. + +"Light a match," she whispered. "I want to see you." + +Scratch! Flare! + +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. + +"It's black as pitch." + +"We're just voices now," murmured Eleanor, "little lonesome voices. +Light another." + +"That was my last match." + +Suddenly he caught her in his arms. + +"You _are_ 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. + + ***** + +THE END OF SUMMER + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old plug at +seven o'clock." + +"Don't be a spoil-sport--remember, you have a tendency toward wavering +that prevents you from being the entire light of my life." + +Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, grasped +her hand. + +"Say I am--_quick_, or I'll pull you over and make you ride behind me." + +She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + + + 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 _know_ that you were + Beauty for an afternoon. + + +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 _must_ 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 _more_ 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.... + +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. + +"Good Lord! It's quiet here!" whispered Eleanor; "much more lonesome +than the woods." + +"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." + +"The long slope of a long hill." + +"And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it." + +"And thee and me, last and most important." + +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. + +"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." + +The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and +shivered. + +"Are you very cold?" asked Amory. + +"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." + +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. + +"Rotten, rotten old world," broke out Eleanor suddenly, "and the +wretchedest thing of all is me--oh, _why_ 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. + +"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 _real_ love in +the world is ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of +jealousy." She finished as suddenly as she began. + +"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...." + +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. + +"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. + +"I can't--I can't kiss you now--I'm more sensitive." + +"You're more stupid then," he declared rather impatiently. "Intellect is +no protection from sex any more than convention is..." + +"What is?" she fired up. "The Catholic Church or the maxims of +Confucius?" + +Amory looked up, rather taken aback. + +"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. + +"If there's a God let him strike me--strike me!" + +"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. + +"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." + +Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her. + +"Will I?" she said in a queer voice that scared him. "Will I? Watch! +_I'm going over the cliff!_" And before he could interfere she had +turned and was riding breakneck for the end of the plateau. + +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. + +"Eleanor!" he cried. + +She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with sudden +tears. + +"Eleanor, are you hurt?" + +"No; I don't think so," she said faintly, and then began weeping. + +"My horse dead?" + +"Good God--Yes!" + +"Oh!" she wailed. "I thought I was going over. I didn't know--" + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + + ***** + +A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER + + + "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? + _What leered out of the dark in the ghostly clover?_ + 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." + + + ***** + +A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED "SUMMER STORM" + + "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..." + + + +CHAPTER 4. The Supercilious Sacrifice + + +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. + +"Well--Amory Blaine!" + +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. + +"Come on down, goopher!" cried Alec. + +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. + +"Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully." + +"How d'y do?" + +"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." + +Amory considered. + +"That's an idea." + +"Step in--move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at you." + +Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, vermilion-lipped +blonde. + +"Hello, Doug Fairbanks," she said flippantly. "Walking for exercise or +hunting for company?" + +"I was counting the waves," replied Amory gravely. "I'm going in for +statistics." + +"Don't kid me, Doug." + +When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the car among +deep shadows. + +"What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?" he demanded, as he +produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug. + +Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason for +coming to the coast. + +"Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?" he asked instead. + +"Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park--" + +"Lord, Alec! It's hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are all +three dead." + +Alec shivered. + +"Don't talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough." + +Jill seemed to agree. + +"Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways," she commented. "Tell him to drink +deep--it's good and scarce these days." + +"What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are--" + +"Why, New York, I suppose--" + +"I mean to-night, because if you haven't got a room yet you'd better +help me out." + +"Glad to." + +"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?" + +Amory was willing, if he could get in right away. + +"You'll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name." + +Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left the car +and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +He remembered a poem he had read months before: + + + "Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, + I waste my years sailing along the sea--" + +Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that waste +implied. He felt that life had rejected him. + +"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. + +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. + +Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away. + +He became rigid. + +"Don't make a sound!" It was Alec's voice. "Jill--do you hear me?" + +"Yes--" breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the bathroom. + +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. + +"My God!" came the girl's voice again. "You'll have to let them in." + +"Sh!" + +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. + +"Amory!" an anxious whisper. + +"What's the trouble?" + +"It's house detectives. My God, Amory--they're just looking for a +test-case--" + +"Well, better let them in." + +"You don't understand. They can get me under the Mann Act." + +The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure in the +darkness. + +Amory tried to plan quickly. + +"You make a racket and let them in your room," he suggested anxiously, +"and I'll get her out by this door." + +"They're here too, though. They'll watch this door." + +"Can't you give a wrong name?" + +"No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they'd trail the +auto license number." + +"Say you're married." + +"Jill says one of the house detectives knows her." + +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: + +"Open up or we'll break the door in!" + +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. + +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. + +... Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for having +done so much for him.... + +... 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. + +Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; sacrifice +should be eternally supercilious. + +_Weep not for me but for thy children._ + +That--thought Amory--would be somehow the way God would talk to me. + +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.... + +"Do what I say, Alec--do what I say. Do you understand?" + +Alec looked at him dumbly--his face a tableau of anguish. + +"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?" + +"I hear you." The voice was curiously strained, the eyes never for a +second left Amory's. + +"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." + +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. + +"You're here with me," he said sternly. "You've been with me all +evening." + +She nodded, gave a little half cry. + +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. + +"You've been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!" + +Amory laughed. + +"Well?" + +The leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a check +suit. + +"All right, Olson." + +"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. + +The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously. + +"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 _this_." He shook his head implying that he had +struggled over Amory but now gave him up. + +"Well," said Amory rather impatiently, "what do you want us to do?" + +"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. + +"Anybody else here?" demanded Olson, trying to look keen and +ferret-like. + +"Fellow who had the rooms," said Amory carelessly. "He's drunk as an +owl, though. Been in there asleep since six o'clock." + +"I'll take a look at him presently." + +"How did you find out?" asked Amory curiously. + +"Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman." + +Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if rather +untidily arrayed. + +"Now then," began Olson, producing a note-book, "I want your real +names--no damn John Smith or Mary Brown." + +"Wait a minute," said Amory quietly. "Just drop that big-bully stuff. We +merely got caught, that's all." + +Olson glared at him. + +"Name?" he snapped. + +Amory gave his name and New York address. + +"And the lady?" + +"Miss Jill--" + +"Say," cried Olson indignantly, "just ease up on the nursery rhymes. +What's your name? Sarah Murphy? Minnie Jackson?" + +"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." + +"Come on now!" + +"Shut up!" cried Amory at Olson. + +An instant's pause. + +"Stella Robbins," she faltered finally. "General Delivery, Rugway, New +Hampshire." + +Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very ponderously. + +"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." + +"It doesn't want to get in the papers," cried Jill fiercely. "Let us +off! Huh!" + +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. + +"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?" + +"I see." + +"You're gettin' off light--damn light--but--" + +"Come on," said Amory briskly. "Let's get out of here. We don't need a +valedictory." + +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. + +"Would you mind taking off your hat? There's a lady in the elevator." + +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. + +"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. + +"Good-by," said Olson. He reached in his pocket suggestively, but Amory +snorted, and, taking the girl's arm, turned away. + +"Where did you tell the driver to go?" she asked as they whirled along +the dim street. + +"The station." + +"If that guy writes my mother--" + +"He won't. Nobody'll ever know about this--except our friends and +enemies." + +Dawn was breaking over the sea. + +"It's getting blue," she said. + +"It does very well," agreed Amory critically, and then as an +after-thought: "It's almost breakfast-time--do you want something to +eat?" + +"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." + +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." + +"I'll remember." + +He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of an +all-night restaurant. + +"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. + +"He used to be. He probably won't want to be any more--and never +understand why." + +"It was sorta crazy you takin' all that blame. Is he pretty important? +Kinda more important than you are?" + +Amory laughed. + +"That remains to be seen," he answered. "That's the question." + + ***** + +THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS + +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 _not_ his wife. + +Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was a +longer paragraph of which the first words were: + +"Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of their +daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, Connecticut--" + +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. + +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. + +He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains of the +room in Atlantic City. + + + +CHAPTER 5. The Egotist Becomes a Personage + + + "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." + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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: + +Question.--Well--what's the situation? + +Answer.--That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name. + +Q.--You have the Lake Geneva estate. + +A.--But I intend to keep it. + +Q.--Can you live? + +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. + +Q.--Be definite. + +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. + +Q.--Do you want a lot of money? + +A.--No. I am merely afraid of being poor. + +Q.--Very afraid? + +A.--Just passively afraid. + +Q.--Where are you drifting? + +A.--Don't ask _me!_ + +Q.--Don't you care? + +A.--Rather. I don't want to commit moral suicide. + +Q.--Have you no interests left? + +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. + +Q.--An interesting idea. + +A.--That's why a "good man going wrong" attracts people. They stand +around and literally _warm themselves_ at the calories of virtue he +gives off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and the faces simper in +delight--"How _innocent_ 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. + +Q.--All your calories gone? + +A.--All of them. I'm beginning to warm myself at other people's virtue. + +Q.--Are you corrupt? + +A.--I think so. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about good and evil at all +any more. + +Q.--Is that a bad sign in itself? + +A.--Not necessarily. + +Q.--What would be the test of corruption? + +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. + +Q.--Where are you drifting? + +This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind's most familiar state--a +grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior impressions and +physical reactions. + +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-- + +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. + +"Hello," said Amory. + +"Got a pass?" + +"No. Is this private?" + +"This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club." + +"Oh! I didn't know. I'm just resting." + +"Well--" began the man dubiously. + +"I'll go if you want me to." + +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. + +"Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man," he said slowly. + + ***** + +IN THE DROOPING HOURS + +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. + +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.... + + ***** + +Amory smiled a bit. + +"You're too much wrapped up in yourself," he heard some one say. And +again-- + +"Get out and do some real work--" + +"Stop worrying--" + +He fancied a possible future comment of his own. + +"Yes--I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made me +morbid to think too much about myself." + + ***** + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +STILL WEEDING + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory knew, +not essentially older than he. + +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." + +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.... + +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. + +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.... + +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.... + +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. + +In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance +of the labyrinth. + + ***** + +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. + + ***** + +MONSIGNOR + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a sense of +security. + + ***** + +THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"You bet I do. Thanks." + +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. + +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. + +"Going far?" asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested way. + +"Quite a stretch." + +"Hiking for exercise?" + +"No," responded Amory succinctly, "I'm walking because I can't afford to +ride." + +"Oh." + +Then again: + +"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. + +"Have you a trade?" + +No--Amory had no trade. + +"Clerk, eh?" + +No--Amory was not a clerk. + +"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. + +Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him could +think of only one thing to say. + +"Of course I want a great lot of money--" + +The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. + +"That's what every one wants nowadays, but they don't want to work for +it." + +"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?" + +"Of course not," said the secretary indignantly. + +"But," continued Amory disregarding him, "being very poor at present I +am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte." + +Both men glanced at him curiously. + +"These bomb throwers--" The little man ceased as words lurched +ponderously from the big man's chest. + +"If I thought you were a bomb thrower I'd run you over to the Newark +jail. That's what I think of Socialists." + +Amory laughed. + +"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." + +"Well," said Amory, "if being an idealist is both safe and lucrative, I +might try it." + +"What's your difficulty? Lost your job?" + +"Not exactly, but--well, call it that." + +"What was it?" + +"Writing copy for an advertising agency." + +"Lots of money in advertising." + +Amory smiled discreetly. + +"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--" + +"Who's he?" demanded the little man suspiciously. + +"Well," said Amory, "he's a--he's an intellectual personage not very +well known at present." + +The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped rather +suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned on him. + +"What are you laughing at?" + +"These _intellectual_ people--" + +"Do you know what it means?" + +The little man's eyes twitched nervously. + +"Why, it _usually_ means--" + +"It _always_ 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." + +"You object to the fact that capital controls printing?" said the big +man, fixing him with his goggles. + +"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." + +"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." + +"You've brought it on yourselves," insisted Amory. "You people never +make concessions until they're wrung out of you." + +"What people?" + +"Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by +inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the moneyed +class." + +"Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he'd +be any more willing to give it up?" + +"No, but what's that got to do with it?" + +The older man considered. + +"No, I'll admit it hasn't. It rather sounds as if it had though." + +"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." + +"Just exactly what is the question?" + +Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question was. + + ***** + +AMORY COINS A PHRASE + +"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." + +Amory paused and decided that it wasn't such a bad phrase. + +"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." + +"He's the natural radical?" + +"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." + +"Why not?" + +"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." + +"But it appears," said the big man. + +"Where?--in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered weeklies." + +"All right--go on." + +"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." + +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. + +"Go on talking," said the big man. "I've been wanting to hear one of you +fellows." + + ***** + +GOING FASTER + +"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 _dawdling_ +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. + +"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." + +"All right," said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval +nor objection. + +"Next I'd have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries." + +"That's been proven a failure." + +"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." + +"They wouldn't give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo--" + +"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." + +"You said a while ago that it was." + +"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." + +The big man made a sound that was very like _boo_. + +"That's the silliest thing you've said yet." + +"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." + +"Kids--child's play!" scoffed his antagonist. + +"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." + +"I don't agree with you." + +"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." + +A fierce hiss came from the little man. + +"_Machine-guns!_" + +"Ah, but you've taught them their use." + +The big man shook his head. + +"In this country there are enough property owners not to permit that +sort of thing." + +Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property +owners; he decided to change the subject. + +But the big man was aroused. + +"When you talk of 'taking things away,' you're on dangerous ground." + +"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." + +"Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?" + +"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." + +"Don't you believe in moderation?" + +"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." + +"What is it?" + +"That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs +are essentially the same." + + ***** + +THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS + +"If you took all the money in the world," said the little man with much +profundity, "and divided it up in equ--" + +"Oh, shut up!" said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the little +man's enraged stare, he went on with his argument. + +"The human stomach--" he began; but the big man interrupted rather +impatiently. + +"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." + +When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as if +resolved this time to have his say out. + +"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." + +Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly. + +"Listen to that! _That's_ what makes me discouraged with progress. +_Listen_ 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." + +The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage. +Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man. + +"These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who +_think_ 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!" + +The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the +little man. + +"You're catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?" + +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. + +"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." + +"I am both interested and amused," said the big man. "You are very +young." + +"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." + +"You talk glibly." + +"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." + +"But, if you're not sure--" + +"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_ was ineligible, because some silly old men thought we +should _all_ profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed +business. I'm in love with change and I've killed my conscience--" + +"So you'll go along crying that we must go faster." + +"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." + +"But you don't believe all this Socialist patter you talk." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked: + +"What was your university?" + +"Princeton." + +The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles +altered slightly. + +"I sent my son to Princeton." + +"Did you?" + +"Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed last +year in France." + +"I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends." + +"He was--a--quite a fine boy. We were very close." + +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-- + +The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a +huge hedge and a tall iron fence. + +"Won't you come in for lunch?" + +Amory shook his head. + +"Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I've got to get on." + +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. + +"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." + +"Same to you, sir," cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand. + + ***** + +"OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM" + +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. + +"I am selfish," he thought. + +"This is not a quality that will change when I 'see human suffering' or +'lose my parents' or 'help others.' + +"This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living part. + +"It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that selfishness +that I can bring poise and balance into my life. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + ***** + +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. + +Amory wanted to feel "William Dayfield, 1864." + +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. + + ***** + +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.... + +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.... + +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!... + +"It's all a poor substitute at best," he said sadly. + +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.... + +He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. + +"I know myself," he cried, "but that is all." + + + + + + +Appendix: Production notes for eBook edition 11 + +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".) + +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. + +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. + +In edition 11, underscores are used to denote words and phrases +italicized for emphasis. + +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. + +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: + + Aeschylus blase cafe debut debutante elan elite Encyclopaedia + matinee minutiae paean regime soupcon unaesthetic + +Less-commonly-used 8-bit word forms in this book include: + + anaemic bleme coeur manoeuvered mediaevalist tete-a-tete + and the name "Borge". + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's This Side of Paradise, by F. 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Rupert Brooke. + + +Experience is the name so many people give to their mistakes. +Oscar Wilde. + + + +To SIGOURNEY FAY + + + + +CONTENTS + +BOOK ONE: The Romantic Egotist +1. AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE +2. SPIRES AND GARGOYLES +3. THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS +4. NARCISSUS OFF DUTY + +[INTERLUDE: MAY, 1917-FEBRUARY, 1919.] + +BOOK TWO: The Education of a Personage +1. THE DIBUTANTE +2. EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE +3. YOUNG IRONY +4. THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE +5. THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE + + + +BOOK ONE +The Romantic Egotist + +CHAPTER 1 +Amory, Son of Beatrice + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. +"Amory." + +"Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for his mother; she +encouraged it.) + +"Dear, don't think 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." + +"All right." + +"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." + +Amory's penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled +hair at his mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about +her. + +"Amory." + +"Oh, yes." + +"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." +She fed him sections of the "Fjtes 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." + +"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; here, 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.... + +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. + +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. + +"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 me, my dear"- +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. +"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." + +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. + +"Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company quite the +cardinal's right-hand man." + +"Amory will go to him one day, I know," breathed the beautiful +lady, "and Monsignor Dark will understand him as he understood +me." + +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. + +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. + + +A KISS FOR AMORY + + +His lip curled when he read it. + +"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. + +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: + +"Aw-I b'lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was lawgely +an affair of the middul clawses," or + +"Washington came of very good bloodaw, quite goodI b'lieve." +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. +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. + +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: + +My dear Miss St. Claire: +Your truly charming envitation for the evening of next Thursday +evening was truly delightful to recieve this morning. I will be +charm and inchanted indeed to present my compliments on next +Thursday evening. + +Faithfully, + +Amory Blaine. + + +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: + +"My dear Mrs. St. Claire, I'm frightfully 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." + +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. + +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. + +"Miss Myra," he said. + +To his surprise the butler grinned horribly. + +"Oh, yeah," he declared, "she's here." He was unaware that his +failure to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered +him coldly. + +"But," continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, +"she's the only one what is here. The party's gone." + +Amory gasped in sudden horror. + +"What?" + +"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." + +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. + +"'Lo, Amory." + +"'Lo, Myra." He had described the state of his vitality. +"Wellyou got here, anyways." + +"WellI'll tell you. I guess you don't know about the auto +accident," he romanced. + +Myra's eyes opened wide. + +"Who was it to?" + +"Well," he continued desperately, "uncle 'n aunt 'n I." +"Was any one killed?" + +Amory paused and then nodded. + +"Your uncle?"alarm. + +"Oh, no just a horsea sorta gray horse." + +At this point the Erse butler snickered. + +"Probably killed the engine," he suggested. Amory would have put +him on the rack without a scruple. + +"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" +"Well, I couldn't help it, could I?" + +"So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the +bobs before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory." + +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 apologya real one this time. He +sighed aloud. + +"What?" inquired Myra. + +"Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to surely 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 blasi seclusion before the fire and quite +regain his lost attitude. + +"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all rightlet's hurry." + +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 English, sort of." + +"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. + +"Why yes sure." + +He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes. + +"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." + +Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and +reeling from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little +gasp. + +"Oh, Amory, don't smoke. You'll stunt your growth!" + +"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." + +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." + +Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though +vaguely improper. + +Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a +sudden turn she was jolted against him; their hands touched. +"You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. "Don't you know +that?" + +He shook his head. + +"Nobody cares." + +Myra hesitated. + +"I care." + +Something stirred within Amory. + +"Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess +everybody knows that." + +"No, I haven't," very slowly. + +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. + +"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 handher +thumb, to be exact. + +"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I +wanta talk to youI got to talk to you." + +Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her +mother, and thenalas for conventionglanced 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. + +"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll bet I can!" +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. + +"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 good." + +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. + +"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' hard, sorta, to +the chaperon." + +"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra. + +"How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own +ground at last. + +"Oh always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing +with Marylyn and I to-morrow?" + +"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." +Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell +Marylyn! Here on the couch with this wonderful-looking boy the +little fire the sense that they were alone in the great building + +Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate. + +"I like you the first twenty-five," she confessed, her voice +trembling, "and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth." + +Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had +not even noticed it. + +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. +"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. +"Kiss me again." Her voice came out of a great void. + +"I don't want to," he heard himself saying. There was another +pause. + +"I don't want to!" he repeated passionately. + +Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great +bow on the back of her head trembling sympathetically. + +"I hate you!" she cried. "Don't you ever dare to speak to me +again!" + +"What?" stammered Amory. + +"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!" + +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. + +The door opened suddenly, and Myra's mother appeared on the +threshold, fumbling with her lorgnette. + +"Well," she began, adjusting it benignantly, "the man at the desk +told me you two children were up here How do you do, Amory." +Amory watched Myra and waited for the crashbut none came. The +pout faded, the high pink subsided, and Myra's voice was placid +as a summer lake when she answered her mother. + +"Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well" +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: + +"Casey-Jonesmounted to the cab-un +Casey-Jones'th his orders in his hand. +Casey-Jonesmounted to the cab-un +Took his farewell journey to the prom-ised land." + + +SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + + +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. + +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. +"Poor little Count," he cried. "Oh, poor little Count!" +After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of +emotional acting. + +Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in +literature occurred in Act III of "Arsene Lupin." + +They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinies. +The line was: + +"If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best +thing is to be a great criminal." + +Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it: + +"Marylyn and Sallee, +Those are the girls for me. +Marylyn stands above +Sallee in that sweet, deep love." + +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. + +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. He +had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly fond +of the cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart. +School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard +authors. His masters considered him idle, unreliable and +superficially clever. + +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. +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. +Always, after he was in bed, there were voicesindefinite, fading, +enchantingjust 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. + + +CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + + +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. +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. +Physically. Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He +was. He fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple +dancer. + +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. + +Mentally. Complete, unquestioned superiority. + +Now a confession will have to be made. Amory had rather a Puritan +conscience. Not that he yielded to itlater in life he almost +completely slew itbut 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. +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. + +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. + + +PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE + + +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. + +"Dear boy you're so tall ... look behind and see if there's +anything coming..." + +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. + +"You are 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." + +"Don't embarrass me," murmured Amory. + +"But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a +set don't they? Is your underwear purple, too?" + +Amory grunted impolitely. + +"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 heartyou've probably been neglecting your heartand +you don't know." + +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. + +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 tˆte-`-tjte 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. + +"Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird +time after I left you." + +"Did you, Beatrice?" + +"When I had my last breakdown"she spoke of it as a sturdy, +gallant feat. + +"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 shattered, my dear, and in his +gravelong in his grave." + +Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy +Parker. + +"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?" + +Amory had snickered. + +"What, Amory?" + +"I said go on, Beatrice." + +"That was allit 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" + +"Are you quite well now, Beatrice?" + +"Quite wellas well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory. +I know that can't express it to you, Amory, butI am not +understood." + +Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing +his head gently against her shoulder. + +"Poor Beatrice poor Beatrice." + +"Tell me about you, Amory. Did you have two horrible years?" +Amory considered lying, and then decided against it. + +"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. +"Beatrice," he said suddenly, "I want to go away to school. +Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away to school." +Beatrice showed some alarm. + +"But you're only fifteen." + +"Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I want +to, Beatrice." + +On Beatrice's suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of +the walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying: +"Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still +want to, you can go to school." + +"Yes?" + +"To St. Regis's in Connecticut." + +Amory felt a quick excitement. + +"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 nowand +for the present we'll let the university question take care of +itself." + +"What are you going to do, Beatrice?" + +"Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away my years in this +country. Not for a second do I regret being Americanindeed, I +think that a regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel +sure we are the great coming nationyet"and she sighed"I feel my +life should have drowsed away close to an older, mellower +civilization, a land of greens and autumnal browns" +Amory did not answer, so his mother continued: + +"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 eagleis that the right term?" + +Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the +Japanese invasion. + +"When do I go to school?" + +"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." + +"To who?" + +"To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see you. He went to +Harrow and then to Yalebecame a Catholic. I want him to talk to +youI feel he can be such a help" She stroked his auburn hair +gently. "Dear Amory, dear Amory" + +"Dear Beatrice" + +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. + +There were Andover and Exeter with their memories of New England +deadlarge, 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." + +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. + +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 bustlinga 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. + +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 +Richelieuat 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. + +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. + +"My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. Take a big +chair and we'll have a chat." + +"I've just come from school St. Regis's, you know." + +"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" + +Amory nodded vehemently. + +"Hate 'em all. Like English and history." + +"Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but I'm glad +you're going to St. Regis's." + +"Why?" + +"Because it's a gentleman's school, and democracy won't hit you +so early. You'll find plenty of that in college." + +"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." +Monsignor chuckled. + +"I'm one, you know." + + +"Oh, you're differentI think of Princeton as being lazy and +good-looking and aristocraticyou know, like a spring day. Harvard +seems sort of indoors" + +"And Yale is November, crisp and energetic," finished Monsignor. +"That's it." + +They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never +recovered. + +"I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie," announced Amory. + +"Of course you were and for Hannibal" + +"Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy." He was rather sceptical +about being an Irish patriothe suspected that being Irish was +being somewhat commonbut 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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"He's a radiant boy," thought Thornton Hancock, who had seen the +splendor of two continents and talked with Parnell and Gladstone +and Bismarckand afterward he added to Monsignor: "But his +education ought not to be intrusted to a school or college." +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. + +...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 wasbut 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. + +But the trumpets were sounding for Amory's preliminary skirmish +with his own generation. + +"You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home +is where we are not," said Monsignor. + +"I am sorry" + +"No, you're not. No one person in the world is necessary to you +or to me." + +"Well" + +"Good-by." + + +THE EGOTIST DOWN + + +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. +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. + +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 ilite 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. + +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. + +Miserable, confined to bounds, unpopular with both faculty and +studentsthat was Amory's first term. But at Christmas he had +returned to Minneapolis, tight-lipped and strangely jubilant. +"Oh, I was sort of fresh at first," he told Frog Parker +patronizingly, "but I got along finelightest man on the squad. +You ought to go away to school, Froggy. It's great stuff." +INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR + + +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. + +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. + +"Amory," he began. "I've sent for you on a personal matter." +"Yes, sir." + +"I've noticed you this year and I like you. I think you have in +you the makings of a a very good man." + +"Yes, sir," Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people +talk as if he were an admitted failure. + +"But I've noticed," continued the older man blindly, "that you're +not very popular with the boys." + +"No, sir." Amory licked his lips. + +"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" + +Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely +controlling his voice when he spoke. + +"I knowoh, don't you s'pose I know." His voice rose. "I know what +they think; do you s'pose you have to tell me!" He paused. "I'm +I've got to go back now hope I'm not rude" + +He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked +to his house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped. + +"That damn old fool!" he cried wildly. "As if I didn't know!" +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." + + +INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL + +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. +"Oh you wonderful girl, +What a wonderful girl you are" + +sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately. +"All your wonderful words +Thrill me through" + +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! + +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: + +"What a remarkable-looking boy!" + +This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did +seem handsome to the population of New York. + +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: + +"I'd marry that girl to-night." + +There was no need to ask what girl he referred to. + +"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people," +continued Paskert. + +Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead +of Paskert. It sounded so mature. + +"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?" + +"No, sir, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with +emphasis, "and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell." +They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the +music that eddied out of the cafis. 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 cafi, wearing a dress-suit from early +evening to early morning, sleeping away the dull hours of the +forenoon. + +"Yes, sir, I'd marry that girl to-night!" + + +HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE + + +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. + + +THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER + + +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 +Minneapolisthese 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. + +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 cafis 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 fairy-land 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. + +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. + +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." + +"Got tobacco?" whispered Rahill one night, putting his head +inside the door five minutes after lights. + +"Sure." + +"I'm coming in." + +"Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don't +you." + +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. + +"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" + +"Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?" +"I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers." +"I'm not." + +"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 minutif +of it. + + +"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 +itdo 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." + +"You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly. + +"A what?" + +"A slicker." + +"What the devil's that?" + +"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." + +"Who is one? What makes you one?" + +Amory considered. + +"Why why, I suppose that the sign of it is when a fellow slicks +his hair back with water." + +"Like Carstairs?" + +"Yessure. He's a slicker." + +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. + +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 talentsalso Amory conceded him a bizarre streak that was +quite irreconcilable to the slicker proper. + +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." + + +"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. + + +"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. + + +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. + + + +BOOK ONE +The Romantic Egotist + +CHAPTER 2 +Spires and Gargoyles + + +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. + +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. +"Chocolate sundae," he told a colored person. + +"Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?" + +"Why yes." + +"Bacon bun?" + +"Why yes." + +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 +blasi and casually critical, which was as near as he could +analyze the prevalent facial expression. + +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. + +"Come in!" + +A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the +doorway. + +"Got a hammer?" + +"No sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one." + +The stranger advanced into the room. + +"You an inmate of this asylum?" + +Amory nodded. + +"Awful barn for the rent we pay." + +Amory had to agree that it was. + +"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." + +The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself. + +"My name's Holiday." + +"Blaine's my name." + +They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned. +"Where'd you prep?" + +"Andover where did you?" + +"St. Regis's." + +"Oh, did you? I had a cousin there." + +They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced +that he was to meet his brother for dinner at six. + +"Come along and have a bite with us." + +"All right." + +At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holidayhe of the gray eyes was +Kerryand during a limpid meal of thin soup and anfmic 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. + +"I hear Commons is pretty bad," said Amory. + +"That's the rumor. But you've got to eat thereor pay anyways." +"Crime!" + +"Imposition!" + +"Oh, at Princeton you've got to swallow everything the first +year. It's like a damned prep school." + +Amory agreed. + +"Lot of pep, though," he insisted. "I wouldn't have gone to Yale +for a million." + +"Me either." + +"You going out for anything?" inquired Amory of the elder +brother. + +"Not me Burne here is going out for the Prince the Daily +Princetonian, you know." + +"Yes, I know." + +"You going out for anything?" + +"Why-yes. I'm going to take a whack at freshman football." + +"Play at St. Regis's?" + +"Some," admitted Amory depreciatingly, "but I'm getting so damned +thin." + +"You're not thin." + +"Well, I used to be stocky last fall." + +"Oh!" + +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. + +"Yoho!" + +"Oh, honey-baby-you're so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!" + +"Clinch!" + +"Oh, Clinch!" + +"Kiss her, kiss 'at lady, quick!" + +"Oh-h-h!" + +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. + + +"Oh-h-h-h-h +She works in a Jam Factoree +Andthat-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!" + + +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. + +"Want a sundaeI mean a jigger?" asked Kerry. + +"Sure." + +They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to + +"Wonderful night." + +"It's a whiz." + +"You men going to unpack?" + +"Guess so. Come on, Burne." + +Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade +them good night. + +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. +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. + +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: + +"Going backgoing back, +Going-back-to-Nas-sau-Hall, +Going backgoing 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!" + +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. + +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. + +Fascinated, Amory watched each rank of linked arms as it came +abreast, the faces indistinct above the polo shirts, the voices +blent in a pfan of triumphand then the procession passed through +shadowy Campbell Arch, and the voices grew fainter as it wound +eastward over the campus. + +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. + +Princeton of the daytime filtered slowly into his +consciousnessWest 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. + +From the first he loved Princetonits 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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + + +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. +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 libraryhe +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. + +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 +milange 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. + +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. + +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 ilite of the class. + +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. + +"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. + +"Well, why not? We came to Princeton so we could feel that way +toward the small collegeshave it on 'em, more self-confidence, +dress better, cut a swathe" + +"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." + +"But just now, Amory, you're only a sweaty bourgeois." + +Amory lay for a moment without speaking. + +"I won't belong," he said finally. "But I hate to get anywhere by +working for it. I'll show the marks, don't you know." + +"Honorable scars." Kerry craned his neck suddenly at the street. +"There's Langueduc, if you want to see what he looks likeand +Humbird just behind." + +Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows. + +"Oh," he said, scrutinizing these worthies, "Humbird looks like a +knockout, but this Langueduche's the rugged type, isn't he? I +distrust that sort. All diamonds look big in the rough." +"Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, "you're a +literary genius. It's up to you." + +"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." + +"Well-go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy +D'Invilliers in the Lit." + +Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table. +"Read his latest effort?" + +"Never miss 'em. They're rare." + +Amory glanced through the issue. + +"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he?" +"Yeah." + +"Listen to this! My God! + + +"'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-' + + +"Now, what the devil does that mean?" + +"It's a pantry scene." + + +"'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!' + + +"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." + +"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." + +Amory tossed the magazine on the table. + +"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." + +"Why decide?" suggested Kerry. "Better drift, like me. I'm going +to sail into prominence on Burne's coat-tails." + +"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." + + +"You're thinking too much about yourself." + +Amory sat up at this. + +"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 itintroduce +her to all the prize parlor-snakes, and the football captain, and +all that simple stuff." + +"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." + + +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. + +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 drunkspictures, +books, and furniturein 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. + +"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?" +Amory grinned. + +"All from the Twin Cities." He named them off. "There's Marylyn +De Wittshe's pretty, got a car of her own and that's damn +convenient; there's Sally Weatherbyshe's getting too fat; there's +Myra St. Claire, she's an old flame, easy to kiss if you like it" + +"What line do you throw 'em?" demanded Kerry. "I've tried +everything, and the mad wags aren't even afraid of me." +"You're the 'nice boy' type," suggested Amory. + + +"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." + +"Sulk," suggested Amory. "Tell 'em you're wild and have 'em +reform you-go home furious-come back in half an hour-startle +'em." + +Kerry shook his head. + +"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." + +Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as "good old Amory." He +failed completely. + +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 unfsthetic 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. +"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. + +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. + +Moved to address his vis-`a-vis, he simulated interest in his +book for a moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily: +"Ha! Great stuff!" + +The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial +embarrassment. + +"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. + +"No," Amory answered. "I was referring to Bernard Shaw." He +turned the book around in explanation. + +"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?" + +"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.) + +"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 him 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 dozensbooks 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. + +"Ever read any Oscar Wilde?" he asked. + +"No. Who wrote it?" + +"It's a man-don't you know?" + +"Oh, surely." A faint chord was struck in Amory's memory. "Wasn't +the comic opera, 'Patience,' written about him?" + +"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." + +"Why, I'd like it a lotthanks." + +"Don't you want to come up to the room? I've got a few other +books." + +Amory hesitated, glanced at the St. Paul's groupone of them was +the magnificent, exquisite Humbirdand he considered how +determinate the addition of this friend would be. He never got to +the stage of making them and getting rid of themhe was not hard +enough for thatso 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. + +"Yes, I'll go." + +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 +Swinburneor "Fingal O'Flaherty" and "Algernon Charles," as he +called them in pricieuse jest. He read enormously every +nightShaw, Chesterton, Barrie, Pinero, Yeats, Synge, Ernest +Dowson, Arthur Symons, Keats, Sudermann, Robert Hugh Benson, the +Savoy Operasjust a heterogeneous mixture, for he suddenly +discovered that he had read nothing for years. + +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. + +One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany's +poems to the music of Kerry's graphophone. + +"Chant!" cried Tom. "Don't recite! Chant!" + +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. + +"Put on 'Hearts and Flowers'!" he howled. "Oh, my Lord, I'm going +to cast a kitten." + +"Shut off the damn graphophone," Amory cried, rather red in the +face. "I'm not giving an exhibition." + +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." + +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: +"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 softlyfairer for a fleck..." + +"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. + +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. + + +A DAMP SYMBOLIC INTERLUDE + + +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 timetime 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. +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"I'm very damn wet!" he said aloud to the sun-dial. + + +HISTORICAL + +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. + +That was his total reaction. + + +"HA-HA HORTENSE!" + + +"All right, ponies!" + +"Shake it up!" + +"Hey, ponies-how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a +mean hip?" + +"Hey, ponies!" + +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. + +"All right. We'll take the pirate song." + +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. +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. + +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. + + +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 differentnot 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!" + +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 graduatenot my Skull and Bones!"at +this very moment the six vagabonds were instructed to rise +conspicuously 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. + +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 accenthowever, 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. + +When the disbanding came, Amory set out posthaste for +Minneapolis, for Sally Weatherby's cousin, Isabelle Borgi, 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 livebut since then she had developed a past. + +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. + +"PETTING" + +On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant contact with +that great current American phenomenon, the "petting party." +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." + +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. + +Amory saw girls doing things that even in his memory would have +been impossible: eating three-o'clock, after-dance suppers in +impossible cafis, 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. +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 Frolicof +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." + +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 try to +find her. + +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. + +"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. + +"I don't know. I'm just full of the devil." + +"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?" + +"Nobut is this your line for every girl? What have I done to +deserve it?" + +"And you didn't feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of +the things you said? You just wanted to be-" + +"Oh, let's go in," she interrupted, "if you want to analyze. +Let's not talk about it." + +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. + + +DESCRIPTIVE + +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. + + +ISABELLE + + +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. + +"Isabelle!" called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the +dressing-room. + +"I'm ready." She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her +throat. + +"I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. +It'll be just a minute." + +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 +daythe 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: + +"You remember Amory Blaine, of course. 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 yousays he remembers +your eyes." + +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: "How +do you mean he's heard about me? What sort of things?" Sally +smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with her +more exotic cousin. + +"He knows you're-you're considered beautiful and all that"she +paused"and I guess he knows you've been kissed." + +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; yetin a strange town it was an advantageous +reputation. She was a "Speed," was she? Welllet them find out. +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 he dress like that boy there, +who walked calmly down a bustling business street, in moccasins +and winter-carnival costume? How very Western! 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.... +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 contactexcept 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 unpopularevery 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, force herself to like himshe owed it to +Sally. Suppose she were terribly disappointed. Sally had painted +him in such glowing colorshe 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +soupgon of Southern accent; then she held it off at a distance +and smiled at ither 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. + +During this inspection Amory was quietly watching. + +"Don't you think so?" she said suddenly, turning to him, +innocent-eyed. + +There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their table. +Amory struggled to Isabelle's side, and whispered: + +"You're my dinner partner, you know. We're all coached for each +other." + +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: + +"I've heard a lot about you since you wore braids" + +"Wasn't it funny this afternoon" + +Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her face was always +enough answer for any one, but she decided to speak. + +"How-from whom?" + +"From everybody-for all the years since you've been away." She +blushed appropriately. On her right Froggy was hors de combat +already, although he hadn't quite realized it. + +"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 sighedhe 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. + +"I've got an adjective that just fits you." This was one of his +favorite startshe 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. + +"Oh-what?" Isabelle's face was a study in enraptured curiosity. +Amory shook his head. + +"I don't know you very well yet." + +"Will you tell me-afterward?" she half whispered. + +He nodded. + +"We'll sit out." + +Isabelle nodded. + +"Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes?" she said. +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. + + +BABES IN THE WOODS + + +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 +blasi sophistication. She had lived in a larger city and had +slightly an advantage in range. But she accepted his poseit 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. + +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 eithershe told me so next time I cut in." It was trueshe +told every one so, and gave every hand a parting pressure that +said: "You know that your dances are making my evening." +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. + +Boys who passed the door looked in enviouslygirls who passed only +laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves. + +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 kidworth 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. + + +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. + +"Is Froggy a good friend of yours?" she asked. + +"Rather-why?" + +"He's a bum dancer." + +Amory laughed. + +"He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his +arms." + +She appreciated this. + +"You're awfully good at sizing people up." + +Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people +for her. Then they talked about hands. + +"You've got awfully nice hands," she said. "They look as if you +played the piano. Do you?" + +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. + +"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 +comingindeed, 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: + +"I don't know whether or not you know what youwhat I'm going to +say. Lordy, Isabelle-this sounds like a line, but it isn't." +"I know," said Isabelle softly. + +"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. +"You'll meet me again-silly." There was just the slightest +emphasis on the last wordso that it became almost a term of +endearment. He continued a bit huskily: + +"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." + +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: + + +"Give me your hand +I'll understand +We're off to slumberland." + + +Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt Amory's hand +close over hers. + +"Isabelle," he whispered. "You know I'm mad about you. You do +give a darn about me." + +"Yes." + +"How much do you care-do you like any one better?" + +"No." He could scarcely hear her, although he bent so near that +he felt her breath against his cheek. + +"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-" + +"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. + + +"Moonlight is bright, +Kiss me good night." + + +What a wonderful song, she thoughteverything 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 treesonly 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. + +"Isabelle!" His whisper blended in the music, and they seemed to +float nearer together. Her breath came faster. "Can't I kiss you, +IsabelleIsabelle?" 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. + +It was evidently over. There was a clamor for a dance, there was +a glance that passed between themon his side despair, on hers +regret, and then the evening went on, with the reassured beaux +and the eternal cutting in. + +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: + +"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 eveningthat was all. + +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. + +"No," she answered. "I don't do that sort of thing any more; he +asked me to, but I said no." + +As she crept in bed she wondered what he'd say in his special +delivery to-morrow. He had such a good-looking mouthwould she +ever? + +"Fourteen angels were watching o'er them," sang Sally sleepily +from the next room. + +"Damn!" muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious +lump and exploring the cold sheets cautiously. "Damn!" + + +CARNIVAL + +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. + +"Oh, let me see" he said one night to a flabbergasted delegation, +"what club do you represent?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hi, Dibby-'gratulations!" + +"Goo' boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap." + +"Say, Kerry" + +"Oh, KerryI hear you went Tiger with all the weight-lifters!" +"Well, I didn't go Cottage-the parlor-snakes' delight." + +"They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid- Did he sign up +the first day?-oh, no. Tore over to Murray-Dodge on a +bicycle-afraid it was a mistake." + +"How'd you get into Cap-you old roui?" + + +"'Gratulations!" + +"'Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd." +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Where'd you get the car?" demanded Amory cynically. + +"Sacred trust, but don't be a critical goopher or you can't go!" +"I think I'll sleep," Amory said calmly, resettling himself and +reaching beside the bed for a cigarette. + +"Sleep!" + +"Why not? I've got a class at eleven-thirty." + +"You damned gloom! Of course, if you don't want to go to the +coast" + +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. + +"Who's going?" he demanded as he wriggled into his B. V. D.'s. +"Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse Ferrenby andoh +about five or six. Speed it up, kid!" + +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. + +"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." + + +"Anybody got any money?" suggested Ferrenby, turning around from +the front seat. + +There was an emphatic negative chorus. + +"That makes it interesting." + +"Money-what's money? We can sell the car." + +"Charge him salvage or something." + +"How're we going to get food?" asked Amory. + +"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." +"Three days," Amory mused, "and I've got classes." + +"One of the days is the Sabbath." + +"Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with over a +month and a half to go." + +"Throw him out!" + +"It's a long walk back." + +"Amory, you're running it out, if I may coin a new phrase." +"Hadn't you better get some dope on yourself, Amory?" +Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the +scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow. + + +"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-" + + +"What's the matter, Amory? Amory's thinking about poetry, about +the pretty birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye." +"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." +"Oh," said Kerry respectfully, "these important men" + +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. + +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 pfan of emotion.... + +"Oh, good Lord! Look at it!" he cried. + +"What?" + +"Let me out, quick-I haven't seen it for eight years! Oh, +gentlefolk, stop the car!" + +"What an odd child!" remarked Alec. + +"I do believe he's a bit eccentric." + +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 +roaredreally 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. + +"Now we'll get lunch," ordered Kerry, wandering up with the +crowd. "Come on, Amory, tear yourself away and get practical." +"We'll try the best hotel first," he went on, "and thence and so +forth." + +They strolled along the boardwalk to the most imposing hostelry +in sight, and, entering the dining-room, scattered about a table. + +"Eight Bronxes," commanded Alec, "and a club sandwich and +Juliennes. The food for one. Hand the rest around." + +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. + +"What's the bill?" + +Some one scanned it. + +"Eight twenty-five." + +"Rotten overcharge. We'll give them two dollars and one for the +waiter. Kerry, collect the small change." + + +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. + +"Some mistake, sir." + +Kerry took the bill and examined it critically. + +"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. + +"Won't he send after us?" + +"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" + +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. + +"You see, Amory, we're Marxian Socialists," explained Kerry. "We +don't believe in property and we're putting it to the great +test." + +"Night will descend," Amory suggested. + +"Watch, and put your trust in Holiday." + +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. +"Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me present Messrs. Connage, +Sloane, Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine." + +The girl bobbed courtesies all around. Poor creature; Amory +supposed she had never before been noticed in her lifepossibly +she was half-witted. While she accompanied them (Kerry had +invited her to supper) she said nothing which could +discountenance such a belief. + +"She prefers her native dishes," said Alec gravely to the waiter, +"but any coarse food will do." + +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. + +Dick Humbird had, ever since freshman year, seemed to Amory a +perfect type of aristocrat. He was slender but well-builtblack +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 noblesse oblige 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.... + +He differed from the healthy type that was essentially middle +classhe 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. +"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." +Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation. + +This present type of party was made possible by the surging +together of the class after club electionsas 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. + +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 + + +"Beaches of Lukanon before the sealers came." + + +It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful. + +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. + +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. + +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 yetat least, +they never called for them. The weather was perfect, and again +they slept outside, and again Amory fell unwillingly asleep. +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. + +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. + +Mostly there were partiesto 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. + +All through the spring Amory had kept up an intermittent +correspondence with Isabelle Borgi, 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." + +"Oh, Alec, I believe I'm tired of college," he said sadly, as +they walked the dusk together. + +"I think I am, too, in a way." + +"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." + +"Me, too." + +"I'd like to quit." + +"What does your girl say?" + + +"Oh!" Amory gasped in horror. "She wouldn't think of marrying ... +that is, not now. I mean the future, you know." + +"My girl would. I'm engaged." + +"Are you really?" + +"Yes. Don't say a word to anybody, please, but I am. I may not +come back next year." + +"But you're only twenty! Give up college?" + +"Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago" + +"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 marrynot a chance. Especially as father says the +money isn't forthcoming as it used to be." + +"What a waste these nights are!" agreed Alec. + +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. + +...Oh it's so hard to write you what I really fell when I think +about you so much; you've gotten to mean to me a dream 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 frank 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 cure and be able +to come to the prom. It"ll be fine, I think, and I want to bring +you just at the end of a wonderful year. I often think over what +you said on that night and wonder how much you ment. If it were +anyone but you-but you see I thought you were fickle the first +time I say you and you are so popular and everthing that I can't +imagine you really liking me best. + + +...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 loveI couldn'tyou'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 blasi, because it's not that. It's just that +I'm in love. Oh, dearest 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.... + + +And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them +infinitely charming, infinitely new. + +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. + +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. + +"Let's borrow bicycles and take a ride," Amory suggested. "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." They +found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court and rode out about +half-past three along the Lawrenceville Road. + +"What are you going to do this summer, Amory?" + +"Don't ask me-same old things, I suppose. A month or two in Lake +GenevaI'm counting on you to be there in July, you knowthen +there'll be Minneapolis, and that means hundreds of summer hops, +parlor-snaking, getting boredBut oh, Tom," he added suddenly, +"hasn't this year been slick!" + +"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 rightyou'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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"You consider you taught me that, don't you?" he asked +quizzically, eying Amory in the half dark. + +Amory laughed quietly. + +"Didn't I?" + +"Sometimes," he said slowly, "I think you're my bad angel. I +might have been a pretty fair poet." + +"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." + +"Yes," he agreed, "you're right. I wouldn't have liked it. Still, +it's hard to be made a cynic at twenty." + +"I was born one," Amory murmured. "I'm a cynical idealist." He +paused and wondered if that meant anything. + +They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to +ride back. + +"It's good, this ride, isn't it?" Tom said presently. + +"Yes; it's a good finish, it's knock-out; everything's good +to-night. Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle!" "Oh, +you and your Isabelle! I'll bet she's a simple one ... let's say +some poetry." + +So Amory declaimed "The Ode to a Nightingale" to the bushes they +passed. + +"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." + +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. + + +UNDER THE ARC-LIGHT + + +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. + +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.... + + +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 moonthen 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.... + + +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: + +"You Princeton boys?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, there's one of you killed here, and two others about +dead." + +"My God!" + +"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. + +They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that +headthat hair-that hair ... and then they turned the form over. + +"It's Dick-Dick Humbird!" + +"Oh, Christ!" + +"Feel his heart!" + +Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking +triumph: + +"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." + +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. + +"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 +God!..." He threw himself face downward on the floor and broke +into dry sobs. + +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-lacesDick had tied them that morning. He had +tied themand now he was this heavy white mass. All that remained +of the charm and personality of the Dick Humbird he had knownoh, +it was all so horrible and unaristocratic and close to the earth. +All tragedy has that strain of the grotesque and squalidso +useless, futile ... the way animals die.... Amory was reminded of +a cat that had lain horribly mangled in some alley of his +childhood. + +"Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby." + +Amory stepped outside the door and shivered slightly at the late +night winda wind that stirred a broken fender on the mass of bent +metal to a plaintive, tinny sound. + + +CRESCENDO! + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I say, old man, I've got an awfully nice" + +"Sorry, Kaye, but I'm set for this one. I've got to cut in on a +fella." + +"Well, the next one?" + +"What-a-her-I swear I've got to go cut in-look me up when she's +got a dance free." + +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. +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 +embarrassmentthough 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. + +Then at six they arrived at the Borgis' 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. + +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. +"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. + + +BOOK ONE +The Romantic Egotist + +CHAPTER 3 +The Egotist Considers + + +"OUCH! Let me go!" + +He dropped his arms to his sides. + +"What's the matter?" + +"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. + +"Oh, Isabelle," he reproached himself, "I'm a goopher. Really, +I'm sorryI shouldn't have held you so close." + +She looked up impatiently. + +"Oh, Amory, of course you couldn't help it, and it didn't hurt +much; but what are we going to do about it?" + +"Do about it?" he asked. "Ohthat spot; it'll disappear in a +second." + +"It isn't," she said, after a moment of concentrated gazing, +"it's still there-and it looks like Old Nickoh, Amory, what'll we +do! It's just the height of your shoulder." + +"Massage it," he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination +to laugh. + +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. +"Oh, Amory," she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic +face, "I'll just make my whole neck flame if I rub it. What'll I +do?" + +A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn't resist repeating +it aloud. + + +"All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand." + +She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like +ice. + +"You're not very sympathetic." + +Amory mistook her meaning. + +"Isabelle, darling, I think it'll" + +"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Haven't I enough on my mind and you +stand there and laugh!" + +Then he slipped again. + +"Well, it is funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day +about a sense of humor being" + +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. + +"Oh, shut up!" she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway +toward her room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful +confusion. + +"Damn!" + +When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her +shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that +endured through dinner. + +"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." + +Isabelle considered glumly. + +"I hate to be laughed at," she said finally. + +"I won't laugh any more. I'm not laughing now, am I?" + +"You did." + +"Oh, don't be so darned feminine." + +Her lips curled slightly. + +"I'll be anything I want." + +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, pleading, +with a doughty warrior like Isabelle. + +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.... + +Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil's food in the +pantry, and Amory announced a decision. + +"I'm leaving early in the morning." + +"Why?" + +"Why not?" he countered. + +"There's no need." + +"However, I'm going." + +"Well, if you insist on being ridiculous" + +"Oh, don't put it that way," he objected. + +"-just because I won't let you kiss me. Do you think" + +"Now, Isabelle," he interrupted, "you know it's not thateven +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." + +She hesitated. + +"I really don't know what to think about you," she began, in a +feeble, perverse attempt at conciliation. "You're so funny." +"How?" + +"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?" + +Amory flushed. He had told her a lot of things. + +"Yes." + +"Well, you didn't seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe +you're just plain conceited." + +"No, I'm not," he hesitated. "At Princeton" + +"Oh, you and Princeton! You'd think that was the world, the way +you talk! Perhaps you can write better than anybody else on your +old Princetonian; maybe the freshmen do think you're important" +"You don't understand" + +"Yes, I do," she interrupted. "I do, because you're always +talking about yourself and I used to like it; now I don't." +"Have I to-night?" + +"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 youyou're so critical." +"I make you think, do I?" Amory repeated with a touch of vanity. + +"You're a nervous strain"this emphatically"and when you analyze +every little emotion and instinct I just don't have 'em." "I +know." Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly. +"Let's go." She stood up. + +He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. +"What train can I get?" + +"There's one about 9:11 if you really must go." + +"Yes, I've got to go, really. Good night." + +"Good night." + +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 +vanitywhether he was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for +romance. + +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. Borgi's voice in the +sun-parlor below, he wondered where was Isabelle. + +There was a knock at the door. + +"The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir." + +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: + + +"Each life unfulfilled, you see, +It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; +We have not sighed deep, laughed free, +Starved, feasted, despairedbeen happy." + + +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! + +"Damn her!" he said bitterly, "she's spoiled my year!" + + +THE SUPERMAN GROWS CARELESS + + + +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. + +"Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point +be?" + +Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material +and tries to concentrate. + +"Oh-ah-I'm damned if I know, Mr. Rooney." + +"Oh, why of course, of course you can't use that formula. That's +what I wanted you to say." + +"Why, sure, of course." + +"Do you see why?" + +"You bet-I suppose so." + +"If you don't see, tell me. I'm here to show you." + +"Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don't mind, I wish you'd go over that +again." + +"Gladly. Now here's 'A'..." + +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 +had 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. + +"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.... + +Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that +filled the room would come the inevitable helpless cry: +"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. + +There was always his luck. + +He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered +from the room. + +"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." +"Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?" + +"'Cause you deserve it. Anybody that'd risk what you were in line +for ought to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman." + +"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: + +"Oh, Tom, any mail?" + +Alec's head appeared against the yellow square of light. +"Yes, your result's here." + +His heart clamored violently. + +"What is it, blue or pink?" + +"Don't know. Better come up." + +He walked into the room and straight over to the table, and then +suddenly noticed that there were other people in the room. +"'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. + +"We have here quite a slip of paper." + +"Open it, Amory." + +"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." + +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. + +"Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emotions." He +tore it open and held the slip up to the light. + +"Well?" + +"Pink or blue?" + +"Say what it is." + +"We're all ears, Amory." + +"Smile or swearor something." + +There was a pause ... a small crowd of seconds swept by ... then +he looked again and another crowd went on into time. + +"Blue as the sky, gentlemen...." + + +AFTERMATH + +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. + +"Your own laziness," said Alec later. + +"No-something deeper than that. I've begun to feel that I was +meant to lose this chance." + +"They're rather off you at the club, you know; every man that +doesn't come through makes our crowd just so much weaker." "I +hate that point of view." + +"Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a +comeback." + + +"No-I'm throughas far as ever being a power in college is +concerned." + +"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." +"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." + +"Your system broke, you mean." + +"Maybe." + +"Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one quick, or just +bum around for two more years as a has-been?" + +"I don't know yet..." + +"Oh, Amory, buck up!" + +"Maybe." + +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: + +1. The fundamental Amory. + +2. Amory plus Beatrice. + +3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. +Then St. Regis' had pulled him to pieces and started him over +again: + +4. Amory plus St. Regis'. + +5. Amory plus St. Regis' plus Princeton. + +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: + +6. The fundamental Amory. + + +FINANCIAL + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + +"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 +upalmost 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 practical 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 once a week, because I +imagine all sorts of horrible things if I don't hear from you. +Affectionately, MOTHER." + + +FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM "PERSONAGE" + + +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. + +"I've felt like leaving college, Monsignor." + +"Why?" + +"All my career's gone up in smoke; you think it's petty and all +that, but" + +"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." + +Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his +egotistic highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had +left his voice. + +"What would you do if you left college?" asked Monsignor. +"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." + +"You know you wouldn't like to go." + +"Sometimes I wouldto-night I'd go in a second." + +"Well, you'd have to be very much more tired of life than I think +you are. I know you." + +"I'm afraid you do," agreed Amory reluctantly. "It just seemed an +easy way out of everythingwhen I think of another useless, draggy +year." + +"Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I'm not worried about +you; you seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally." +"No," Amory objected. "I've lost half my personality in a year." +"Not a bit of it!" scoffed Monsignor. "You've lost a great amount +of vanity and that's all." + +"Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I'd gone through another fifth form +at St. Regis's." + +"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." + +"What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?" +"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 +concernedwe'd just make asses of ourselves." + +"But, Monsignor, I can't do the next thing." + +"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." + +"Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of +thing I should do." + +"We have to do it because we're not personalities, but +personages." + +"That's a good linewhat do you mean?" + +"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 onI'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 hungglittering +things sometimes, as ours are; but he uses those things with a +cold mentality back of them." + +"And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off +when I needed them." Amory continued the simile eagerly. +"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." + +"But, on the other hand, if I haven't my possessions, I'm +helpless!" + +"Absolutely." + +"That's certainly an idea." + +"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!" + +"How clear you can make things!" + +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. + +"Why do I make lists?" Amory asked him one night. "Lists of all +sorts of things?" + +"Because you're a medifvalist," Monsignor answered. "We both are. +It's the passion for classifying and finding a type." + +"It's a desire to get something definite." + +"It's the nucleus of scholastic philosophy." + +"I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up +here. It was a pose, I guess." + +"Don't worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest +pose of all. Pose" + +"Yes?" + +"But do the next thing." + +After Amory returned to college he received several letters from +Monsignor which gave him more egotistic food for consumption. + +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 awfulso +"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 bereligion, architecture, +literatureI'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. + + +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. + +Together with Tom D'Invilliers, he sought among the lights of +Princeton for some one who might found the Great American Poetic +Tradition. + +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. + +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. + + +"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 highest rules of criticism +For cheap and careless 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. + +Stillstill 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 narrow-minded earth +The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth." + + +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. + + +THE DEVIL + + +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 cafi like +Dionysian revellers. + +"Table for four in the middle of the floor," yelled Phoebe. +"Hurry, old dear, tell 'em we're here!" + +"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. + +"There's Findle Margotson, from New Haven!" she cried above the +uproar. "'Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!" + +"Oh, Axia!" he shouted in salutation. "C'mon over to our table." +"No!" Amory whispered. + +"Can't do it, Findle; I'm with somebody else! Call me up +to-morrow about one o'clock!" + +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. + +"There's a natural damn fool," commented Amory. + +"Oh, he's all right. Here's the old jitney waiter. If you ask me, +I want a double Daiquiri." + +"Make it four." + +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 cafi, 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 cafi, 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. + +About one o'clock they moved to Maxim's, and two found them in +Devinihre'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. + +"Who's that pale fool watching us?" he complained indignantly. +"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?" + +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. + +"Where now?" + +"Up to the flat," suggested Phoebe. "We've got brandy and fizzand +everything's slow down here to-night." + +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. + +"Phoebe's great stuff," confided Sloane, sotto voce. + +"I'm only going to stay half an hour," Amory said sternly. He +wondered if it sounded priggish. + +"Hell y' say," protested Sloane. "We're here nowdon't le's rush." + +"I don't like this place," Amory said sulkily, "and I don't want +any food." + +Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and +four glasses. + +"Amory, pour 'em out," she said, "and we'll drink to Fred Sloane, +who has a rare, distinguished edge." + +"Yes," said Axia, coming in, "and Amory. I like Amory." She sat +down beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder. + +"I'll pour," said Sloane; "you use siphon, Phoebe." + +They filled the tray with glasses. + +"Ready, here she goes!" + +Amory hesitated, glass in hand. + +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 cafi, 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 cafi, neither the dull, +pasty color of a dead manrather a sort of virile pallornor +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.... + +He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia's +voice came out of the void with a strange goodness. + +"Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory's sickold head going +'round?" + +"Look at that man!" cried Amory, pointing toward the corner +divan. + +"You mean that purple zebra!" shrieked Axia facetiously. "Ooo-ee! +Amory's got a purple zebra watching him!" + +Sloane laughed vacantly. + +"Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?" + + +There was a silence.... The man regarded Amory quizzically.... +Then the human voices fell faintly on his ear: + +"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.... + +"Come back! Come back!" Axia's arm fell on his. "Amory, dear, you +aren't going, Amory!" He was half-way to the door. + +"Come on, Amory, stick 'th us!" + +"Sick, are you?" + +"Sit down a second!" + +"Take some water." + +"Take a little brandy...." + +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... + +As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the +sickly electric light of the paved hall. + + +IN THE ALLEY + +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. + +If he met any one goodwere 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. + +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. + +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: + +"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 allwill 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; but he knew, for the half +instant that the gong tanged and hummed, that it was the face of +Dick Humbird. + +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. + + +AT THE WINDOW + +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. +Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and +the painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory. + +"For God's sake, let's go back! Let's get off of thisthis place!" + +Sloane looked at him in amazement. + +"What do you mean?" + +"This street, it's ghastly! Come on! let's get back to the +Avenue!" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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. +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. + +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. + +Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting +a cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing +him. + +"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." + +"Don't tell me about it!" Amory almost shrieked. "Don't say a +word; I'm tired and pepped out." + +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." + +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. + +"God help us!" Amory cried. + +"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." + +Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair again. +"I've got to tell you," he said. "I've had one hell of an +experience. I think I'veI've seen the devil orsomething like him. +What face did you just see?or no," he added quickly, "don't tell +me!" + +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. + + +BOOK ONE +The Romantic Egotist + +CHAPTER 4 +Narcissus Off Duty + + +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. + +"Heard the latest?" said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening +with that triumphant air he always wore after a successful +conversational bout. + + +"No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?" + +"Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going +to resign from their clubs." + +"What!" + +"Actual fact!" + +"Why!" + +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." + +"Well, what's the idea of the thing?" + +"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." + +"But this is the real thing?" + +"Absolutely. I think it'll go through." + +"For Pete's sake, tell me more about it." + +"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 oneeverybody there leaped at itit had been in +each one's mind, more or less, and it just needed a spark to +bring it out." + +"Fine! I swear I think it'll be most entertaining. How do they +feel up at Cap and Gown?" + +"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." + +"How do the radicals stand up?" + +"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." "And +you say almost a third of the junior class are going to resign?" + +"Call it a fourth and be safe." + +"Lord-who'd have thought it possible!" + +There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in. +"Hello, Amory-hello, Tom." + +Amory rose. + +"'Evening, Burne. Don't mind if I seem to rush; I'm going to +Renwick's." + +Burne turned to him quickly. + +"You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn't +a bit private. I wish you'd stay." + +"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 securitystubborn, 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. + +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 towardand 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 dissectioncollege, +contemporary personality and the likethey had hashed and rehashed +for many a frugal conversational meal. + +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. + +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. + +"How about religion?" Amory asked him. + +"Don't know. I'm in a muddle about a lot of thingsI've just +discovered that I've a mind, and I'm starting to read." +"Read what?" + +"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.'" + +"What chiefly started you?" + +"Wells, I guess, and Tolstoi, and a man named Edward Carpenter. +I've been reading for over a year nowon a few lines, on what I +consider the essential lines." + +"Poetry?" + +"Well, frankly, not what you call poetry, or for your reasonsyou +two write, of course, and look at things differently. Whitman is +the man that attracts me." + +"Whitman?" + +"Yes; he's a definite ethical force." + +"Well, I'm ashamed to say that I'm a blank on the subject of +Whitman. How about you, Tom?" + +Tom nodded sheepishly. + +"Well," continued Burne, "you may strike a few poems that are +tiresome, but I mean the mass of his work. He's tremendouslike +Tolstoi. They both look things in the face, and, somehow, +different as they are, stand for somewhat the same things." +"You have me stumped, Burne," Amory admitted. "I've read 'Anna +Karinina' and the 'Kreutzer Sonata' of course, but Tolstoi is +mostly in the original Russian as far as I'm concerned." +"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?" + +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 +developingand 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 decadencenow suddenly +all his mental processes of the last year and a half seemed stale +and futilea 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 cathedralsa Catholicism which Amory found +convenient and ready-made, without priest or sacraments or +sacrifice. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Jesse Ferrenby had brought her to a smaller game a few weeks +before, and had pressed Burne into serviceto the ruination of the +latter's misogyny. + +"Are you coming to the Harvard game?" Burne had asked +indiscreetly, merely to make conversation. + +"If you ask me," cried Phyllis quickly. + + +"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. + +"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!" + +"But, Burnewhy did you invite her if you didn't want her?" +"Burne, you know you're secretly mad about her-that's the real +trouble." + +"What can you do, Burne? What can you do against Phyllis?" +But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which +consisted largely of the phrase: "She'll see, she'll see!" +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. + +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 urchinsto 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. + +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 behindbut 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: + +"Phyllis Styles must be awfully hard up to have to come with +those two." + +That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. +From that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to +orient with progress.... + +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 himbut 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. + +"Don't you mind losing prestige?" asked Amory one night. + +They had taken to exchanging calls several times a week. +"Of course I don't. What's prestige, at best?" + +"Some people say that you're just a rather original politician." +He roared with laughter. + +"That's what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it +coming." + +One afternoon they dipped into a subject that had interested +Amory for a long timethe matter of the bearing of physical +attributes on a man's make-up. Burne had gone into the biology of +this, and then: + +"Of course health countsa healthy man has twice the chance of +being good," he said. + +"I don't agree with youI don't believe in 'muscular +Christianity.'" + +"I do-I believe Christ had great physical vigor." + +"Oh, no," Amory protested. "He worked too hard for that. I +imagine that when he died he was a broken-down manand the great +saints haven't been strong." + +"Half of them have." + +"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 worldno, Burne, I can't go that." +"Well, let's waive itwe won't get anywhere, and besides I haven't +quite made up my mind about it myself. Now, here's something I do +knowpersonal appearance has a lot to do with it." + +"Coloring?" Amory asked eagerly. + +"Yes." + +"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 lightyet two-thirds of every senior council +are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of them, mind you; +that means that out of every fifteen light-haired men in the +senior class one is on the senior council, and of the dark-haired +men it's only one in fifty." + +"It's true," Burne agreed. "The light-haired man is 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-hairedyet think of the preponderant +number of brunettes in the race." + +People unconsciously admit it," said Amory. "You'll notice a +blond person is expected 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." + +"And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose +undoubtedly make the superior face." + +"I'm not so sure." Amory was all for classical features. +"Oh, yesI'll show you," and Burne pulled out of his desk a +photographic collection of heavily bearded, shaggy +celebrities-Tolstoi, Whitman, Carpenter, and others. + +"Aren't they wonderful?" + +Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. +"Burne, I think they're the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came +across. They look like an old man's home." + +"Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi's +eyes." His tone was reproachful. + +Amory shook his head. + +"No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you wantbut ugly +they certainly are." + +Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious +foreheads, and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. +Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night +he persuaded Amory to accompany him. + +"I hate the dark," Amory objected. "I didn't use toexcept when I +was particularly imaginative, but now, I really do-I'm a regular +fool about it." + +"That's useless, you know." + +"Quite possibly." + +"We'll go east," Burne suggested, "and down that string of roads +through the woods." + +"Doesn't sound very appealing to me," admitted Amory reluctantly, +"but let's go." + +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. + +"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." + +"Go on," Amory urged eagerly. They were striding toward the +woods, Burne's nervous, enthusiastic voice warming to his +subject. + +"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?" + +"I do," Amory admitted. + +"Well, I began analyzing itmy imagination persisted in sticking +horrors into the darkso I stuck my imagination into the dark +instead, and let it look out at meI let it play stray dog or +escaped convict or ghost, and then saw myself coming along the +road. That made it all rightas 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 backand I did +go into themnot only followed the road through them, but walked +into them until I wasn't frightened any moredid it until one +night I sat down and dozed off in there; then I knew I was +through being afraid of the dark." + +"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." + +"Well," Burne said suddenly, after a few moments' silence, "we're +half-way through, let's turn back." + +On the return he launched into a discussion of will. + +"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." + +"How about great criminals?" + +"They're usually insane. If not, they're weak. There is no such +thing as a strong, sane criminal." + +"Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about the superman?" +"Well?" + +"He's evil, I think, yet he's strong and sane." + +"I've never met him. I'll bet, though, that he's stupid or +insane." + +"I've met him over and over and he's neither. That's why I think +you're wrong." + +"I'm sure I'm notand so I don't believe in imprisonment except +for the insane." + +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. + +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. +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. +"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." + +"It's a bad time to admit itpeople are beginning to think he's +odd." + +"He's way over their headsyou know you think so yourself when you +talk to himGood Lord, Tom, you used to stand out against +'people.' Success has completely conventionalized you." +Tom grew rather annoyed. + +"What's he trying to do-be excessively holy?" + +"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." + +"He certainly is getting in wrong." + +"Have you talked to him lately?" + +"No." + +"Then you haven't any conception of him." + +The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how +the sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus. + +"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 +classI mean they're the best-educated men in collegethe 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 onthe Pharisee classGee! +they ridicule him unmercifully." + +The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a +recitation. + +"Whither bound, Tsar?" + + +"Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby," he waved a copy of +the morning's Princetonian at Amory. "He wrote this editorial." + +"Going to flay him alive?" + +"No-but he's got me all balled up. Either I've misjudged him or +he's suddenly become the world's worst radical." + +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. + +"Hello, Jesse." + +"Hello there, Savonarola." + +"I just read your editorial." + +"Good boy-didn't know you stooped that low." + +"Jesse, you startled me." + +"How so?" + +"Aren't you afraid the faculty'll get after you if you pull this +irreligious stuff?" + +"What?" + +"Like this morning." + +"What the devil-that editorial was on the coaching system." +"Yes, but that quotation" + +Jesse sat up. + +"What quotation?" + +"You know: 'He who is not with me is against me.'" + +"Well-what about it?" + +Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed. + +"Well, you say herelet me see." Burne opened the paper and read: +"'He who is not with me is against me, as that gentleman said who +was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and puerile +generalities.'" + +"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." + + +Burne roared with laughter. + +"Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse." + +"Who said it, for Pete's sake?" + +"Well," said Burne, recovering his voice, "St. Matthew attributes +it to Christ." + +"My God!" cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the +waste-basket. + + +AMORY WRITES A POEM + +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 rosehe watched casually as a girl +entered. A few phrases rang in his ear and touched a faint chord +of memory. Where? When? + +Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very +soft, vibrant voice: "Oh, I'm such a poor little fool; do tell me +when I do wrong." + +The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of +Isabelle. + +He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble +rapidly: + +"Here in the figured dark I watch once more, +There, with the curtain, roll the years away; +Two years of yearsthere 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, did 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." + + +STILL CALM + +"Ghosts are such dumb things," said Alec, "they're slow-witted. I +can always outguess a ghost." + +"How?" asked Tom. + +"Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use +any discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom. + +"Go on, s'pose you think there's maybe a ghost in your +bedroomwhat measures do you take on getting home at night?" +demanded Amory, interested. + +"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 clearedto do this you rush with your eyes closed +into your study and turn on the lightsnext, approaching the +closet, carefully run the stick in the door three or four times. +Then, if nothing happens, you can look in. Always, always run the +stick in viciously firstnever look first!" + +"Of course, that's the ancient Celtic school," said Tom gravely. +"Yes-but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to +clear the closets and also for behind all doors" + +"And the bed," Amory suggested. + +"Oh, Amory, no!" cried Alec in horror. "That isn't the waythe bed +requires different tacticslet the bed alone, as you value your +reasonif there is a ghost in the room and that's only about a +third of the time, it is almost always under the bed." + +"Well" Amory began. + +Alec waved him into silence. + +"Of course 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 bednever walk near the bed; to a ghost your ankle is your +most vulnerable partonce 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." + +"All that's very interesting, Tom." + +"Isn't it?" Alec beamed proudly. "All my own, too-the Sir Oliver +Lodge of the new world." + +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. + +"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." +Amory looked up innocently. + +"What?" + +"What?" mimicked Alec. "Are you trying to read yourself into a +rhapsody withlet's see the book." + +He snatched it; regarded it derisively. + +"Well?" said Amory a little stiffly. + +"'The Life of St. Teresa,'" read Alec aloud. "Oh, my gosh!" +"Say, Alec." + +"What?" + +"Does it bother you?" + +"Does what bother me?" + +"My acting dazed and all that?" + +"Why, no-of course it doesn't bother me." + +"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." +"You're getting a reputation for being eccentric," said Alec, +laughing, "if that's what you mean." + +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. + +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. + +Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an +interesting P. S.: + +"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." + + +Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor.... + + +CLARA + +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. + +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 girls' boarding-schools 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. +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. +A calm virility and a dreamy humor, marked contrasts to her +level-headednessinto 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 +knitting and embroidery), 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. + +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. + +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. + +"You are remarkable, aren't you!" Amory was becoming trite from +where he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six +o'clock. + +"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." +"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. + +"Tell me about yourself." And she gave the answer that Adam must +have given. + +"There's nothing to tell." + +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 different 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. + +"Nobody seems to bore you," he objected. + +"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. + +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 them +as being among the saved). + + +ST. CECILIA + + +"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." + + +"Do you like me?" + +"Of course I do," said Clara seriously. + +"Why?" + +"Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are +spontaneous in each of usor were originally." + +"You're implying that I haven't used myself very well?" +Clara hesitated. + +"Well, I can't judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot +more, and I've been sheltered." + +"Oh, don't stall, please, Clara," Amory interrupted; "but do talk +about me a little, won't you?" + +"Surely, I'd adore to." She didn't smile. + +"That's sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully +conceited?" + +"Well-no, you have tremendous vanity, but it'll amuse the people +who notice its preponderance." + +"I see." + +"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." + +"Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let +me say a word." + +"Of course notI 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." + +"But I am, potentially." + +"And you say you're a weak character, that you've no will." "Not +a bit of willI'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my +hatred of boredom, to most of my desires" + +"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." + +"You certainly interest me. If this isn't boring you, go on." +"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." + +"Yes," objected Amory, "but isn't it lack of will-power to let my +imagination shinny on the wrong side?" + +"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 +judgmentthe judgment to decide at once when you know your +imagination will play you false, given half a chance." + +"Well, I'll be darned!" exclaimed Amory in surprise, "that's the +last thing I expected." + +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 himselfexcept, perhaps, in his talks with Monsignor +Darcy. + +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. +"I'll bet she won't stay single long." + +"Well, don't scream it out. She ain't lookin' for no advice." +"Ain't she beautiful!" (Enter a floor-walkersilence till +he moves forward, smirking.) + +"Society person, ain't she?" + +"Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say." + +"Gee! girls, ain't she some kid!" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it all that +night. He couldn't help it. + +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. + +"I think," he said and his voice trembled, "that if I lost faith +in you I'd lose faith in God." + +She looked at him with such a startled face that he asked her the +matter. + +"Nothing," she said slowly, "only this: five men have said that +to me before, and it frightens me." + +"Oh, Clara, is that your fate!" + +She did not answer. + +"I suppose love to you is" he began. + +She turned like a flash. + +"I have never been in love." + +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: + +"And I love youany 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-" + +She shook her head. + +"No," she said; "I'd never marry again. I've got my two children +and I want myself for them. I like youI like all clever men, you +more than anybut you know me well enough to know that I'd never +marry a clever man" She broke off suddenly. + +"Amory." + +"What?" + +"You're not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did +you?" + +"It was the twilight," he said wonderingly. "I didn't feel as +though I were speaking aloud. But I love youor adore youor +worship you-" + +"There you gorunning through your catalogue of emotions in five +seconds." + +He smiled unwillingly. + +"Don't make me out such a light-weight, Clara; you are depressing +sometimes." + +"You're not a light-weight, of all things," she said intently, +taking his arm and opening wide her eyeshe could see their +kindliness in the fading dusk. "A light-weight is an eternal +nay." + +"There's so much spring in the air-there's so much lazy sweetness +in your heart." + +She dropped his arm. + +"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." + +And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like +two mad children gone wild with pale-blue twilight. + +"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." + +"Oh, Clara!" Amory said; "what a devil you could have been if the +Lord had just bent your soul a little the other way!" + +"Maybe," she answered; "but I think not. I'm never really wild +and never have been. That little outburst was pure spring." "And +you are, too," said he. + +They were walking along now. + +"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." + +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 dibutantes, and looking intently at them imagined +that he found something in their faces which said: + +"Oh, if I could only have gotten you!" Oh, the enormous conceit +of the man! + +But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara's +bright soul still gleamed on the ways they had trod. + +"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..." + + +AMORY IS RESENTFUL + + +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. + +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. + +Then, after a week, Amory saw Burne and knew at once that +argument would be futileBurne 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. + +"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" + +"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 +rightbut even so we're hundreds of years before the time when +non-resistance can touch us as a reality." + +"But, Amory, listen" + +"Burne, we'd just argue" + +"Very well." + +"Just one thingI 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 dutybut, Burne, how do you know that the +magazines you read and the societies you join and these idealists +you meet aren't just plain German?" + +"Some of them are, of course." + +"How do you know they aren't all pro-Germanjust a lot of weak +oneswith German-Jewish names." + +"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 +convictionit seems a path spread before me just now." + +Amory's heart sank. + +"But think of the cheapness of itno one's really going to martyr +you for being a pacifistit's just going to throw you in with the +worst" + +"I doubt it," he interrupted. + +"Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me." + +"I know what you mean, and that's why I'm not sure I'll agitate." + +"You're one man, Burne going to talk to people who won't +listen with all God's given you." + +"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." + +"Go on." + +"That's all-this is my particular duty. Even if right now I'm +just a pawnjust sacrificed. God! Amoryyou don't think I like the +Germans!" + +"Well, I can't say anything elseI 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?" + +"I'm going next week." + +"I'll see you, of course." + +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. + +"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 waversbut he haunts +mejust leaving everything worth while" + +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. + +"Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal Richelieu," +suggested Alec, who was lounging in the window-seat as Burne and +Amory shook hands. + +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 warGermany 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. + +"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 waror that that stupid, overestimated Schiller is a demon in +disguise?" + +"Have you ever read anything of theirs?" asked Tom shrewdly. +"No," Amory admitted. + +"Neither have I," he said laughing. + +"People will shout," said Alec quietly, "but Goethe's on his same +old shelf in the libraryto bore any one that wants to read him!" +Amory subsided, and the subject dropped. + +"What are you going to do, Amory?" + +"Infantry or aviation, I can't make up my mindI hate mechanics, +but then of course aviation's the thing for me" + +"I feel as Amory does," said Tom. "Infantry or aviationaviation +sounds like the romantic side of the war, of courselike cavalry +used to be, you know; but like Amory I don't know a horse-power +from a piston-rod." + +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 forfor +he took him as a representative of the Victorians. + + +"Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep +Who sowed the bitter harvest that your children go to reap" + +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. + + +"They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin was about, They +shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried out" + + +But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that out. + +"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. + + +"You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, You +thanked him for your 'glorious gains'reproached him for +'Cathay.'" + + +Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time? Now he +needed something to rhyme with: + + +"You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong +before..." + + +Well, anyway.... + + +"You met your children in your home'I've fixed it up!" you cried, +Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuouslydied." + +"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." + +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. + +"Here's a poem to the Victorians, sir," he said coldly. The +professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly +through the door. + +Here is what he had written: + + +"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, +Gantletsbut not to fling, +Thousands of old emotions +And a platitude for each, +Songs in the time of order +And tongues, that we might sing." + + + +THE END OF MANY THINGS + + +Early April slipped by in a hazea 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 rigime. + +"This is the great protest against the superman," said Amory. +"I suppose so," Alec agreed. + +"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." + +"And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral +sense." + +"That's all. I think the worst thing to contemplate is thisit'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?" + +"What brings it about?" + +"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." + +"God! Haven't we raked the universe over the coals for four +years?" + +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. + +"The grass is full of ghosts to-night." + +"The whole campus is alive with them." + +They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver +of the slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees. + +"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." + +A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Archbroken voices +for some long parting. + +"And what we leave here is more than this class; it's the whole +heritage of youth. We're just one generationwe'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." +"That's what they are," Tom tangented off, "deep bluea 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 roofsit +hurts ... rather" + +"Good-by, Aaron Burr," Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, +"you and I knew strange corners of life." + +His voice echoed in the stillness. + +"The torches are out," whispered Tom. "Ah, Messalina, the long +shadows are building minarets on the stadium" + +For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and +then they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes. +"Damn!" + +"Damn!" + +The last light fades and drifts across the landthe 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. + +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. + +INTERLUDE + +May, 1917-February, 1919 + + +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. + + +MY DEAR BOY: + +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 plump! 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.... + +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. + +Amory, lately I reread Fschylus and there in the divine irony of +the "Agamemnon" I find the only answer to this bitter ageall 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.... + +And afterward an out-and-out materialistic worldand the Catholic +Church. I wonder where you'll fit in. Of one thing I'm sureCeltic +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. + +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.... + +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.... + +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. + +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 +thingswe'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 +splendidrather not! + +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. + +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 will smoke and read all night + +At any rate here it is: + + +A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to the War Against the +King of Foreign. + + +"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 go into the fight. +Och Ochone." + +Amory-AmoryI 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. + + +EMBARKING AT NIGHT + + +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: + + +"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." + + +A letter from Amory, headed "Brest, March 11th, 1919," to +Lieutenant T. P. D'Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga. + + +DEAR BAUDELAIRE: + +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. + +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 +taxmodern, that's me all over, Mabel. + +At any rate we'll have really knock-out roomsyou can get a job on +some fashion magazine, and Alec can go into the Zinc Company or +whatever it is that his people ownhe'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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +But usyou and me and Alecoh, 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 ownersor 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. + +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. + +S'ever, dear Boswell, + +SAMUEL JOHNSON. + + + +BOOK TWO +The Education of a Personage + + +CHAPTER 1 +The Dibutante + +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. + +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. + +An indistinguishable mumble from the next room. + +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. + +More chatter outside and a girl's voice, a very spoiled voice, +says: "Of all the stupid people" + +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. + +CECELIA: Pink? + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes! + +CECELIA: Very snappy? + +ROSALIND: Yes! + +CECELIA: I've got it! +(She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and +commences to shimmy enthusiastically.) + +ROSALIND: (Outside) What are you doingtrying it on? +(CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right +shoulder. + +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.) + +ALEC: So that's where you all are! Amory Blaine is here. +CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs. + +ALEC: Oh, he is down-stairs. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him +I'm sorry that I can't meet him now. + +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. + +(This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.) + +CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How do you +meantemperamental? You used to say that about him in letters. +ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff. + +CECELIA: Does he play the piano? + +ALEC: Don't think so. + +CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink? + +ALEC: Yes-nothing queer about him. + +CECELIA: Money? + +ALEC: Good Lord-ask him, he used to have a lot, and he's got some +income now. + +(MRS. CONNAGE appears.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we're glad to have any friend of +yours + +ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory. + +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 all the attention. + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming here and +hooking me. + +(MRS. CONNAGE goes.) + +ALEC: Rosalind hasn't changed a bit. + +CECELIA: (In a lower tone) She's awfully spoiled. + +ALEC: She'll meet her match to-night. + +CECELIA: Who-Mr. Amory Blaine? +(ALEC nods.) + +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 +facesand they come back for more. + +ALEC: They love it. + +CECELIA: They hate it. She's ashe's a sort of vampire, I thinkand +she can make girls do what she wants usuallyonly she hates girls. + +ALEC: Personality runs in our family. + +CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got to me. +ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself? + +CECELIA: Not particularly well. Oh, she's averagesmokes +sometimes, drinks punch, frequently kissedOh, yescommon +knowledgeone of the effects of the war, you know. + +(Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind's almost finished so I can go down and +meet your friend. + +(ALEC and his mother go out.) + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother + +CECELIA: Mothers gone down. + +(And now ROSALIND enters. ROSALIND isutterly 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. + +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 itbut 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. + +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. + +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 +herselfincipient 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. + +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." + +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. + +On the night of her dibut 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. + +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. + +CECELIA: Glad you're coming out? + +ROSALIND: Yes; aren't you? + +CECELIA: (Cynically) You're glad so you can get married and live +on Long Island with the fast younger married set. You want life +to be a chain of flirtation with a man for every link. + +ROSALIND: Want it to be one! You mean I've found it one. +CECELIA: Ha! + +ROSALIND: Cecelia, darling, you don't know what a trial it is to +belike 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. +CECELIA: It must be an awful strain. + +ROSALIND: The unfortunate part is that the only men who interest +me at all are the totally ineligible ones. Nowif I were poor I'd +go on the stage. + +CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting +you do. + +ROSALIND: Sometimes when I've felt particularly radiant I've +thought, why should this be wasted on one man? + +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. + +ROSALIND: There aren't any. Men don't know how to be really angry +or really happyand the ones that do, go to pieces. + +CECELIA: Well, I'm glad I don't have all your worries. I'm +engaged. + +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. + +CECELIA: You won't tell her, though, because I know things I +could telland you're too selfish! + +ROSALIND: (A little annoyed) Run along, little girl! Who are you +engaged to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store? +CECELIA: Cheap wit-good-by, darling, I'll see you later. +ROSALIND: Oh, be sure and do thatyou're such a help. + +(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 eyesnever 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.) + +HE: Oh, I'm sorry. I thought + +SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you're Amory Blaine, aren't you? +HE: (Regarding her closely) And you're Rosalind? + +SHE: I'm going to call you Amoryoh, come init's all +right-mother'll be right in(under her breath) unfortunately. +HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for me. +SHE: This is No Man's Land. + +HE: This is where you-you(pause) + +SHE: Yes-all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) See, +here's my rouge-eye pencils. + +HE: I didn't know you were that way. + +SHE: What did you expect? + +HE: I thought you'd be sort ofsort of-sexless, you know, swim and +play golf. + +SHE: Oh, I dobut not in business hours. + +HE: Business? + +SHE: Six to two-strictly. + +HE: I'd like to have some stock in the corporation. + +SHE: Oh, it's not a corporationit's just "Rosalind, Unlimited." +Fifty-one shares, name, good-will, and everything goes at $25,000 +a year. + +HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition. + +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. + +HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on +women. + +SHE: I'm not really feminine, you knowin my mind. + +HE: (Interested) Go on. + +SHE: No, you-you go onyou've made me talk about myself. That's +against the rules. + +HE: Rules? + +SHE: My own rulesbut you Oh, Amory, I hear you're brilliant. The +family expects so much of you. + +HE: How encouraging! + +SHE: Alec said you'd taught him to think. Did you? I didn't +believe any one could. + +HE: No. I'm really quite dull. + +(He evidently doesn't intend this to be taken seriously.) + +SHE: Liar. + +HE: I'm-I'm religious-I'm literary. I've-I've even written poems. + +SHE: Vers libre-splendid! (She declaims.) + + +"The trees are green, +The birds are singing in the trees, +The girl sips her poison +The bird flies away the girl dies." + + +HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind. + +SHE: (Suddenly) I like you. + +HE: Don't. + +SHE: Modest too + +HE: I'm afraid of you. I'm always afraid of a girluntil I've +kissed her. + +SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over. + +HE: So I'll always be afraid of you. + +SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will. + +(A slight hesitation on both their parts.) + +HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing +to ask. + +SHE: (Knowing what's coming) After five minutes. + +HE: But will you-kiss me? Or are you afraid? + + +SHE: I'm never afraidbut your reasons are so poor. + +HE: Rosalind, I really want to kiss you. + +SHE: So do I. + +(They kiss-definitely and thoroughly.) + +HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity +satisfied? + +SHE: Is yours? + +HE: No, it's only aroused. + +(He looks it.) + +SHE: (Dreamily) I've kissed dozens of men. I suppose I'll kiss +dozens more. + +HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you couldlike that. + +SHE: Most people like the way I kiss. + +HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, +Rosalind. + +SHE: Nomy curiosity is generally satisfied at one. + +HE: (Discouraged) Is that a rule? + +SHE: I make rules to fit the cases. + +HE: You and I are somewhat alike-except that I'm years older in +experience. + +SHE: How old are you? + +HE: Almost twenty-three. You? + +SHE: Nineteen-just. + +HE: I suppose you're the product of a fashionable school. +SHE: No-I'm fairly raw material. I was expelled from SpenceI've +forgotten why. + +HE: What's your general trend? + +SHE: Oh, I'm bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond +of admiration + +HE: (Suddenly) I don't want to fall in love with you + + +SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to. + +HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love your mouth. +SHE: Hush! Please don't fall in love with my mouthhair, eyes, +shoulders, slippersbut not my mouth. Everybody falls in love with +my mouth. + +HE: It's quite beautiful. + +SHE: It's too small. + +HE: No it isn't-let's see. + +(He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.) + +SHE: (Rather moved) Say something sweet. + +HE: (Frightened) Lord help me. + +SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don'tif it's so hard. + +HE: Shall we pretend? So soon? + +SHE: We haven't the same standards of time as other people. HE: +Already it'so-ther people. + +SHE: Let's pretend. + +HE: No-I can't-it's sentiment. + +SHE: You're not sentimental? + +HE: No, I'm romantica sentimental person thinks things will lasta +romantic person hopes against hope that they won't. Sentiment is +emotional. + +SHE: And you're not? (With her eyes half-closed.) You probably +flatter yourself that that's a superior attitude. + +HE: WellRosalind, Rosalind, don't argue-kiss me again. + +SHE: (Quite chilly now) NoI have no desire to kiss you. +HE: (Openly taken aback) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago. +SHE: This is now. + +HE: I'd better go. + +SHE: I suppose so. + +(He goes toward the door.) + + +SHE: Oh! + +(He turns.) + +SHE: (Laughing) ScoreHome Team: One hundredOpponents: Zero. (He +starts back.) + +SHE: (Quickly) Rainno game. + +(He goes out.) + +(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.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: GoodI've been wanting to speak to you alone before +we go down-stairs. + +ROSALIND: Heavens! you frighten me! + +MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you've been a very expensive proposition. + +ROSALIND: (Resignedly) Yes. + +MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn't what he once had. +ROSALIND: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don't talk about money. +MRS. CONNAGE: You can't do anything without it. This is our last +year in this houseand unless things change Cecelia won't have the +advantages you've had. + +ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Wellwhat is it? + +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 oneor listening to it. + +ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it is better. MRS. +CONNAGE: And don't waste a lot of time with the college setlittle +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 cafis down-town with Tom, Dick, and Harry + +ROSALIND: (Offering her code, which is, in its way, quite as high +as her mother's) Mother, it's doneyou can't run everything now +the way you did in the early nineties. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor +friends of your father's that I want you to meet to-nightyoungish +men. + +ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five? + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not? + + +ROSALIND: Oh, quite all rightthey know life and are so adorably +tired looking (shakes her head)but they will dance. + +MRS. CONNAGE: I haven't met Mr. Blainebut I don't think you'll +care for him. He doesn't sound like a money-maker. + +ROSALIND: Mother, I never think about money. + +MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to think about it. +ROSALIND: (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I'll marry a ton of +it-out of sheer boredom. + +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. +ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie? +MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he +comes. + +ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. +They're all wrong. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you +to-night. + +ROSALIND: Don't you think I'm beautiful? + +MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. + +(From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the +roll of a drum. + +MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Come! + +ROSALIND: One minute! + +(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, +hesitatesthen to the desk whence she takes the cigarette-case and +extracts one. She lights it and then, puffing and blowing, walks +toward the mirror.) + +CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming +out is such 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 +graceI b'lieve I've heard my sister speak of you. Have a +puffthey'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. + +(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.) + + +SEVERAL HOURS LATER + + +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. + +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. + +GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I've changed. I feel the +same toward you. + +ROSALIND: But you don't look the same to me. + +GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me +because I was so blasi, so indifferentI still am. + +ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had +brown eyes and thin legs. + +GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They're still thin and brown. You're a +vampire, that's all. + +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. + +GILLESPIE: I love you. + +ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it. + +GILLESPIE: And you haven't kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea +that after a girl was kissed she waswaswon. + +ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again +every time you see me. + +GILLESPIE: Are you serious? + +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. + +GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men? + +ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment, +when he's interested. There is a momentOh, just before the first +kiss, a whispered wordsomething that makes it worth while. +GILLESPIE: And then? + +ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty +soon he thinks of nothing but being alone with youhe sulks, he +won't fight, he doesn't want to play-Victory! + +(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to +his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.) + +RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind. + +ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven't +got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie. + +(They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.) +RYDER: Your party is certainly a success. + +ROSALIND: Is it I haven't seen it lately. I'm weary Do you mind +sitting out a minute? + + +RYDER: Mind-I'm delighted. You know I loathe this "rushing" idea. +See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow. + +ROSALIND: Dawson! + +RYDER: What? + +ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me. + +RYDER: (Startled) What Ohyou know you're remarkable! + +ROSALIND: Because you know I'm an awful proposition. Any one who +marries me will have his hands full. I'm meanmighty mean. +RYDER: Oh, I wouldn't say that. + +ROSALIND: Oh, yes, I amespecially 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. + +(Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.) + +CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission. +ALEC: (Gloomily) I'll go if you want me to. + +CECELIA: Good heavens, nowith whom would I begin the next dance? +(Sighs.) There's no color in a dance since the French officers +went back. + +ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don't want Amory to fall in love with +Rosalind. + +CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want. + +ALEC: I did, but since seeing these girlsI 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. +CECELIA: He's very good looking. + +ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won't marry him, but a girl +doesn't have to marry a man to break his heart. + +CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret. + +ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It's lucky for some +that the Lord gave you a pug nose. + +(Enter MRS. CONNAGE.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind? + +ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you've come to the best people to +find out. She'd naturally be with us. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor +millionaires to meet her. + +ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls. MRS. +CONNAGE: I'm perfectly seriousfor all I know she may be at the +Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her +dibut. You look left and I'll + +ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn't you better send the butler through the +cellar? + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don't think she'd be +there? + +CECELIA: He's only joking, mother. + +ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some +high hurdler. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Let's look right away. + +(They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.) + +GILLESPIE: Rosalind Once more I ask you. Don't you care a blessed +thing about me? + +(AMORY walks in briskly.) + +AMORY: My dance. + +ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine. + +GILLESPIE: I've met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren't you? +AMORY: Yes. + +GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I've been there. It's in the-the Middle +West, isn't it? + +AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I'd rather +be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning. + +GILLESPIE: What! + +AMORY: Oh, no offense. + +(GILLESPIE bows and leaves.) + +ROSALIND: He's too much people. + +AMORY: I was in love with a people once. + +ROSALIND: So? + +AMORY: Oh, yesher name was Isabellenothing at all to her except +what I read into her. + +ROSALIND: What happened? + +AMORY: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I +wasthen she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, +you know. + +ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical? + +AMORY: Ohdrive a car, but can't change a tire. + +ROSALIND: What are you going to do? + +AMORY: Can't sayrun for President, write + +ROSALIND: Greenwich Village? + +AMORY: Good heavens, noI said writenot drink. + +ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely. +AMORY: I feel as if I'd known you for ages. + +ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the "pyramid" story? +AMORY: NoI was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you +were one of mymy (Changing his tone.) Supposewe fell in love. +ROSALIND: I ve suggested pretending. + +AMORY: If we did it would be very big. + +ROSALIND: Why? + +AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of +great loves. + +ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend. + +(Very deliberately they kiss.) + +AMORY: I can't say sweet things. But you are beautiful. +ROSALIND: Not that. + +AMORY: What then? + +ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothingonly I want sentiment, real +sentimentand I never find it. + +AMORY: I never find anything else in the worldand I loathe it. +ROSALIND: It's so hard to find a male to gratify one's artistic +taste. + +(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into +the room. ROSALIND rises.) + +ROSALIND: Listen! they're playing "Kiss Me Again." + +(He looks at her.) + +AMORY: Well? + +ROSALIND: Well? + +AMORY: (Softly-the battle lost) I love you. + +ROSALIND: I love younow. + +(They kiss.) + +AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done? + +ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don't talk. Kiss me again. + +AMORY: I don't know why or how, but I love you-from the moment I +saw you. + +ROSALIND: Me too-I-I-oh, to-night's to-night. + +(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: +"Oh, excuse me," and goes.) + +ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don't let me go-I don't +care who knows what I do. + +AMORY: Say it! + +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! + +(He kisses her again.) + + +KISMET + + +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. + +"It may be an insane love-affair," she told her anxious mother, +"but it's not inane." + +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. + +They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly +every eveningalways 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 Julyin June. All life was transmitted into terms of +their love, all experience, all desires, all ambitions, were +nullifiedtheir senses of humor crawled into corners to sleep; +their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely +regretted juvenalia. + +For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete +bouleversement and was hurrying into line with his generation. + + +A LITTLE INTERLUDE + + +Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as +inevitably histhe 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 singinghe 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. + +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. +"Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business +to-day?" + +Amory sprawled on a couch. + +"I loathed it as usual!" The momentary vision of the bustling +agency was displaced quickly by another picture. + +"My God! She's wonderful!" + +Tom sighed. + +"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." + +Another sigh came from the window-quite a resigned sigh. +"She's life and hope and happiness, my whole world now." +He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid. + +"Oh, Golly, Tom!" + + +BITTER SWEET + + +"Sit like we do," she whispered. + +He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could +nestle inside them. + +"I knew you'd come to-night," she said softly, "like summer, just +when I needed you most ... darling ... darling..." + +His lips moved lazily over her face. + +"You taste so good," he sighed. + +"How do you mean, lover?" + +"Oh, just sweet, just sweet..." he held her closer. + +"Amory," she whispered, "when you're ready for me I'll marry +you." + +"We won't have much at first." + +"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." + +"Tell me..." + +"You know, don't you? Oh, you know." + +"Yes, but I want to hear you say it." + +"I love you, Amory, with all my heart." + +"Always, will you?" + +"All my life-Oh, Amory" + +"What?" + +"I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I +want to have your babies." + +"But I haven't any people." + +"Don't laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me." + +"I'll do what you want," he said. + +"No, I'll do what you want. We're you-not me. Oh, you're so much +a part, so much all of me..." + +He closed his eyes. + +"I'm so happy that I'm frightened. Wouldn't it be awful if this +waswas the high point?..." + +She looked at him dreamily. + +"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" + +"Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony...." +"And, Amory, we're beautiful, I know. I'm sure God loves us" +"He loves you. You're his most precious possession." + +"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." + +Then they would smoke and he would tell her about his day at the +officeand where they might live. Sometimes, when he was +particularly loquacious, she went to sleep in his arms, but he +loved that Rosalindall Rosalinds as he had never in the world +loved any one else. Intangibly fleeting, unrememberable hours. + + +AQUATIC INCIDENT + + +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. + + +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. +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. + +"Of course I had to go, after thatand 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." + +Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly +all through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow +optimists. + + +FIVE WEEKS LATER + + +Again the library of the Connage house. ROSALIND is alone, +sitting on the lounge staring very moodily and unhappily at +nothing. She has changed perceptiblyshe is a trifle thinner for +one thing; the light in her eyes is not so bright; she looks +easily a year older. + +Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in +ROSALIND with a nervous glance. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night? + +(ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.) + +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? + +ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh-what-oh-Amory- + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so many admirers lately +that I couldn't imagine which 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. + +ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her +face.) Motherplease + +MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, I won't interfere. You've already wasted over +two months on a theoretical genius who hasn't a penny to his +name, but go ahead, waste your life on him. I won't interfere. +ROSALIND: (As if repeating a tiresome lesson) You know he has a +little incomeand you know he's earning thirty-five dollars a week +in advertising + +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 clever. (She implies that this quality in itself +is rather vicious.) + +ROSALIND: For heaven's sake, mother + +(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.) +AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory. +(AMORY and ROSALIND exchange glancesand 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.) +ALEC: Hi, Amory! + +AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he'd meet you at the theatre. +ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How's the advertising to-day? Write +some brilliant copy? + +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.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car. +(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.) +AMORY: Darling girl. + +(They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it +with kisses and holds it to her breast.) + +ROSALIND: (Sadly) I love your hands, more than anything. I see +them often when you're away from meso tired; I know every line of +them. Dear hands! + + +(Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry-a +tearless sobbing.) + +AMORY: Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: Oh, we're so darned pitiful! + +AMORY: Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die! + +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. + +ROSALIND: Amory, if you don't sit down I'll scream. + +AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord. + +ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don't +you? + +AMORY: Yes. + +ROSALIND: You know I'll always love you + +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 +officecouldn't write a line. Tell me everything. + +ROSALIND: There's nothing to tell, I say. I'm just nervous. +AMORY: Rosalind, you're playing with the idea of marrying Dawson +Ryder. + +ROSALIND: (After a pause) He's been asking me to all day. +AMORY: Well, he's got his nerve! + +ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him. + +AMORY: Don't say that. It hurts me. + +ROSALIND: Don't be a silly idiot. You know you're the only man +I've ever loved, ever will love. + +AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let's get married-next week. + +ROSALIND: We can't. + +AMORY: Why not? + +ROSALIND: Oh, we can't. I'd be your squaw-in some horrible place. + +AMORY: We'll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month +all told. + +ROSALIND: Darling, I don't even do my own hair, usually. +AMORY: I'll do it for you. + +ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks. + +AMORY: Rosalind, you can't 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. + +ROSALIND: It's justus. We're pitiful, that's all. The very +qualities I love you for are the ones that will always make you a +failure. + +AMORY: (Grimly) Go on. + +ROSALIND: Oh-it is Dawson Ryder. He's so reliable, I almost feel +that he'd be a-a background. + +AMORY: You don't love him. + +ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he's a good man and a +strong one. + +AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes-he's that. + +ROSALIND: Well-here's one little thing. There was a little poor +boy we met in Rye Tuesday afternoonand, oh, Dawson took him on +his lap and talked to him and promised him an Indian suitand next +day he remembered and bought itand, oh, it was so sweet and I +couldn't help thinking he'd be so nice toto our childrentake care +of themand I wouldn't have to worry. + +AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don't look so consciously +suffering. + +AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other! + +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! + +AMORY: It won'ti-t won't! + +ROSALIND: I'd rather keep it as a beautiful memorytucked away in +my heart. + +AMORY: Yes, women can do thatbut not men. I'd remember always, +not the beauty of it while it lasted, but just the bitterness, +the long bitterness. + +ROSALIND: Don't! + +AMORY: All the years never to see you, never to kiss you, just a +gate shut and barredyou don't dare be my wife. + +ROSALIND: No-no-I'm taking the hardest course, the strongest +course. Marrying you would be a failure and I never failif you +don't stop walking up and down I'll scream! + +(Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.) + +AMORY: Come over here and kiss me. + +ROSALIND: No. + +AMORY: Don't you want to kiss me? + +ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly and coolly. +AMORY: The beginning of the end. + +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 +AMORY: And you're afraid to take them with me. + +ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere-you'll +say Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh-but listen: + +"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 timelet go." + + +AMORY: But we haven't had. + +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. + +AMORY: We've got to take our chance for happiness. + +ROSALIND: Dawson says I'd learn to love him. + +(AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life +seems suddenly gone out of him.) + +ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can't do with you, and I can't imagine +life without you. + +AMORY: Rosalind, we're on each other's nerves. It's just that +we're both high-strung, and this week + +(His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his +face in her hands, kisses him.) + +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. + +(Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.) + +AMORY: Rosalind + +ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go Don't make it harder! I can't stand it +AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what +you're saying? Do you mean forever? + +(There is a difference somehow in the quality of their +suffering.) + +ROSALIND: Can't you see + +AMORY: I'm afraid I can't if you love me. You're afraid of taking +two years' knocks with me. + +ROSALIND: I wouldn't be the Rosalind you love. + +AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can't give you up! I can't, +that's all! I've got to have you! + +ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You're being a baby now. +AMORY: (Wildly) I don't care! You're spoiling our lives! +ROSALIND: I'm doing the wise thing, the only thing. + +AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder? + +ROSALIND: Oh, don't ask me. You know I'm old in some waysin +otherswell, I'm just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty +things and cheerfulnessand 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. + +AMORY: And you love me. + +ROSALIND: That's just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. +We can't have any more scenes like this. + +(She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their +eyes blind again with tears.) + +AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don't! Keep it, pleaseoh, +don't break my heart! + +(She presses the ring softly into his hand.) + + +ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You'd better go. + +AMORY: Good-by + +(She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite +sadness.) + +ROSALIND: Don't ever forget me, Amory + +AMORY: Good-by + +(He goes to the door, fumbles for the knob, finds itshe sees him +throw back his headand he is gone. Gone-she half starts from the +lounge and then sinks forward on her face into the pillows.) +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? + +(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.) + + +BOOK TWO +The Education of a Personage + +CHAPTER 2 +Experiments in Convalescence + + +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 housea walk +concerning which he had afterward not the faintest recollection. +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 decisionthe 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. + +"Well, Amory..." + +It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the +name. + +"Hello, old boy" he heard himself saying. + +"Name's Jim Wilson-you've forgotten." + +"Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember." + +"Going to reunion?" + +"You know!" Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to +reunion. + +"Get overseas?" + +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. +"Too bad," he muttered. "Have a drink?" + +Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on +the back. + +"You've had plenty, old boy." + +Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the +scrutiny. + +"Plenty, hell!" said Amory finally. "I haven't had a drink +to-day." + +Wilson looked incredulous. + +"Have a drink or not?" cried Amory rudely. + +Together they sought the bar. + +"Rye high." + +"I'll just take a Bronx." + +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. + +"'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." + +Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued: +"Use' wonder 'bout thingspeople 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." +"What are you celebrating, Amory?" + +Amory leaned forward confidentially. + +"Cel'brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can't tell +you 'bout it" + +He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender: + +"Give him a bromo-seltzer." + +Amory shook his head indignantly. + +"None that stuff!" + +"But listen, Amory, you're making yourself sick. You're white as +a ghost." + +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. + +"Like som'n solid. We go get somesome salad." + +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. + +"We'll go over to Shanley's," suggested Carling, offering an +elbow. + +With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion +enough to propel him across Forty-second Street. + +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.... +...He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a knot +in his shoe-lace. + +"Nemmine," he managed to articulate drowsily. "Sleep in 'em...." + + +STILL ALCOHOLIC + + +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. + +"Hello-what hotel is this-? + +"Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye highballs" + +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. +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. + +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, Amorydon't ever +forget me" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"My own girl-my own-Oh-" + +He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from +his eyes. + +"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 wayit's got to be" + +And then again: + +"We've been so happy, so very happy...." + +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.... + +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 +programmea 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."... + +...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.... + +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 headwaiterAmory's attitude being a lofty +and exaggerated courtesy ... he consented, after being confronted +with irrefutable logic, to being led back to his own table. +"Decided to commit suicide," he announced suddenly. + +"When? Next year?" + +"Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, +get into a hot bath and open a vein." + +"He's getting morbid!" + +"You need another rye, old boy!" + +"We'll all talk it over to-morrow." + +But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least. "Did +you ever get that way?" he demanded confidentially +fortaccio. + +"Sure!" + +"Often?" + +"My chronic state." + +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 tablea most delicate, scarcely noticeable +sleeping position, he assured himselfand went into a deep +stupor.... + +He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with +brown, disarranged hair and dark blue eyes. + +"Take me home!" she cried. + +"Hello!" said Amory, blinking. + +"I like you," she announced tenderly. + +"I like you too." + +He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that +one of his party was arguing with him. + +"Fella I was with's a damn fool," confided the blue-eyed woman. +"I hate him. I want to go home with you." + +"You drunk?" queried Amory with intense wisdom. + +She nodded coyly. + +"Go home with him," he advised gravely. "He brought you." +At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his +detainers and approached. + +"Say!" he said fiercely. "I brought this girl out here and you're +butting in!" + +Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer. +"You let go that girl!" cried the noisy man. + +Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. + +"You go to hell!" he directed finally, and turned his attention +to the girl. + +"Love first sight," he suggested. + +"I love you," she breathed and nestled close to him. She did have +beautiful eyes. + +Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear. + +"That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and this fellow here +brought her. Better let her go." + +"Let him take care of her, then!" shouted Amory furiously. "I'm +no W. Y. C. A. worker, am I?am I?" + +"Let her go!" + +"It's her hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!" + + +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. + +"Oh, Lord!" cried Amory. + +"Let's go!" + +"Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!" + +"Check, waiter." + +"C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over." + +Amory laughed. + +"You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 'At's the whole +trouble." + + +AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION + +Two mornings later he knocked at the president's door at Bascome +and Barlow's advertising agency. + +"Come in!" + +Amory entered unsteadily. + +"'Morning, Mr. Barlow." + +Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his +mouth slightly ajar that he might better listen. + +"Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven't seen you for several days." +"No," said Amory. "I'm quitting." + +"Well-well-this is" + +"I don't like it here." + +"I'm sorry. I thought our relations had been quite-ah-pleasant. +You seemed to be a hard workera little inclined perhaps to write +fancy copy" + +"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" +Mr. Barlow's face steeled by several ingots of expression. + +"You asked for a position" + +Amory waved him to silence. + +"And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a +weekless than a good carpenter." + +"You had just started. You'd never worked before," said Mr. +Barlow coolly. + +"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." + +"I'm not going to argue with you, sir," said Mr. Barlow rising. +"Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I'm quitting." +They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and +then Amory turned and left the office. + + +A LITTLE LULL + +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. + +"Well?" + +"Well?" + +"Good Lord, Amory, where'd you get the black eyeand the jaw?" +Amory laughed. + +"That's a mere nothing." + +He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders. + +"Look here!" + +Tom emitted a low whistle. + +"What hit you?" + +Amory laughed again. + +"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." + +"Who was it?" + +"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." + +Tom lighted a cigarette. + +"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." +Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette. + +"You sober now?" asked Tom quizzically. + +"Pretty sober. Why?" + +"Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home +and live, so he" + +A spasm of pain shook Amory. + +"Too bad." + +"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." + +"Sure. Get anybody. I'll leave it to you, Tom." + +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. + +"Got a cardboard box?" + +"No," answered Tom, puzzled. "Why should I have? Oh, yesthere may +be one in Alec's room." + +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... + +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. + + +"Going out?" Tom's voice held an undertone of anxiety. + +"Uh-huh." + +"Where?" + +"Couldn't say, old keed." + +"Let's have dinner together." + +"Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I'd eat with him." + +"Oh." + +"By-by." + +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. +"Hi, Amory!" + +"What'll you have?" + +"Yo-ho! Waiter!" + + +TEMPERATURE NORMAL + + +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. + +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. +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +"I thought I'd better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence," he said rather +ambiguously when he arrived. + +"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." + +"Did he think I'd plunged into Bolshevism?" asked Amory, +interested. + +"Oh, he's having a frightful time." + +"Why?" + +"About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity." +"So?" + +"He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was +greatly distressed because the receiving committee, when they +rode in an automobile, would put their arms around the +President." + +"I don't blame him." + +"Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in +the army? You look a great deal older." + +"That's from another, more disastrous battle," he answered, +smiling in spite of himself. "But the armylet me seewell, 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 manit used to worry me before." + +"What else?" + +"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." + +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. + +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 againafter a while it might be such a nice place in which to +live. + +"Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you're his reincarnation, that +your faith will eventually clarify." + +"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." + +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 Benit, 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. + +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 againbacking away from life itself. + + +RESTLESSNESS + + +"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. + +"You used to be entertaining before you started to write," he +continued. "Now you save any idea that you think would do to +print." + +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 disordersTom claimed that this was +because one was sitting in the lap of Montespan's wraithat any +rate, it was Tom's furniture that decided them to stay. +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 +Roombesides 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. + +Amory had lately received several alarming letters from Mr. +Bartonthe 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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes," said Amory speculatively, "but I'm more than bored; I am +restless." + +"Love and war did for you." + +"Well," Amory considered, "I'm not sure that the war itself had +any great effect on either you or mebut it certainly ruined the +old backgrounds, sort of killed individualism out of our +generation." + +Tom looked up in surprise. + +"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 leaderand 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" + +"I don't agree with you," Tom interrupted. "There never were men +placed in such egotistic positions sinceoh, since the French +Revolution." + +Amory disagreed violently. + +"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." + +"Then you don't think there will be any more permanent world +heroes?" + +"Yesin historynot in life. Carlyle would have difficulty getting +material for a new chapter on 'The Hero as a Big Man.'" +"Go on. I'm a good listener to-day." + +"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 philosophera 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." + +"Then you blame it on the press?" + +"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 raceOh, 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." + +Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly. + +"We want 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 can't. 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-" + +He paused only to get his breath. + +"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-" + +Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of his connection +with The New Democracy. + + +"What's all this got to do with your being bored?" + +Amory considered that it had much to do with it. + +"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." + +"Try fiction," suggested Tom. + +"Trouble is I get distracted when I start to write storiesget +afraid I'm doing it instead of livingget thinking maybe life is +waiting for me in the Japanese gardens at the Ritz or at Atlantic +City or on the lower East Side. + +"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." +"You'll find another." + +"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 playbut Rosalind was the only girl in the wide world +that could have held me." + +"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." + +"I am," agreed Amory reluctantly. "Yet when I see a happy family +it makes me sick at my stomach" + +"Happy families try to make people feel that way," said Tom +cynically. + + +TOM THE CENSOR + + +There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, +wreathed in smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American +literature. Words failed him. + +"Fifty thousand dollars a year," he would cry. "My God! Look at +them, look at themEdna Ferber, Gouverneur Morris, Fanny Hurst, +Mary Roberts Rinehartnot producing among 'em one story or novel +that will last ten years. This man CobbI don't tink he's either +clever or amusingand what's more, I don't think very many people +do, except the editors. He's just groggy with advertising. Andoh +Harold Bell Wright oh Zane Grey" + +"They try." + +"No, they don't even try. Some of them can write, but they won't +sit down and do one honest novel. Most of them can't 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." + +"Is that double entente?" + +"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?" + +"How does little Tommy like the poets?" + +Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely +beside the chair and emitted faint grunts. + +"I'm writing a satire on 'em now, calling it 'Boston Bards and +Hearst Reviewers.'" + +"Let's hear it," said Amory eagerly. + +"I've only got the last few lines done." + +"That's very modern. Let's hear 'em, if they're funny." Tom +produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud, pausing +at intervals so that Amory could see that it was free verse: + +"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." + + +Amory roared. + +"You win the iron pansy. I'll buy you a meal on the arrogance of +the last two lines." + +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. + +"What I hate is this idiotic drivel about 'I am GodI am manI ride +the windsI look through the smokeI am the life sense.'" +"It's ghastly!" + +"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" +"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" + +"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." + + +LOOKING BACKWARD + + +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. + +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 airsilence was dead and +sound not yet awokenLife 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 wireseerie half-laughter echoes +here and leaves only a fatuous sigh for young desires; regret has +followed after things she loved, leaving the great husk. + +ANOTHER ENDING + +In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had +evidently just stumbled on his address: + + +MY DEAR BOY: + +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. + +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. + +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. +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. +Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you. + +With greatest affection, + +THAYER DARCY. + + +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. + +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. + + +BOOK TWO +The Education of a Personage + + +CHAPTER 3 +Young Irony + + +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. + + +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 +Eleanordid 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: + +"And Amory will have no other adventure like me." +Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh. +Eleanor tried to put it on paper once: + +"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." + + +They quarrelled dangerously because Amory maintained that sea and +see couldn't possibly be used as a rhyme. And then Eleanor had +part of another verse that she couldn't find a beginning for: + +"...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." + + +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. +Amory was bored, as he usually was in the country. He used to go +for far walks by himselfand 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. + +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: + + +"Les sanglots longs +Des violons +De l'automne +Blessent mon coeur +D'une langueur +Monotone." + + +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. + +Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that +soared and hung and fell and blended with the rain: + + +"Tout suffocant +Et bljme quand +Sonne l'heure +Je me souviens +Des jours anciens +Et je pleure...." + +"Who the devil is there in Ramilly County," muttered Amory aloud, +"who would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a +soaking haystack?" + +"Somebody's there!" cried the voice unalarmed. "Who are +you?-Manfred, St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?" + +"I'm Don Juan!" Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above +the noise of the rain and the wind. + +A delighted shriek came from the haystack. + +"I know who you are-you're the blond boy that likes 'Ulalume'I +recognize your voice." + +"How do I get up?" he cried from the foot of the haystack, +whither he had arrived, dripping wet. A head appeared over the +edgeit was so dark that Amory could just make out a patch of damp +hair and two eyes that gleamed like a cat's. + +"Run back!" came the voice, "and jump and I'll catch your handno, +not thereon the other side." + +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. + +"Here you are, Juan," cried she of the damp hair. "Do you mind if +I drop the Don?" + +"You've got a thumb like mine!" he exclaimed. + +"And you're holding my hand, which is dangerous without seeing my +face." He dropped it quickly. + +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. +"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." + +"I was asked," Amory said joyfully; "you asked meyou know you +did." + +"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." +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 beautifulsupposing +she was forty and pedanticheavens! 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. + +"I'm not," she said. + +"Not what?" + +"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." + +"How on earth" + +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. + +"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!" + +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 magnificentpale 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. +"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." +"What color is your hair?" he asked intently. "It's bobbed, isn't +it?" + +"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." +"Answer my question, Madeline." + +"Don't remember them allbesides my name isn't Madeline, it's +Eleanor." + +"I might have guessed it. You look like Eleanor-you have that +Eleanor look. You know what I mean." + +There was a silence as they listened to the rain. + +"It's going down my neck, fellow lunatic," she offered finally. +"Answer my questions." + +"Well-name of Savage, Eleanor; live in big old house mile down +road; nearest living relation to be notified, grandfatherRamilly +Savage; height, five feet four inches; number on watch-case, 3077 +W; nose, delicate aquiline; temperament, uncanny-" + +"And me," Amory interrupted, "where did you see me?" + +"Oh, you're one of those 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: + + +"'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.' + +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" + +"All right," Amory interrupted. "Now go back to yourself." +"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." + +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 beforeshe 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 +situationinstead, he had a sense of coming home. + +"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." + +"Really! how banal!" + +"Frightfully so," she answered, "but depressing with a stale, +sickly depression, nevertheless. I came out here to get wetlike a +wet hen; wet hens always have great clarity of mind," she +concluded. + +"Go on," Amory said politely. + +"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 Godbecause the lightning might strike +mebut 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." + +"Why, you little wretch" cried Amory indignantly. "Scared of +what?" + +"Yourself!" she shouted, and he jumped. She clapped her hands and +laughed. "See-see! Consciencekill it like me! Eleanor Savage, +materiologistno jumping, no starting, come early" + +"But I have to have a soul," he objected. "I can't be rationaland +I won't be molecular." + +She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and +whispered with a sort of romantic finality: + +"I thought so, Juan, I feared soyou're sentimental. You're not +like me. I'm a romantic little materialist." + +"I'm not sentimentalI'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you +know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will lastthe +romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won't." +(This was an ancient distinction of Amory's.) + +"Epigrams. I'm going home," she said sadly. "Let's get off the +haystack and walk to the cross-roads." + +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 hershe 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 grainand he lay awake in the clear +darkness. + + +SEPTEMBER + +Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically. + +"I never fall in love in August or September," he proffered. +"When then?" + +"Christmas or Easter. I'm a liturgist." + +"Easter!" She turned up her nose. "Huh! Spring in corsets!" +"Easter would bore spring, wouldn't she? Easter has her hair +braided, wears a tailored suit." + + +"Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. +Over the splendor and speed of thy feet" + + +quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: "I suppose Hallowe'en is a +better day for autumn than Thanksgiving." + +"Much better-and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but +summer..." + +"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." +"Fourth of July," Amory suggested facetiously. + +"Don't be funny!" she said, raking him with her eyes. + +"Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?" + +She thought a moment. + +"Oh, I suppose heaven would, if there was one," she said finally, +"a sort of pagan heavenyou ought to be a materialist," she +continued irrelevantly. + +"Why?" + +"Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert +Brooke." + +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 beforeI 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. +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: + + +"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?" + + +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 dibutante 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. +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 oversadness and memory and pain +recurred outside, and here, once more, before he went on to meet +them he wanted to drift and be young. + +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 scenestwo 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. + +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. + +"The despairing, dying autumn and our lovehow well they +harmonize!" said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by +the water. + +"The Indian summer of our hearts" he ceased. + +"Tell me," she said finally, "was she light or dark?" + +"Light." + +"Was she more beautiful than I am?" + +"I don't know," said Amory shortly. + +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. +"Light a match," she whispered. "I want to see you." + +Scratch! Flare! + +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 umbelievable. The match went out. + +"It's black as pitch." + +"We're just voices now," murmured Eleanor, "little lonesome +voices. Light another." + +"That was my last match." + +Suddenly he caught her in his arms. + +"You are 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. + + +THE END OF SUMMER + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." +"But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old +plug at seven o'clock." + +"Don't be a spoil-sport-remember, you have a tendency toward +wavering that prevents you from being the entire light of my +life." + +Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, +grasped her hand. + +"Say I am-quick, or I'll pull you over and make you ride behind +me." + +She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. +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. + + +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 know that you were Beauty +for an afternoon. + + +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 must +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 +more 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.... + +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 saidperhaps 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 branchwhispered it as no other girl was ever able to +whisper it. Then they started up Harper's Hill, walking their +tired horses. + +"Good Lord! It's quiet here!" whispered Eleanor; "much more +lonesome than the woods." + +"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." + +"The long slope of a long hill." + +"And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it." + +"And thee and me, last and most important." + +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 colderso cold that it settled on +them and drove all the warm nights from their minds. + +"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 feelold 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." + +The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and +shivered. + +"Are you very cold?" asked Amory. + +"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." + +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. + +"Rotten, rotten old world," broke out Eleanor suddenly, "and the +wretchedest thing of all is meoh, why 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 +justifiedand 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 meI +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. + +"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 real love in the world is +ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupgon of jealousy." +She finished as suddenly as she began. + +"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...." + +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. +"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 sentimentand 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. + +"I can't-I can't kiss you now-I'm more sensitive." + +"You're more stupid then," he declared rather impatiently. +"Intellect is no protection from sex any more than convention +is..." + +"What is?" she fired up. "The Catholic Church or the maxims of +Confucius?" + +Amory looked up, rather taken aback. + +"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. + +"If there's a God let him strike me-strike me!" + +"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. + +"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." +Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her. +"Will I?" she said in a queer voice that scared him. "Will I? +Watch! I'm going over the cliff!" And before he could interfere +she had turned and was riding breakneck for the end of the +plateau. + +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 sidewaysplunged 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. + +"Eleanor!" he cried. + +She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with +sudden tears. + +"Eleanor, are you hurt?" + +"No; I don't think so," she said faintly, and then began weeping. + +"My horse dead?" + +"Good God Yes!" + +"Oh!" she wailed. "I thought I was going over. I didn't know" +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. + +"I've got a crazy streak," she faltered, "twice before I've done +things like that. When I was eleven mother wentwent madstark +raving crazy. We were in Vienna" + + +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. + + +A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER + + +"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? +What leered out of the dark in the ghostly clover? +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." + + + +A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED "SUMMER STORM" + +"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..." + + +BOOK TWO +The Education of a Personage + + +CHAPTER 4 +The Supercilious Sacrifice + + +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. + +"Well-Amory Blaine!" + +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. + +"Come on down, goopher!" cried Alec. + +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. + +"Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully." +"How d'y do?" + +"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." +Amory considered. + +"That's an idea." + +"Step in-move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at +you." + +Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, +vermilion-lipped blonde. + +"Hello, Doug Fairbanks," she said flippantly. "Walking for +exercise or hunting for company?" + +"I was counting the waves," replied Amory gravely. "I'm going in +for statistics." + +"Don't kid me, Doug." + +When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the +car among deep shadows. + +"What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?" he demanded, +as he produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug. +Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason +for coming to the coast. + +"Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?" he asked +instead. + +"Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park" +"Lord, Alec! It's hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are +all three dead." + +Alec shivered. + +"Don't talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough." +Jill seemed to agree. + +"Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways," she commented. "Tell him to +drink deepit's good and scarce these days." + +"What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are" +"Why, New York, I suppose" + +"I mean to-night, because if you haven't got a room yet you'd +better help me out." + +"Glad to." + +"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?" +Amory was willing, if he could get in right away. + +"You'll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name." +Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left +the car and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel. +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. +"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 crushthese alone were left of all his love +for Rosalind; these remained to him as payment for the loss of +his youthbitter calomel under the thin sugar of love's +exaltation. + + +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. + +He remembered a poem he had read months before: + + +"Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, I waste my years +sailing along the sea" + +Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that +waste implied. He felt that life had rejected him. + +"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. +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. + +Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away. +He became rigid. + +"Don't make a sound!" It was Alec's voice. "Jill-do you hear me?" + +"Yes" breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the +bathroom. + +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. + +"My God!" came the girl's voice again. "You'll have to let them +in." + +"Sh!" + +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. + +"Amory!" an anxious whisper. + +"What's the trouble?" + +"It's house detectives. My God, Amorythey're just looking for a +test-case" + +"Well, better let them in." + +"You don't understand. They can get me under the Mann Act." The +girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure in +the darkness. + +Amory tried to plan quickly. + +"You make a racket and let them in your room," he suggested +anxiously, "and I'll get her out by this door." + +"They're here too, though. They'll watch this door." + +"Can't you give a wrong name?" + +"No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they'd trail +the auto license number." + +"Say you're married." + +"Jill says one of the house detectives knows her." + +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: +"Open up or we'll break the door in!" + +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. + +The first fact that flashed radiantly on his comprehension was +the great impersonality of sacrificehe 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 blamedue 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 +lifeyears 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 powerto 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 ruinthe 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. + +...Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for +having done so much for him.... + +...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. +Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; +sacrifice should be eternally supercilious. + +Weep not for me but for thy children. + +That-thought Amory-would be somehow the way God would talk to me. +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.... +"Do what I say, Alec-do what I say. Do you understand?" + +Alec looked at him dumblyhis face a tableau of anguish. +"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?" +"I hear you." The voice was curiously strained, the eyes never +for a second left Amory's. + +"Alec, you're going to lie down here. If any one comes in you act +drunk. You do what I sayif you don't I'll probably kill you." +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. + +"You're here with me," he said sternly. "You've been with me all +evening." + +She nodded, gave a little half cry. + +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. + +"You've been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!" +Amory laughed. + + +"Well?" + +The leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a +check suit. + +"All right, Olson." + +"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. + +The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously. + +"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 carto a hotel like this." He shook his head +implying that he had struggled over Amory but now gave him up. + +"Well," said Amory rather impatiently, "what do you want us to +do?" + +"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. +"Anybody else here?" demanded Olson, trying to look keen and +ferret-like. + +"Fellow who had the rooms," said Amory carelessly. "He's drunk as +an owl, though. Been in there asleep since six o'clock." +"I'll take a look at him presently." + +"How did you find out?" asked Amory curiously. + +"Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman." + +Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if +rather untidily arrayed. + +"Now then," began Olson, producing a note-book, "I want your real +namesno damn John Smith or Mary Brown." + +"Wait a minute," said Amory quietly. "Just drop that big-bully +stuff. We merely got caught, that's all." + +Olson glared at him. + +"Name?" he snapped. + +Amory gave his name and New York address. + +"And the lady?" + +"Miss Jill " + +"Say," cried Olson indignantly, "just ease up on the nursery +rhymes. What's your name? Sarah Murphy? Minnie Jackson?" +"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." + +"Come on now!" + +"Shut up!" cried Amory at Olson. + +An instant's pause. + +"Stella Robbins," she faltered finally. "General Delivery, +Rugway, New Hampshire." + +Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very +ponderously. + +"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. "Butthe hotel is going to let you +off." + +"It doesn't want to get in the papers," cried Jill fiercely. "Let +us off! Huh!" + +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. + +"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?" + +"I see." + +"You're gettin' off light-damn light-but" + +"Come on," said Amory briskly. "Let's get out of here. We don't +need a valedictory." + +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 bravadoyielded finally. He reached out and +tapped Olson on the arm. + +"Would you mind taking off your hat? There's a lady in the +elevator." + +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 +out-doors-where the salt air was fresher and keener still with +the first hints of morning. + +"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. + +"Good-by," said Olson. He reached in his pocket suggestively, but +Amory snorted, and, taking the girl's arm, turned away. +"Where did you tell the driver to go?" she asked as they whirled +along the dim street. + +"The station." + +"If that guy writes my mother" + +"He won't. Nobody'll ever know about thisexcept our friends and +enemies." + +Dawn was breaking over the sea. + +"It's getting blue," she said. + +"It does very well," agreed Amory critically, and then as an +after-thought: "It's almost breakfast-time-do you want something +to eat?" + +"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." + +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." + +"I'll remember." + +He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of +an all-night restaurant. + +"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. + +"He used to be. He probably won't want to be any moreand never +understand why." + +"It was sorta crazy you takin' all that blame. Is he pretty +important? Kinda more important than you are?" + +Amory laughed. + +"That remains to be seen," he answered. "That's the question." + + +THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS + + +Two days later back in New York Amory found in a newspaper what +he had been searching fora 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 not his wife. +Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was +a longer paragraph of which the first words were: + +"Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of +their daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, +Connecticut--" + +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 hernot this +Rosalind, harder, oldernor any beaten, broken woman that his +imagination brought to the door of his fortiesAmory 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. + +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. + +He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains +of the room in Atlantic City. + + +BOOK TWO +The Education of a Personage + +CHAPTER 5 + +The Egotist Becomes a Personage + + + +"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." + +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. + +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 matinie was over. +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. + +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. + +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 subwaythe 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 ateat best just peopletoo hot or too cold, +tired, worried. + +He pictured the rooms where these people livedwhere 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 seductiona 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. 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 poorit 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. + +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. + +"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 hima 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!" + +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, hateAmory 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. +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: + +Question. Well-what's the situation? + +Answer.That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name. +Q.You have the Lake Geneva estate. + +A.But I intend to keep it. + +Q.Can you live? + +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. + +Q.Be definite. + +A.I don't know what I'll donor 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. + +Q.Do you want a lot of money? + +A.No. I am merely afraid of being poor. + +Q.Very afraid? + +A.Just passively afraid. + +Q.Where are you drifting? + +A.Don't ask me! + +Q.Don't you care? + +A.Rather. I don't want to commit moral suicide. + +Q.Have you no interests left? + +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. +Q.An interesting idea. + +A.That's why a "good man going wrong" attracts people. They stand +around and literally warm themselves at the calories of virtue he +gives off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and the faces +simper in delight"How innocent 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. + +Q.All your calories gone? + +A.All of them. I'm beginning to warm myself at other people's +virtue. + +Q.Are you corrupt? + +A.I think so. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about good and evil at +all any more. + +Q.Is that a bad sign in itself? + +A.Not necessarily. + +Q.What would be the test of corruption? + +A.Becoming really insincerecalling 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 girlhoodshe wants to repeat her honeymoon. I don't +want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it +again. + +Q.Where are you drifting? + +This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind's most familiar +statea grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior +impressions and physical reactions. + +One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Streetor One Hundred and +Thirty-seventh Street.... Two and three look alikeno, 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 +itI'll sue the steamboat company, Beatrice said, and my uncle has +a quarter interestdid 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 expensiveprobably hundred and fifty a monthmaybe 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 riverwant to go down there and +see if it's dirtyFrench 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 wasJill Bayne, Fayne, Saynewhat the +devilneck 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- + +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. + +"Hello," said Amory. + +"Got a pass?" + +"No. Is this private?" + +"This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club." + +"Oh! I didn't know. I'm just resting." + +"Well" began the man dubiously. + +"I'll go if you want me to." + +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. + +"Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man," he said slowly. + + +IN THE DROOPING HOURS + + +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 afraidnot 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 personalityhe 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 himseveral +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. +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 childrenhe 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.... + +Amory smiled a bit. + +"You're too much wrapped up in yourself," he heard some one say. +And again + +"Get out and do some real work" + +"Stop worrying" + +He fancied a possible future comment of his own. + +"Yes-I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made +me morbid to think too much about myself." + +Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to let himself go to the +devilnot 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. + +There were so many places where one might deteriorate pleasantly: +Port Said, Shanghai, parts of Turkestan, Constantinople, the +South Seasall 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. + + +STILL WEEDING + + +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. + +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. + +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 experiencehad 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. + +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 awaysupposing 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 witcheswaiving 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. + +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 Presidentsyet Amory knew that this man +had, in his heart, leaned on the priest of another religion. +And Monsignor, upon whom a cardinal rested, had moments of +strange and horrible insecurityinexplicable 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. + +And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory +knew, not essentially older than he. + +Amory was alonehe 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." + +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 menincurable 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.... + +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. + +Life was a damned muddle ... a football game with every one +off-side and the referee gotten rid ofevery one claiming the +referee would have been on his side.... + +Progress was a labyrinth ... people plunging blindly in and then +rushing wildly back, shouting that they had found it ... the +invisible kingthe ilan vitalthe principle of evolution ... +writing a book, starting a war, founding a school.... + +Amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would have started all +inquiries with himself. He was his own best examplesitting 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. In +self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the +entrance of the labyrinth. + +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. + + +MONSIGNOR + + +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 thereyet 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 wantnot 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. + +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." + +On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a +sense of security. + + +THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES + + +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. +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 +phenomenoncordiality 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. + +"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. + +"You bet I do. Thanks." + +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. + +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. + +"Going far?" asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested +way. + +"Quite a stretch." + +"Hiking for exercise?" + +"No," responded Amory succinctly, "I'm walking because I can't +afford to ride." + +"Oh." + +Then again: + +"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. + +"Have you a trade?" + +No-Amory had no trade. + +"Clerk, eh?" + +No-Amory was not a clerk. + +"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. + +Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him +could think of only one thing to say. + +"Of course I want a great lot of money" + +The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. +"That's what every one wants nowadays, but they don't want to +work for it." + +"A very natural, healthy desire. Almost all normal people want to +be rich without great effortexcept the financiers in problem +plays, who want to 'crash their way through.' Don't you want easy +money?" + +"Of course not," said the secretary indignantly. + +"But," continued Amory disregarding him, "being very poor at +present I am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte." Both +men glanced at him curiously. + +"These bomb throwers" The little man ceased as words lurched +ponderously from the big man's chest. + +"If I thought you were a bomb thrower I'd run you over to the +Newark jail. That's what I think of Socialists." + +Amory laughed. + +"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." + +"Well," said Amory, "if being an idealist is both safe and +lucrative, I might try it." + +"What's your difficulty? Lost your job?" + +"Not exactly, but-well, call it that." + +"What was it?" + +"Writing copy for an advertising agency." + +"Lots of money in advertising." + +Amory smiled discreetly. + +"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" +"Who's he?" demanded the little man suspiciously. + +"Well," said Amory, "he's ahe's an intellectual personage not +very well known at present." + +The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped +rather suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned on him. + +"What are you laughing at?" + +"These intellectual people" + +"Do you know what it means?" + +The little man's eyes twitched nervously. + +"Why, it usually means" + +"It always 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." +"You object to the fact that capital controls printing?" said the +big man, fixing him with his goggles. + +"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." + +"Here now," said the big man, "you'll have to admit that the +laboring man is certainly highly paidfive and six hour daysit's +ridiculous. You can't buy an honest day's work from a man in the +trades-unions." + +"You've brought it on yourselves," insisted Amory. "You people +never make concessions until they're wrung out of you." +"What people?" + +"Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by +inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the +moneyed class." + +"Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money +he'd be any more willing to give it up?" + +"No, but what's that got to do with it?" + +The older man considered. + +"No, I'll admit it hasn't. It rather sounds as if it had though." + +"In fact," continued Amory, "he'd be worse. The lower classes are +narrower, less pleasant and personally more selfishcertainly more +stupid. But all that has nothing to do with the question." +"Just exactly what is the question?" + +Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question +was. + + +AMORY COINS A PHRASE + + +"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." + +Amory paused and decided that it wasn't such a bad phrase. +"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." + +"He's the natural radical?" + +"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 weeklyso 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." + +"Why not?" + +"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." + +"But it appears," said the big man. + +"Where?-in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered +weeklies." + +"All right-go on." + +"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 progressthe spiritually married man is +not." + +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. + +"Go on talking," said the big man. "I've been wanting to hear one +of you fellows." + + +GOING FASTER + + +"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, andwe're dawdling 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. + +"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." +"All right," said the big man, his goggles indicating neither +approval nor objection. + +"Next I'd have a fair trial of government ownership of all +industries." + +"That's been proven a failure." + +"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." + +"They wouldn't give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo" +"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." + +"You said a while ago that it was." + +"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." + +The big man made a sound that was very like boo. + +"That's the silliest thing you've said yet." + +"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." +"Kids-child's play!" scoffed his antagonist. + +"Not by a darned sightunless we're all children. Did you ever see +a grown man when he's trying for a secret societyor 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." + +"I don't agree with you." + +"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." + +A fierce hiss came from the little man. + +"Machine-guns!" + +"Ah, but you've taught them their use." + +The big man shook his head. + +"In this country there are enough property owners not to permit +that sort of thing." + +Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and +non-property owners; he decided to change the subject. + +But the big man was aroused. + +"When you talk of 'taking things away,' you're on dangerous +ground." + +"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." +"Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?" +"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." + +"Don't you believe in moderation?" + +"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." + +"What is it?" + +"That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their +stomachs are essentially the same." + + +THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS + + +"If you took all the money in the world," said the little man +with much profundity, "and divided it up in equ-" + +"Oh, shut up!" said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the +little man's enraged stare, he went on with his argument. +"The human stomach-" he began; but the big man interrupted rather +impatiently. + +"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." + +When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as +if resolved this time to have his say out. + +"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." + +Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly. +"Listen to that! That's what makes me discouraged with progress. +Listen to that! I can name offhand over one hundred natural +phenomena that have been changed by the will of mana 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." + +The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with +rage. Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man. +"These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend +here, who think 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. Thatis the great middle class!" + +The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled +at the little man. + +"You're catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?" 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. + +"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." + +"I am both interested and amused," said the big man. "You are +very young." + +"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." + +"You talk glibly." + +"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." + +"But, if you're not sure-" + +"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 was ineligible, because +some silly old men thought we should all profit by conic +sections. I loathed the army. I loathed business. I'm in love +with change and I've killed my conscience-" + +"So you'll go along crying that we must go faster." + +"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." + +"But you don't believe all this Socialist patter you talk." "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." + +"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." +"Well," said Amory, "I simply state that I'm a product of a +versatile mind in a restless generationwith 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." + +For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked: + +"What was your university?" + +"Princeton." + +The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his +goggles altered slightly. + +"I sent my son to Princeton." + +"Did you?" + +"Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed +last year in France." + +"I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular +friends." + +"He was-a-quite a fine boy. We were very close." +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- +The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed +around by a huge hedge and a tall iron fence. + +"Won't you come in for lunch?" +Amory shook his head. + +"Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I've got to get on." +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. + + +"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." + +"Same to you, sir," cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand. + +"OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM" + + +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 agoand 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 +exaltationtwo 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. + +"I am selfish," he thought. + +"This is not a quality that will change when I 'see human +suffering' or 'lose my parents' or 'help others.' + +"This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living +part. + +"It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that +selfishness that I can bring poise and balance into my life. +"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 friendall because these things may +be the best possible expression of myself; yet I have not one +drop of the milk of human kindness." + +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. + +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. +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. + +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. + +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. + +Amory wanted to feel "William Dayfield, 1864." + +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. + +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.... + +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.... + +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!... + +"It's all a poor substitute at best," he said sadly. +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.... + +He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. "I +know myself," he cried, "but that is all." + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of This Side of Paradise + diff --git a/old/tspar10.zip b/old/tspar10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e5f00f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tspar10.zip diff --git a/old/tspar11.txt b/old/tspar11.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d71a2d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tspar11.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11829 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald +#1 in our series by F. Scott Fitzgerald + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!**** + + +Title: This Side of Paradise + +Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald + +Release Date: February, 1997 [EBook #805] +[The actual date this file first posted = 02/06/97] +[Edition 11 first posted on March 16, 2004. See notes as appendix.] +[Date last updated: October 16, 2004] + +Edition: 11 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIS SIDE OF PARADISE *** + + + + +This book was scanned by David Reed. Please let him know if you +find any errors or mistakes. haradda@aol.com + + + + +THIS SIDE OF PARADISE + +By F. SCOTT FITZGERALD + + + . . . Well this side of Paradise! . . . + There's little comfort in the wise. + --Rupert Brooke. + + + Experience is the name so many people + give to their mistakes. + --Oscar Wilde. + + + + To SIGOURNEY FAY + + + + +CONTENTS + +BOOK ONE: The Romantic Egotist + 1. AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE + 2. SPIRES AND GARGOYLES + 3. THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS + 4. NARCISSUS OFF DUTY + +[INTERLUDE: MAY, 1917-FEBRUARY, 1919. ] + +BOOK TWO: The Education of a Personage + 1. THE DEBUTANTE + 2. EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE + 3. YOUNG IRONY + 4. THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE + 5. THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE + + + +BOOK ONE + +The Romantic Egotist + +CHAPTER 1 + +Amory, Son of Beatrice + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Amory." + +"Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for his mother; she encouraged it.) + +"Dear, don't _think_ 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." + +"All right." + +"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." + +Amory's penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled hair at his +mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her. + +"Amory." + +"Oh, _yes_." + +"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." + +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." + +"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; _here_, 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. . . . + +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. + +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. + +"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 _me_, my dear--" + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company--quite the +cardinal's right-hand man." + +"Amory will go to him one day, I know," breathed the beautiful lady, +"and Monsignor Dark will understand him as he understood me." + +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. + +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. + + * * * * + +A KISS FOR AMORY + +His lip curled when he read it. + + "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. + +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: + +"Aw--I b'lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was _lawgely_ an +affair of the middul _clawses_," or + +"Washington came of very good blood--aw, quite good--I b'lieve." + +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. + +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. + +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: + + 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. + + * * * * + +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: + +"My _dear_ Mrs. St. Claire, I'm _frightfully_ 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." + +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. + +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. + +"Miss Myra," he said. + +To his surprise the butler grinned horribly. + +"Oh, yeah," he declared, "she's here." He was unaware that his failure +to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly. + +"But," continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, "she's the +only one what _is_ here. The party's gone." + +Amory gasped in sudden horror. + +"What?" + +"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." + +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. + +"'Lo, Amory." + +"'Lo, Myra." He had described the state of his vitality. + +"Well--you _got_ here, _any_ways." + +"Well--I'll tell you. I guess you don't know about the auto accident," +he romanced. + +Myra's eyes opened wide. + +"Who was it to?" + +"Well," he continued desperately, "uncle 'n aunt 'n I." + +"Was any one _killed?_" + +Amory paused and then nodded. + +"Your uncle?"--alarm. + +"Oh, no just a horse--a sorta gray horse." + +At this point the Erse butler snickered. + +"Probably killed the engine," he suggested. Amory would have put him on +the rack without a scruple. + +"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--" + +"Well, I couldn't help it, could I?" + +"So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the bobs +before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory." + +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. + +"What?" inquired Myra. + +"Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ 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 blas seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude. + +"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right--let's hurry." + +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 +_English_, sort of." + +"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. + +"Why--yes--sure." + +He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes. + +"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." + +Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling +from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp. + +"Oh, _Amory_, don't smoke. You'll stunt your _growth!_" + +"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." + +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." + +Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely +improper. + +Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden turn +she was jolted against him; their hands touched. + +"You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. "Don't you know that?" + +He shook his head. + +"Nobody cares." + +Myra hesitated. + +"_I_ care." + +Something stirred within Amory. + +"Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody +knows that." + +"No, I haven't," very slowly. + +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. + +"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. + +"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I wanta talk +to you--I _got_ to talk to you." + +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. + +"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!" + +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. + +"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 +_good_." + +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. + +"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' _hard_, sorta, to the chaperon." + +"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra. + +"How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at +last. + +"Oh--always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing with +Marylyn and I to-morrow?" + +"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." + +Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell Marylyn! +Here on the couch with this _wonderful_-looking boy--the little fire-- +the sense that they were alone in the great building-- + +Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate. + +"I like you the first twenty-five," she confessed, her voice trembling, +"and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth." + +Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had not even +noticed it. + +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. + +"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. + +"Kiss me again." Her voice came out of a great void. + +"I don't want to," he heard himself saying. There was another pause. + +"I don't want to!" he repeated passionately. + +Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great bow on the +back of her head trembling sympathetically. + +"I hate you!" she cried. "Don't you ever dare to speak to me again!" + +"What?" stammered Amory. + +"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!" + +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. + +The door opened suddenly, and Myra's mother appeared on the threshold, +fumbling with her lorgnette. + +"Well," she began, adjusting it benignantly, "the man at the desk told me +you two children were up here--How do you do, Amory." + +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. + +"Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well--" + +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: + + "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." + + * * * * + +SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + +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. + + * * * * + +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. + +"Poor little Count," he cried. "Oh, _poor_ little _Count!_" + +After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of emotional +acting. + + * * * * + +Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in literature +occurred in Act III of "Arsene Lupin." + +They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees. +The line was: + +"If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best thing +is to be a great criminal." + + * * * * + +Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it: + + "Marylyn and Sallee, + Those are the girls for me. + Marylyn stands above + Sallee in that sweet, deep love." + +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. + +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. + +He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly fond of the +cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart. + + * * * * + +School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard authors. +His masters considered him idle, unreliable and superficially clever. + + * * * * + +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. + + * * * * + +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. + +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. + + * * * * + +CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST + +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. + +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. + +Physically.--Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He was. +He fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple dancer. + +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. + +Mentally.--Complete, unquestioned superiority. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * + +PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE + +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. + +"Dear boy--you're _so_ tall . . . look behind and see if there's anything +coming . . ." + +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. + +"You _are_ 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." + +"Don't embarrass me," murmured Amory. + +"But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a _set_-- +don't they? Is your underwear purple, too?" + +Amory grunted impolitely. + +"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 _know_." + +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. + +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. + +"Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird time +after I left you." + +"Did you, Beatrice?" + +"When I had my last breakdown"--she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant feat. + +"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 _shattered_, my dear, and in his _grave_--long in his +grave." + +Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker. + +"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?" + +Amory had snickered. + +"What, Amory?" + +"I said go on, Beatrice." + +"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--" + +"Are you quite well now, Beatrice?" + +"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." + +Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his +head gently against her shoulder. + +"Poor Beatrice--poor Beatrice." + +"Tell me about _you_, Amory. Did you have two _horrible_ years?" + +Amory considered lying, and then decided against it. + +"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. + +"Beatrice," he said suddenly, "I want to go away to school. Everybody in +Minneapolis is going to go away to school." + +Beatrice showed some alarm. + +"But you're only fifteen." + +"Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I _want_ to, +Beatrice." + +On Beatrice's suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the walk, +but a week later she delighted him by saying: + +"Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, +you can go to school." + +"Yes?" + +"To St. Regis's in Connecticut." + +Amory felt a quick excitement. + +"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." + +"What are you going to do, Beatrice?" + +"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--" + +Amory did not answer, so his mother continued: + +"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?" + +Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the Japanese +invasion. + +"When do I go to school?" + +"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." + +"To who?" + +"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--" + +"Dear Beatrice--" + + * * * * + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair +and we'll have a chat." + +"I've just come from school--St. Regis's, you know." + +"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--" + +Amory nodded vehemently. + +"Hate 'em all. Like English and history." + +"Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but I'm glad you're +going to St. Regis's." + +"Why?" + +"Because it's a gentleman's school, and democracy won't hit you so early. +You'll find plenty of that in college." + +"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." + +Monsignor chuckled. + +"I'm one, you know." + +"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--" + +"And Yale is November, crisp and energetic," finished Monsignor. + +"That's it." + +They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. + +"I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie," announced Amory. + +"Of course you were--and for Hannibal--" + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +. . . 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. + +But the trumpets were sounding for Amory's preliminary skirmish with his +own generation. + +"You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is +where we are not," said Monsignor. + +"I _am_ sorry--" + +"No, you're not. No one person in the world is necessary to you or to +me." + +"Well--" + +"Good-by." + + * * * * + +THE EGOTIST DOWN + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + + * * * * + +INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR + +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. + +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. + +"Amory," he began. "I've sent for you on a personal matter." + +"Yes, sir." + +"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." + +"Yes, sir," Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as +if he were an admitted failure. + +"But I've noticed," continued the older man blindly, "that you're not +very popular with the boys." + +"No, sir." Amory licked his lips. + +"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--" + +Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely controlling +his voice when he spoke. + +"I know--oh, _don't_ you s'pose I know." His voice rose. "I know what +they think; do you s'pose you have to _tell_ me!" He paused. "I'm-- +I've got to go back now--hope I'm not rude--" + +He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked to his +house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped. + +"That _damn_ old fool!" he cried wildly. "As if I didn't _know!_" + +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." + + * * * * + +INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL + +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. + + "Oh--you--wonderful girl, + What a wonderful girl you are--" + +sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately. + + "All--your--wonderful words + Thrill me through--" + +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! + +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: + +"What a _remarkable_-looking boy!" + +This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem +handsome to the population of New York. + +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: + +"I'd marry that girl to-night." + +There was no need to ask what girl he referred to. + +"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people," continued +Paskert. + +Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of +Paskert. It sounded so mature. + +"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?" + +"No, _sir_, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with emphasis, +"and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell." + +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. + +"Yes, _sir_, I'd marry that girl to-night!" + + * * * * + +HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE + +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. + + * * * * + +THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Got tobacco?" whispered Rahill one night, putting his head inside the +door five minutes after lights. + +"Sure." + +"I'm coming in." + +"Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don't you." + +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. + +"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--" + +"Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?" + +"I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers." + +"I'm not." + +"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. + +"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." + +"You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly. + +"A what?" + +"A slicker." + +"What the devil's that?" + +"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." + +"Who is one? What makes you one?" + +Amory considered. + +"Why--why, I suppose that the _sign_ of it is when a fellow slicks his +hair back with water." + +"Like Carstairs?" + +"Yes--sure. He's a slicker." + +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. + +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. + +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." + + + "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. + + + "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. + +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. + + + + +BOOK ONE + +The Romantic Egotist + +CHAPTER 2 + +Spires and Gargoyles + + +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. + +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. + +"Chocolate sundae," he told a colored person. + +"Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?" + +"Why--yes." + +"Bacon bun?" + +"Why--yes." + +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 blas and casually critical, +which was as near as he could analyze the prevalent facial expression. + +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. + +"Come in!" + +A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the doorway. + +"Got a hammer?" + +"No--sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one." + +The stranger advanced into the room. + +"You an inmate of this asylum?" + +Amory nodded. + +"Awful barn for the rent we pay." + +Amory had to agree that it was. + +"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." + +The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself. + +"My name's Holiday." + +"Blaine's my name." + +They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned. + +"Where'd you prep?" + +"Andover--where did you?" + +"St. Regis's." + +"Oh, did you? I had a cousin there." + +They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he +was to meet his brother for dinner at six. + +"Come along and have a bite with us." + +"All right." + +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. + +"I hear Commons is pretty bad," said Amory. + +"That's the rumor. But you've got to eat there--or pay anyways." + +"Crime!" + +"Imposition!" + +"Oh, at Princeton you've got to swallow everything the first year. +It's like a damned prep school." + +Amory agreed. + +"Lot of pep, though," he insisted. "I wouldn't have gone to Yale for a +million." + +"Me either." + +"You going out for anything?" inquired Amory of the elder brother. + +"Not me--Burne here is going out for the Prince--the Daily Princetonian, +you know." + +"Yes, I know." + +"You going out for anything?" + +"Why--yes. I'm going to take a whack at freshman football." + +"Play at St. Regis's?" + +"Some," admitted Amory depreciatingly, "but I'm getting so damned thin." + +"You're not thin." + +"Well, I used to be stocky last fall." + +"Oh!" + +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. + +"Yoho!" + +"Oh, honey-baby--you're so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!" + +"Clinch!" + +"Oh, Clinch!" + +"Kiss her, kiss 'at lady, quick!" + +"Oh-h-h--!" + +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. + + + "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!" + +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. + +"Want a sundae--I mean a jigger?" asked Kerry. + +"Sure." + +They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to 12. + +"Wonderful night." + +"It's a whiz." + +"You men going to unpack?" + +"Guess so. Come on, Burne." + +Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade them good +night. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + "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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 milange 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"But just now, Amory, you're only a sweaty bourgeois." + +Amory lay for a moment without speaking. + +"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." + +"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." + +Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows. + +"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." + +"Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, "you're a literary +genius. It's up to you." + +"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." + +"Well--go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy +D'Invilliers in the Lit." + +Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table. + +"Read his latest effort?" + +"Never miss 'em. They're rare." + +Amory glanced through the issue. + +"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he?" + +"Yeah." + +"Listen to this! My God! + + + "'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--' + + +"Now, what the devil does that mean?" + +"It's a pantry scene." + + + "'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!' + + +"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." + +"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." + +Amory tossed the magazine on the table. + +"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." + +"Why decide?" suggested Kerry. "Better drift, like me. I'm going to +sail into prominence on Burne's coat-tails." + +"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." + +"You're thinking too much about yourself." + +Amory sat up at this. + +"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." + +"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." + + * * * * + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +Amory grinned. + +"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--" + +"What line do you throw 'em?" demanded Kerry. "I've tried everything, +and the mad wags aren't even afraid of me." + +"You're the 'nice boy' type," suggested Amory. + +"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." + +"Sulk," suggested Amory. "Tell 'em you're wild and have 'em reform you-- +go home furious--come back in half an hour--startle 'em." + +Kerry shook his head. + +"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." + +Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as "good old Amory." He failed +completely. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book for a +moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily: + +"Ha! Great stuff!" + +The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial +embarrassment. + +"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. + +"No," Amory answered. "I was referring to Bernard Shaw." He turned the +book around in explanation. + +"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?" + +"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.) + +"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 _him_ 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. + +"Ever read any Oscar Wilde?" he asked. + +"No. Who wrote it?" + +"It's a man--don't you know?" + +"Oh, surely." A faint chord was struck in Amory's memory. "Wasn't the +comic opera, 'Patience,' written about him?" + +"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." + +"Why, I'd like it a lot--thanks." + +"Don't you want to come up to the room? I've got a few other books." + +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. + +"Yes, I'll go." + +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. + +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. + +One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany's poems +to the music of Kerry's graphophone. + +"Chant!" cried Tom. "Don't recite! Chant!" + +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. + +"Put on 'Hearts and Flowers'!" he howled. "Oh, my Lord, I'm going to +cast a kitten." + +"Shut off the damn graphophone," Amory cried, rather red in the face. +"I'm not giving an exhibition." + +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." + +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: + + "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 . . ." + +"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. + +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. + + * * * * + +A DAMP SYMBOLIC INTERLUDE + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"I'm very damn wet!" he said aloud to the sun-dial. + + * * * * + +HISTORICAL + +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. + +That was his total reaction. + + * * * * + +"HA-HA HORTENSE!" + +"All right, ponies!" + +"Shake it up!" + +"Hey, ponies--how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a mean +hip?" + +"Hey, _ponies!_" + +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. + +"All right. We'll take the pirate song." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +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 _conspicuously_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * + +"PETTING" + +On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant contact with that great +current American phenomenon, the "petting party." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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 _try_ to find her. + +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. + +"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. + +"I don't know. I'm just full of the devil." + +"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?" + +"No--but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to deserve +it?" + +"And you didn't feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of the +things you said? You just wanted to be--" + +"Oh, let's go in," she interrupted, "if you want to _analyze_. Let's not +_talk_ about it." + +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. + + * * * * + +DESCRIPTIVE + +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. + + * * * * + +ISABELLE + +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. + +"Isabelle!" called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the dressing-room. + +"I'm ready." She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her throat. + +"I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. It'll be +just a minute." + +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: + +"You remember Amory Blaine, of _course_. 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." + +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: + +"How do you mean he's heard about me? What sort of things?" + +Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with her more +exotic cousin. + +"He knows you're--you're considered beautiful and all that"--she paused-- +"and I guess he knows you've been kissed." + +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. + +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 _he_ dress like that boy there, who walked calmly down a bustling +business street, in moccasins and winter-carnival costume? How very +_Western!_ 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. . . . + +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, +_force_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +During this inspection Amory was quietly watching. + +"Don't _you_ think so?" she said suddenly, turning to him, innocent-eyed. + +There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their table. Amory +struggled to Isabelle's side, and whispered: + +"You're my dinner partner, you know. We're all coached for each other." + +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: + +"I've heard a lot about you since you wore braids--" + +"Wasn't it funny this afternoon--" + +Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her face was always +enough answer for any one, but she decided to speak. + +"How--from whom?" + +"From everybody--for all the years since you've been away." She blushed +appropriately. On her right Froggy was _hors de combat_ already, +although he hadn't quite realized it. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Oh--what?" Isabelle's face was a study in enraptured curiosity. + +Amory shook his head. + +"I don't know you very well yet." + +"Will you tell me--afterward?" she half whispered. + +He nodded. + +"We'll sit out." + +Isabelle nodded. + +"Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes?" she said. + +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. + + * * * * + +BABES IN THE WOODS + +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 blas +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. + +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 _making_ my evening." + +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. + +Boys who passed the door looked in enviously--girls who passed only +laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves. + +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. + +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. + +"Is Froggy a good friend of yours?" she asked. + +"Rather--why?" + +"He's a bum dancer." + +Amory laughed. + +"He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his arms." + +She appreciated this. + +"You're awfully good at sizing people up." + +Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people for +her. Then they talked about hands. + +"You've got awfully nice hands," she said. "They look as if you played +the piano. Do you?" + +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. + +"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: + +"I don't know whether or not you know what you--what I'm going to say. +Lordy, Isabelle--this _sounds_ like a line, but it isn't." + +"I know," said Isabelle softly. + +"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. + +"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: + +"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." + +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: + + + "Give me your hand + I'll understand + We're off to slumberland." + + +Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt Amory's hand close +over hers. + +"Isabelle," he whispered. "You know I'm mad about you. You _do_ give a +darn about me." + +"Yes." + +"How much do you care--do you like any one better?" + +"No." He could scarcely hear her, although he bent so near that he felt +her breath against his cheek. + +"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--" + +"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. + + + "Moonlight is bright, + Kiss me good night." + + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +"No," she answered. "I don't do that sort of thing any more; he asked me +to, but I said no." + +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--? + +"Fourteen angels were watching o'er them," sang Sally sleepily from the +next room. + +"Damn!" muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious lump and +exploring the cold sheets cautiously. "Damn!" + + * * * * + +CARNIVAL + +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. + +"Oh, let me see--" he said one night to a flabbergasted delegation, +"what club do you represent?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hi, Dibby--'gratulations!" + +"Goo' boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap." + +"Say, Kerry--" + +"Oh, Kerry--I hear you went Tiger with all the weight-lifters!" "Well, +I didn't go Cottage--the parlor-snakes' delight." + +"They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid--Did he sign up the +first day?--oh, _no_. Tore over to Murray-Dodge on a bicycle--afraid it +was a mistake." + +"How'd you get into Cap--you old roue?" + +"'Gratulations!" + +"'Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Where'd you get the car?" demanded Amory cynically. + +"Sacred trust, but don't be a critical goopher or you can't go!" + +"I think I'll sleep," Amory said calmly, resettling himself and reaching +beside the bed for a cigarette. + +"Sleep!" + +"Why not? I've got a class at eleven-thirty." + +"You damned gloom! Of course, if you don't want to go to the coast--" + +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. + +"Who's going?" he demanded as he wriggled into his B. V. D.'s. + +"Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse Ferrenby and--oh about five +or six. Speed it up, kid!" + +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. + +"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." + +"Anybody got any money?" suggested Ferrenby, turning around from the +front seat. + +There was an emphatic negative chorus. + +"That makes it interesting." + +"Money--what's money? We can sell the car." + +"Charge him salvage or something." + +"How're we going to get food?" asked Amory. + +"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." + +"Three days," Amory mused, "and I've got classes." + +"One of the days is the Sabbath." + +"Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with over a month and a +half to go." + +"Throw him out!" + +"It's a long walk back." + +"Amory, you're running it out, if I may coin a new phrase." + +"Hadn't you better get some dope on yourself, Amory?" + +Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the +scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow. + + + "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--" + + +"What's the matter, Amory? Amory's thinking about poetry, about the +pretty birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye." + +"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." + +"Oh," said Kerry respectfully, "these important men--" + +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. + +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. . . . + +"Oh, good Lord! _Look_ at it!" he cried. + +"What?" + +"Let me out, quick--I haven't seen it for eight years! Oh, gentlefolk, +stop the car!" + +"What an odd child!" remarked Alec. + +"I do believe he's a bit eccentric." + +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. + +"Now we'll get lunch," ordered Kerry, wandering up with the crowd. +"Come on, Amory, tear yourself away and get practical." + +"We'll try the best hotel first," he went on, "and thence and so forth." + +They strolled along the boardwalk to the most imposing hostelry in sight, +and, entering the dining-room, scattered about a table. + +"Eight Bronxes," commanded Alec, "and a club sandwich and Juliennes. +The food for one. Hand the rest around." + +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. + +"What's the bill?" + +Some one scanned it. + +"Eight twenty-five." + +"Rotten overcharge. We'll give them two dollars and one for the waiter. +Kerry, collect the small change." + +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. + +"Some mistake, sir." + +Kerry took the bill and examined it critically. + +"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. + +"Won't he send after us?" + +"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--" + +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. + +"You see, Amory, we're Marxian Socialists," explained Kerry. "We don't +believe in property and we're putting it to the great test." + +"Night will descend," Amory suggested. + +"Watch, and put your trust in Holiday." + +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. + +"Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me present Messrs. Connage, Sloane, +Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine." + +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. + +"She prefers her native dishes," said Alec gravely to the waiter, "but +any coarse food will do." + +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. + +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 _noblesse oblige_ 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. +. . . + +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. + +"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." + +Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation. + +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. + +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 + + "Beaches of Lukanon before the sealers came." + + +It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"Oh, Alec, I believe I'm tired of college," he said sadly, as they walked +the dusk together. + +"I think I am, too, in a way." + +"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." + +"Me, too." + +"I'd like to quit." + +"What does your girl say?" + +"Oh!" Amory gasped in horror. "She wouldn't _think_ of marrying . . . +that is, not now. I mean the future, you know." + +"My girl would. I'm engaged." + +"Are you really?" + +"Yes. Don't say a word to anybody, please, but I am. I may not come +back next year." + +"But you're only twenty! Give up college?" + +"Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago--" + +"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." + +"What a waste these nights are!" agreed Alec. + +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. + + . . . Oh it's so hard to write you what I really _feel_ when I + think about you so much; you've gotten to mean to me a _dream_ 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 _frank_ 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 + _you_ 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 _thought_ 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 _best_. + + 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 blas, because it's not that. It's just + that I'm in love. Oh, _dearest_ 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. . . . + +And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them infinitely +charming, infinitely new. + + * * * * + +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. + +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. + +"Let's borrow bicycles and take a ride," Amory suggested. + +"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." + +They found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court and rode out about +half-past three along the Lawrenceville Road. + +"What are you going to do this summer, Amory?" + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"You consider you taught me that, don't you?" he asked quizzically, +eying Amory in the half dark. + +Amory laughed quietly. + +"Didn't I?" + +"Sometimes," he said slowly, "I think you're my bad angel. I might have +been a pretty fair poet." + +"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." + +"Yes," he agreed, "you're right. I wouldn't have liked it. Still, +it's hard to be made a cynic at twenty." + +"I was born one," Amory murmured. "I'm a cynical idealist." He paused +and wondered if that meant anything. + +They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to ride +back. + +"It's good, this ride, isn't it?" Tom said presently. + +"Yes; it's a good finish, it's knock-out; everything's good to-night. +Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle!" + +"Oh, you and your Isabelle! I'll bet she's a simple one . . . let's say +some poetry." + +So Amory declaimed "The Ode to a Nightingale" to the bushes they passed. + +"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." + +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. + + * * * * + +UNDER THE ARC-LIGHT + +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. + +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. +. . . + + + 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. . . . + + +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: + +"You Princeton boys?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, there's one of you killed here, and two others about dead." + +"_My God!_" + +"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. + +They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that head-- +that hair--that hair . . . and then they turned the form over. + +"It's Dick--Dick Humbird!" + +"Oh, Christ!" + +"Feel his heart!" + +Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking triumph: + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _God!_ . . ." +He threw himself face downward on the floor and broke into dry sobs. + +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. _He_ 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. + +"Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby." + +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. + + * * * * + +CRESCENDO! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I say, old man, I've got an awfully nice--" + +"Sorry, Kaye, but I'm set for this one. I've got to cut in on a fella." + +"Well, the next one?" + +"What--ah--er--I swear I've got to go cut in--look me up when she's got a +dance free." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + + + + +BOOK ONE + +The Romantic Egotist + +CHAPTER 3 + +The Egotist Considers + + +"Ouch! Let me go!" + +He dropped his arms to his sides. + +"What's the matter?" + +"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. + +"Oh, Isabelle," he reproached himself, "I'm a goopher. Really, I'm sorry-- +I shouldn't have held you so close." + +She looked up impatiently. + +"Oh, Amory, of course you couldn't help it, and it didn't hurt much; +but what _are_ we going to do about it?" + +"_Do_ about it?" he asked. "Oh--that spot; it'll disappear in a second." + +"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 _just_ +the height of your shoulder." + +"Massage it," he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination to laugh. + +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. + +"Oh, Amory," she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic face, +"I'll just make my whole neck _flame_ if I rub it. What'll I do?" + +A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn't resist repeating it +aloud. + + "All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand." + + +She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like ice. + +"You're not very sympathetic." + +Amory mistook her meaning. + +"Isabelle, darling, I think it'll--" + +"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Haven't I enough on my mind and you stand +there and _laugh!_" + +Then he slipped again. + +"Well, it _is_ funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day about a +sense of humor being--" + +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. + +"Oh, shut up!" she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway toward her +room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion. + +"Damn!" + +When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her shoulders, +and they descended the stairs in a silence that endured through dinner. + +"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." + +Isabelle considered glumly. + +"I hate to be laughed at," she said finally. + +"I won't laugh any more. I'm not laughing now, am I?" + +"You did." + +"Oh, don't be so darned feminine." + +Her lips curled slightly. + +"I'll be anything I want." + +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, +_pleading_, with a doughty warrior like Isabelle. + +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. . . . + +Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil's food in the pantry, +and Amory announced a decision. + +"I'm leaving early in the morning." + +"Why?" + +"Why not?" he countered. + +"There's no need." + +"However, I'm going." + +"Well, if you insist on being ridiculous--" + +"Oh, don't put it that way," he objected. + +"--just because I won't let you kiss me. Do you think--" + +"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." + +She hesitated. + +"I really don't know what to think about you," she began, in a feeble, +perverse attempt at conciliation. "You're so funny." + +"How?" + +"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?" + +Amory flushed. He _had_ told her a lot of things. + +"Yes." + +"Well, you didn't seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you're +just plain conceited." + +"No, I'm not," he hesitated. "At Princeton--" + +"Oh, you and Princeton! You'd think that was the world, the way you +talk! Perhaps you _can_ write better than anybody else on your old +Princetonian; maybe the freshmen _do_ think you're important--" + +"You don't understand--" + +"Yes, I do," she interrupted. "I _do_, because you're always talking +about yourself and I used to like it; now I don't." + +"Have I to-night?" + +"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." + +"I make you think, do I?" Amory repeated with a touch of vanity. + +"You're a nervous strain"--this emphatically--"and when you analyze every +little emotion and instinct I just don't have 'em." + +"I know." Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly. + +"Let's go." She stood up. + +He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. + +"What train can I get?" + +"There's one about 9:11 if you really must go." + +"Yes, I've got to go, really. Good night." + +"Good night." + +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. + +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. + +There was a knock at the door. + +"The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir." + +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: + + + "Each life unfulfilled, you see, + It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; + We have not sighed deep, laughed free, + Starved, feasted, despaired--been happy." + + +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! + +"Damn her!" he said bitterly, "she's spoiled my year!" + + * * * * + +THE SUPERMAN GROWS CARELESS + +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. + +"Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point be?" + +Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material and tries +to concentrate. + +"Oh--ah--I'm damned if I know, Mr. Rooney." + +"Oh, why of course, of course you can't _use_ that formula. _That's_ +what I wanted you to say." + +"Why, sure, of course." + +"Do you see why?" + +"You bet--I suppose so." + +"If you don't see, tell me. I'm here to show you." + +"Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don't mind, I wish you'd go over that again." + +"Gladly. Now here's 'A' . . ." + +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 _had_ 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. + +"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. . . . + +Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that filled +the room would come the inevitable helpless cry: + +"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. + +There was always his luck. + +He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered from +the room. + +"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." + +"Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?" + +"'Cause you deserve it. Anybody that'd risk what you were in line for +_ought_ to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman." + +"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: + +"Oh, Tom, any mail?" + +Alec's head appeared against the yellow square of light. + +"Yes, your result's here." + +His heart clamored violently. + +"What is it, blue or pink?" + +"Don't know. Better come up." + +He walked into the room and straight over to the table, and then suddenly +noticed that there were other people in the room. + +"'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. + +"We have here quite a slip of paper." + +"Open it, Amory." + +"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." + +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. + +"Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emotions." + +He tore it open and held the slip up to the light. + +"Well?" + +"Pink or blue?" + +"Say what it is." + +"We're all ears, Amory." + +"Smile or swear--or something." + +There was a pause . . . a small crowd of seconds swept by . . . then he +looked again and another crowd went on into time. + +"Blue as the sky, gentlemen. . . ." + + * * * * + +AFTERMATH + +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. + +"Your own laziness," said Alec later. + +"No--something deeper than that. I've begun to feel that I was meant to +lose this chance." + +"They're rather off you at the club, you know; every man that doesn't +come through makes our crowd just so much weaker." + +"I hate that point of view." + +"Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a comeback." + +"No--I'm through--as far as ever being a power in college is concerned." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Your system broke, you mean." + +"Maybe." + +"Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one quick, or just bum +around for two more years as a has-been?" + +"I don't know yet . . ." + +"Oh, Amory, buck up!" + +"Maybe." + +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: + + 1. The fundamental Amory. + + 2. Amory plus Beatrice. + + 3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. + +Then St. Regis' had pulled him to pieces and started him over again: + + 4. Amory plus St. Regis'. + + 5. Amory plus St. Regis' plus Princeton. + +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: + + 6. The fundamental Amory. + + * * * * + +FINANCIAL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + "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 _practical_ 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 _once_ a week, because I + imagine all sorts of horrible things if I don't hear from you. + Affectionately, MOTHER." + + * * * * + +FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM "PERSONAGE" + +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. + +"I've felt like leaving college, Monsignor." + +"Why?" + +"All my career's gone up in smoke; you think it's petty and all that, +but--" + +"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." + +Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his egotistic +highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had left his voice. + +"What would you do if you left college?" asked Monsignor. + +"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." + +"You know you wouldn't like to go." + +"Sometimes I would--to-night I'd go in a second." + +"Well, you'd have to be very much more tired of life than I think you +are. I know you." + +"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." + +"Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I'm not worried about you; +you seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally." + +"No," Amory objected. "I've lost half my personality in a year." + +"Not a bit of it!" scoffed Monsignor. "You've lost a great amount of +vanity and that's all." + +"Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I'd gone through another fifth form at +St. Regis's." + +"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." + +"What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?" + +"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." + +"But, Monsignor, I can't do the next thing." + +"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." + +"Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of thing I +should do." + +"We have to do it because we're not personalities, but personages." + +"That's a good line--what do you mean?" + +"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." + +"And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off when I +needed them." Amory continued the simile eagerly. + +"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." + +"But, on the other hand, if I haven't my possessions, I'm helpless!" + +"Absolutely." + +"That's certainly an idea." + +"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!" + +"How clear you can make things!" + +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. + +"Why do I make lists?" Amory asked him one night. "Lists of all sorts +of things?" + +"Because you're a mediaevalist," Monsignor answered. "We both are. +It's the passion for classifying and finding a type." + +"It's a desire to get something definite." + +"It's the nucleus of scholastic philosophy." + +"I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up here. +It was a pose, I guess." + +"Don't worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest pose of +all. Pose--" + +"Yes?" + +"But do the next thing." + +After Amory returned to college he received several letters from +Monsignor which gave him more egotistic food for consumption. + + 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. + + +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. + +Together with Tom D'Invilliers, he sought among the lights of Princeton +for some one who might found the Great American Poetic Tradition. + +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. + +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. + + + "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 _highest rules of criticism_ + For _cheap_ and _careless_ 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 _narrow-minded earth_ + The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth." + + +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. + + * * * * + +THE DEVIL + +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. + +"Table for four in the middle of the floor," yelled Phoebe. "Hurry, +old dear, tell 'em we're here!" + +"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. + +"There's Findle Margotson, from New Haven!" she cried above the uproar. +"'Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!" + +"Oh, Axia!" he shouted in salutation. "C'mon over to our table." "No!" +Amory whispered. + +"Can't do it, Findle; I'm with somebody else! Call me up to-morrow about +one o'clock!" + +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. + +"There's a natural damn fool," commented Amory. + +"Oh, he's all right. Here's the old jitney waiter. If you ask me, +I want a double Daiquiri." + +"Make it four." + +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. + +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. + +"Who's that pale fool watching us?" he complained indignantly. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Where now?" + +"Up to the flat," suggested Phoebe. "We've got brandy and fizz--and +everything's slow down here to-night." + +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. + +"Phoebe's great stuff," confided Sloane, sotto voce. + +"I'm only going to stay half an hour," Amory said sternly. He wondered +if it sounded priggish. + +"Hell y' say," protested Sloane. "We're here now--don't le's rush." + +"I don't like this place," Amory said sulkily, "and I don't want any +food." + +Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and four +glasses. + +"Amory, pour 'em out," she said, "and we'll drink to Fred Sloane, who has +a rare, distinguished edge." + +"Yes," said Axia, coming in, "and Amory. I like Amory." She sat down +beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder. + +"I'll pour," said Sloane; "you use siphon, Phoebe." + +They filled the tray with glasses. + +"Ready, here she goes!" + +Amory hesitated, glass in hand. + +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. . . . + +He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia's voice came +out of the void with a strange goodness. + +"Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory's sick--old head going 'round?" + +"Look at that man!" cried Amory, pointing toward the corner divan. + +"You mean that purple zebra!" shrieked Axia facetiously. "Ooo-ee! +Amory's got a purple zebra watching him!" + +Sloane laughed vacantly. + +"Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?" + +There was a silence. . . . The man regarded Amory quizzically. . . . +Then the human voices fell faintly on his ear: + +"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. . . . + +"Come back! Come back!" Axia's arm fell on his. "Amory, dear, you +aren't going, Amory!" He was half-way to the door. + +"Come on, Amory, stick 'th us!" + +"Sick, are you?" + +"Sit down a second!" + +"Take some water." + +"Take a little brandy. . . ." + +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 . . . + +As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the sickly +electric light of the paved hall. + + * * * * + +IN THE ALLEY + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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; _but he knew, for the half instant that the gong tanged and hummed, +that it was the face of Dick Humbird._ + +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. + + * * * * + +AT THE WINDOW + +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. + +Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the +painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory. + +"For God's sake, let's go back! Let's get off of this--this place!" + +Sloane looked at him in amazement. + +"What do you mean?" + +"This street, it's ghastly! Come on! let's get back to the Avenue!" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting a +cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing him. + +"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." + +"Don't tell me about it!" Amory almost shrieked. "Don't say a word; +I'm tired and pepped out." + +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." + +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. + +"God help us!" Amory cried. + +"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." + +Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair again. + +"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!" + +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. + + + + +BOOK ONE + +The Romantic Egotist + +CHAPTER 4 + +Narcissus Off Duty + + +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. + +"Heard the latest?" said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening with +that triumphant air he always wore after a successful conversational bout. + +"No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?" + +"Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going to +resign from their clubs." + +"What!" + +"Actual fact!" + +"Why!" + +"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." + +"Well, what's the idea of the thing?" + +"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." + +"But this is the real thing?" + +"Absolutely. I think it'll go through." + +"For Pete's sake, tell me more about it." + +"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." + +"Fine! I swear I think it'll be most entertaining. How do they feel up +at Cap and Gown?" + +"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." + +"How do the radicals stand up?" + +"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." + +"And you say almost a third of the junior class are going to resign?" + +"Call it a fourth and be safe." + +"Lord--who'd have thought it possible!" + +There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in. "Hello, +Amory--hello, Tom." + +Amory rose. + +"'Evening, Burne. Don't mind if I seem to rush; I'm going to Renwick's." + +Burne turned to him quickly. + +"You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn't a bit +private. I wish you'd stay." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"How about religion?" Amory asked him. + +"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." + +"Read what?" + +"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.'" + +"What chiefly started you?" + +"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." + +"Poetry?" + +"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." + +"Whitman?" + +"Yes; he's a definite ethical force." + +"Well, I'm ashamed to say that I'm a blank on the subject of Whitman. +How about you, Tom?" + +Tom nodded sheepishly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Are you coming to the Harvard game?" Burne had asked indiscreetly, +merely to make conversation. + +"If you ask me," cried Phyllis quickly. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"But, Burne--why did you _invite_ her if you didn't want her?" + +"Burne, you _know_ you're secretly mad about her--that's the _real_ +trouble." + +"What can _you_ do, Burne? What can _you_ do against Phyllis?" + +But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which consisted +largely of the phrase: "She'll see, she'll see!" + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Phyllis Styles must be _awfully hard up_ to have to come with _those +two_." + +That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. +From that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to orient +with progress. . . . + +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. + +"Don't you mind losing prestige?" asked Amory one night. They had taken +to exchanging calls several times a week. + +"Of course I don't. What's prestige, at best?" + +"Some people say that you're just a rather original politician." + +He roared with laughter. + +"That's what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it coming." + +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: + +"Of course health counts--a healthy man has twice the chance of being +good," he said. + +"I don't agree with you--I don't believe in 'muscular Christianity.'" + +"I do--I believe Christ had great physical vigor." + +"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." + +"Half of them have." + +"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." + +"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 _do_ know-- +personal appearance has a lot to do with it." + +"Coloring?" Amory asked eagerly. + +"Yes." + +"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 _two- +thirds_ of every senior council are light. We looked at pictures of +ten years of them, mind you; that means that out of every _fifteen_ +light-haired men in the senior class _one_ is on the senior council, +and of the dark-haired men it's only one in _fifty_." + +"It's true," Burne agreed. "The light-haired man _is_ 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." + +"People unconsciously admit it," said Amory. "You'll notice a blond +person is _expected_ 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." + +"And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose undoubtedly make +the superior face." + +"I'm not so sure." Amory was all for classical features. + +"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. + +"Aren't they wonderful?" + +Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. + +"Burne, I think they're the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came across. +They look like an old man's home." + +"Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi's eyes." +His tone was reproachful. + +Amory shook his head. + +"No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you want--but ugly they +certainly are." + +Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious foreheads, +and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. + +Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he +persuaded Amory to accompany him. + +"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." + +"That's useless, you know." + +"Quite possibly." + +"We'll go east," Burne suggested, "and down that string of roads through +the woods." + +"Doesn't sound very appealing to me," admitted Amory reluctantly, "but +let's go." + +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. + +"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." + +"Go on," Amory urged eagerly. They were striding toward the woods, +Burne's nervous, enthusiastic voice warming to his subject. + +"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?" + +"I do," Amory admitted. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Well," Burne said suddenly, after a few moments' silence, "we're +half-way through, let's turn back." + +On the return he launched into a discussion of will. + +"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." + +"How about great criminals?" + +"They're usually insane. If not, they're weak. There is no such thing +as a strong, sane criminal." + +"Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about the superman?" + +"Well?" + +"He's evil, I think, yet he's strong and sane." + +"I've never met him. I'll bet, though, that he's stupid or insane." + +"I've met him over and over and he's neither. That's why I think you're +wrong." + +"I'm sure I'm not--and so I don't believe in imprisonment except for the +insane." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"It's a bad time to admit it--people are beginning to think he's odd." + +"He's way over their heads--you know you think so yourself when you +talk to him--Good Lord, Tom, you _used_ to stand out against 'people.' +Success has completely conventionalized you." + +Tom grew rather annoyed. + +"What's he trying to do--be excessively holy?" + +"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." + +"He certainly is getting in wrong." + +"Have you talked to him lately?" + +"No." + +"Then you haven't any conception of him." + +The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how the +sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus. + +"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." + +The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a +recitation. + +"Whither bound, Tsar?" + +"Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby," he waved a copy of the +morning's Princetonian at Amory. "He wrote this editorial." + +"Going to flay him alive?" + +"No--but he's got me all balled up. Either I've misjudged him or he's +suddenly become the world's worst radical." + +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. + +"Hello, Jesse." + +"Hello there, Savonarola." + +"I just read your editorial." + +"Good boy--didn't know you stooped that low." + +"Jesse, you startled me." + +"How so?" + +"Aren't you afraid the faculty'll get after you if you pull this +irreligious stuff?" + +"What?" + +"Like this morning." + +"What the devil--that editorial was on the coaching system." + +"Yes, but that quotation--" + +Jesse sat up. + +"What quotation?" + +"You know: 'He who is not with me is against me.'" + +"Well--what about it?" + +Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed. + +"Well, you say here--let me see." Burne opened the paper and read: +"'_He who is not with me is against me_, as that gentleman said who +was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and puerile +generalities.'" + +"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." + +Burne roared with laughter. + +"Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse." + +"Who said it, for Pete's sake?" + +"Well," said Burne, recovering his voice, "St. Matthew attributes it to +Christ." + +"My God!" cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the waste-basket. + + * * * * + +AMORY WRITES A POEM + +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--? + +Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very soft, +vibrant voice: "Oh, I'm such a poor little fool; _do_ tell me when I do +wrong." + +The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of Isabelle. + +He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble rapidly: + + "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, _did_ 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." + + * * * * + +STILL CALM + +"Ghosts are such dumb things," said Alec, "they're slow-witted. I can +always outguess a ghost." + +"How?" asked Tom. + +"Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use _any_ +discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom." + +"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. + +"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 +_cleared_--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. _Always, always_ run the stick in viciously first--_never_ look +first!" + +"Of course, that's the ancient Celtic school," said Tom gravely. + +"Yes--but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to clear +the closets and also for behind all doors--" + +"And the bed," Amory suggested. + +"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 _almost always_ under the bed." + +"Well" Amory began. + +Alec waved him into silence. + +"Of _course_ 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." + +"All that's very interesting, Tom." + +"Isn't it?" Alec beamed proudly. "All my own, too--the Sir Oliver Lodge +of the new world." + +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. + +"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." + +Amory looked up innocently. + +"What?" + +"What?" mimicked Alec. "Are you trying to read yourself into a rhapsody +with--let's see the book." + +He snatched it; regarded it derisively. + +"Well?" said Amory a little stiffly. + +"'The Life of St. Teresa,'" read Alec aloud. "Oh, my gosh!" + +"Say, Alec." + +"What?" + +"Does it bother you?" + +"Does what bother me?" + +"My acting dazed and all that?" + +"Why, no--of course it doesn't _bother_ me." + +"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." + +"You're getting a reputation for being eccentric," said Alec, laughing, +"if that's what you mean." + +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. + +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. + +Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an interesting +P. S.: + + "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." + + +Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor. . . . + + * * * * + +CLARA + +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. + +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 _girls' boarding- +schools_ 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. + +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. + +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 _knitting_ and _embroidery_), +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. + +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. + +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. + +"You _are_ remarkable, aren't you!" Amory was becoming trite from where +he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six o'clock. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Tell me about yourself." And she gave the answer that Adam must have +given. + +"There's nothing to tell." + +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 _different_ 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. + +"_Nobody_ seems to bore you," he objected. + +"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. + +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 _them_ as being among the saved). + + * * * * + +ST. CECILIA + + "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." + + +"Do you like me?" + +"Of course I do," said Clara seriously. + +"Why?" + +"Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are spontaneous in +each of us--or were originally." + +"You're implying that I haven't used myself very well?" + +Clara hesitated. + +"Well, I can't judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot more, +and I've been sheltered." + +"Oh, don't stall, please, Clara," Amory interrupted; "but do talk about +me a little, won't you?" + +"Surely, I'd adore to." She didn't smile. + +"That's sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully +conceited?" + +"Well--no, you have tremendous vanity, but it'll amuse the people who +notice its preponderance." + +"I see." + +"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." + +"Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let me say +a word." + +"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." + +"But I am, potentially." + +"And you say you're a weak character, that you've no will." + +"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--" + +"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." + +"You certainly interest me. If this isn't boring you, go on." + +"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." + +"Yes," objected Amory, "but isn't it lack of will-power to let my +imagination shinny on the wrong side?" + +"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." + +"Well, I'll be darned!" exclaimed Amory in surprise, "that's the last +thing I expected." + +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. + +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. + +"I'll bet she won't stay single long." + +"Well, don't scream it out. She ain't lookin' for no advice." + +"_Ain't_ she beautiful!" + (Enter a floor-walker--silence till he moves forward, + smirking.) + +"Society person, ain't she?" + +"Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say." + +"Gee! girls, _ain't_ she some kid!" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it all that night. +He couldn't help it. + +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. + +"I think," he said and his voice trembled, "that if I lost faith in you +I'd lose faith in God." + +She looked at him with such a startled face that he asked her the matter. + +"Nothing," she said slowly, "only this: five men have said that to me +before, and it frightens me." + +"Oh, Clara, is that your fate!" + +She did not answer. + +"I suppose love to you is--" he began. + +She turned like a flash. + +"I have never been in love." + +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: + +"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--" + +She shook her head. + +"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. + +"Amory." + +"What?" + +"You're not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did you?" + +"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--" + +"There you go--running through your catalogue of emotions in five +seconds." + +He smiled unwillingly. + +"Don't make me out such a light-weight, Clara; you _are_ depressing +sometimes." + +"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." + +"There's so much spring in the air--there's so much lazy sweetness in +your heart." + +She dropped his arm. + +"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." + +And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like two mad +children gone wild with pale-blue twilight. + +"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." + +"Oh, Clara!" Amory said; "what a devil you could have been if the Lord +had just bent your soul a little the other way!" + +"Maybe," she answered; "but I think not. I'm never really wild and never +have been. That little outburst was pure spring." + +"And you are, too," said he. + +They were walking along now. + +"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." + +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: + +"Oh, if I could only have gotten _you!_" Oh, the enormous conceit of the +man! + +But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara's bright +soul still gleamed on the ways they had trod. + +"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. . ." + + * * * * + +AMORY IS RESENTFUL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"But, Amory, listen--" + +"Burne, we'd just argue--" + +"Very well." + +"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 +_German?_" + +"Some of them are, of course." + +"How do you know they aren't _all_ pro-German--just a lot of weak ones-- +with German-Jewish names." + +"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." + +Amory's heart sank. + +"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--" + +"I doubt it," he interrupted. + +"Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me." + +"I know what you mean, and that's why I'm not sure I'll agitate." + +"You're one man, Burne--going to talk to people who won't listen--with +all God's given you." + +"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." + +"Go on." + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"I'm going next week." + +"I'll see you, of course." + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + +"Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal Richelieu," suggested Alec, +who was lounging in the window-seat as Burne and Amory shook hands. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Have you ever read anything of theirs?" asked Tom shrewdly. + +"No," Amory admitted. + +"Neither have I," he said laughing. + +"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!" + +Amory subsided, and the subject dropped. + +"What are you going to do, Amory?" + +"Infantry or aviation, I can't make up my mind--I hate mechanics, but +then of course aviation's the thing for me--" + +"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." + +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. + + + Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep + Who sowed the bitter harvest that your children go to reap-- + +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. + + + "They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin was about, + They shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried out--" + + +But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that out. + +"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. + + + "You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, + You thanked him for your 'glorious gains'--reproached him for + 'Cathay.'" + + +Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time? Now he needed +something to rhyme with: + + + "You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong + before . . ." + + +Well, anyway. . . . + + + "You met your children in your home--'I've fixed it up!' you cried, + Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuously--died." + +"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." + +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. + +"Here's a poem to the Victorians, sir," he said coldly. + +The professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly through +the door. + +Here is what he had written: + + + "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." + + + * * * * + +THE END OF MANY THINGS + +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. + +"This is the great protest against the superman," said Amory. + +"I suppose so," Alec agreed. + +"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." + +"And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral sense." + +"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?" + +"What brings it about?" + +"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." + +"God! Haven't we raked the universe over the coals for four years?" + +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. + +"The grass is full of ghosts to-night." + +"The whole campus is alive with them." + +They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver of the +slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees. + +"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." + +A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch--broken voices for +some long parting. + +"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." + +"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--" + +"Good-by, Aaron Burr," Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, "you and +I knew strange corners of life." + +His voice echoed in the stillness. + +"The torches are out," whispered Tom. "Ah, Messalina, the long shadows +are building minarets on the stadium--" + +For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and then +they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes. + +"Damn!" + +"Damn!" + +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. + +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. + + + + +INTERLUDE + +May, 1917-February, 1919 + + +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. + + +MY DEAR BOY: + +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 _plump!_ 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. . . . + +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. + +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. . . . + +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. + +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. . . . + +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. . . . + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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 _will_ smoke +and read all night-- + +At any rate here it is: + + +A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to the War Against the King of +Foreign. + + "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." + +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. + + * * * * + +EMBARKING AT NIGHT + +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: + + + "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." + + +A letter from Amory, headed "Brest, March 11th, 1919," to Lieutenant +T. P. D'Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga. + + +DEAR BAUDELAIRE:-- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + S'ever, dear Boswell, + + SAMUEL JOHNSON. + + + + +BOOK TWO + +The Education of a Personage + +CHAPTER 1 + +The Debutante + + +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. + +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. + +An indistinguishable mumble from the next room. + +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. + +More chatter outside and a girl's voice, a very spoiled voice, says: +"Of all the stupid people--" + +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. + +CECELIA: Pink? + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes! + +CECELIA: _Very_ snappy? + +ROSALIND: Yes! + +CECELIA: I've got it! + +(She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and commences to +shimmy enthusiastically.) + +ROSALIND: (Outside) What are you doing--trying it on? + +(CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right shoulder. + +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.) + +ALEC: So _that's_ where you all are! Amory Blaine is here. + +CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs. + +ALEC: Oh, he _is_ down-stairs. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him I'm +sorry that I can't meet him now. + +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. + +(This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.) + +CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How do you mean-- +temperamental? You used to say that about him in letters. + +ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff. + +CECELIA: Does he play the piano? + +ALEC: Don't think so. + +CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink? + +ALEC: Yes--nothing queer about him. + +CECELIA: Money? + +ALEC: Good Lord--ask him, he used to have a lot, and he's got some income +now. + +(MRS. CONNAGE appears.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we're glad to have any friend of yours-- + +ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory. + +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 _all_ +the attention. + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming here and hooking me. + +(MRS. CONNAGE goes.) + +ALEC: Rosalind hasn't changed a bit. + +CECELIA: (In a lower tone) She's awfully spoiled. + +ALEC: She'll meet her match to-night. + +CECELIA: Who--Mr. Amory Blaine? + +(ALEC nods.) + +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. + +ALEC: They love it. + +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. + +ALEC: Personality runs in our family. + +CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got to me. + +ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself? + +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. + +(Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind's almost finished so I can go down and meet your +friend. + +(ALEC and his mother go out.) + +ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother-- + +CECELIA: Mother's gone down. + +(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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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.) + +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. + +CECELIA: Glad you're coming out? + +ROSALIND: Yes; aren't you? + +CECELIA: (Cynically) You're glad so you can get married and live on Long +Island with the _fast younger married set_. You want life to be a chain +of flirtation with a man for every link. + +ROSALIND: _Want_ it to be one! You mean I've _found_ it one. + +CECELIA: Ha! + +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. + +CECELIA: It must be an awful strain. + +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. + +CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting you do. + +ROSALIND: Sometimes when I've felt particularly radiant I've thought, +why should this be wasted on one man? + +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. + +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. + +CECELIA: Well, I'm glad I don't have all your worries. I'm engaged. + +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. + +CECELIA: You won't tell her, though, because I know things I could tell-- +and you're too selfish! + +ROSALIND: (A little annoyed) Run along, little girl! Who are you engaged +to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store? + +CECELIA: Cheap wit--good-by, darling, I'll see you later. + +ROSALIND: Oh, be _sure_ and do that--you're such a help. + +(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.) + +HE: Oh, I'm sorry. I thought-- + +SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you're Amory Blaine, aren't you? + +HE: (Regarding her closely) And you're Rosalind? + +SHE: I'm going to call you Amory--oh, come in--it's all right--mother'll +be right in--(under her breath) unfortunately. + +HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for me. + +SHE: This is No Man's Land. + +HE: This is where you--you--(pause) + +SHE: Yes--all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) See, here's my +rouge--eye pencils. + +HE: I didn't know you were that way. + +SHE: What did you expect? + +HE: I thought you'd be sort of--sort of--sexless, you know, swim and play +golf. + +SHE: Oh, I do--but not in business hours. + +HE: Business? + +SHE: Six to two--strictly. + +HE: I'd like to have some stock in the corporation. + +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. + +HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition. + +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. + +HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on women. + +SHE: I'm not really feminine, you know--in my mind. + +HE: (Interested) Go on. + +SHE: No, you--you go on--you've made me talk about myself. That's +against the rules. + +HE: Rules? + +SHE: My own rules--but you-- Oh, Amory, I hear you're brilliant. +The family expects _so_ much of you. + +HE: How encouraging! + +SHE: Alec said you'd taught him to think. Did you? I didn't believe any +one could. + +HE: No. I'm really quite dull. + +(He evidently doesn't intend this to be taken seriously.) + +SHE: Liar. + +HE: I'm--I'm religious--I'm literary. I've--I've even written poems. + +SHE: Vers libre--splendid! (She declaims.) + + + "The trees are green, + The birds are singing in the trees, + The girl sips her poison + The bird flies away the girl dies." + + +HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind. + +SHE: (Suddenly) I like you. + +HE: Don't. + +SHE: Modest too-- + +HE: I'm afraid of you. I'm always afraid of a girl--until I've kissed +her. + +SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over. + +HE: So I'll always be afraid of you. + +SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will. + +(A slight hesitation on both their parts.) + +HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing to ask. + +SHE: (Knowing what's coming) After five minutes. + +HE: But will you--kiss me? Or are you afraid? + +SHE: I'm never afraid--but your reasons are so poor. + +HE: Rosalind, I really _want_ to kiss you. + +SHE: So do I. + +(They kiss-- definitely and thoroughly.) + +HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity satisfied? + +SHE: Is yours? + +HE: No, it's only aroused. + +(He looks it.) + +SHE: (Dreamily) I've kissed dozens of men. I suppose I'll kiss dozens +more. + +HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could--like that. + +SHE: Most people like the way I kiss. + +HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, Rosalind. + +SHE: No--my curiosity is generally satisfied at one. + +HE: (Discouraged) Is that a rule? + +SHE: I make rules to fit the cases. + +HE: You and I are somewhat alike--except that I'm years older in +experience. + +SHE: How old are you? + +HE: Almost twenty-three. You? + +SHE: Nineteen--just. + +HE: I suppose you're the product of a fashionable school. + +SHE: No--I'm fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence--I've +forgotten why. + +HE: What's your general trend? + +SHE: Oh, I'm bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond of +admiration-- + +HE: (Suddenly) I don't want to fall in love with you-- + +SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to. + +HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love your mouth. + +SHE: Hush! Please don't fall in love with my mouth--hair, eyes, +shoulders, slippers--but _not_ my mouth. Everybody falls in love with +my mouth. + +HE: It's quite beautiful. + +SHE: It's too small. + +HE: No it isn't--let's see. + +(He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.) + +SHE: (Rather moved) Say something sweet. + +HE: (Frightened) Lord help me. + +SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don't--if it's so hard. + +HE: Shall we pretend? So soon? + +SHE: We haven't the same standards of time as other people. + +HE: Already it's--other people. + +SHE: Let's pretend. + +HE: No--I can't--it's sentiment. + +SHE: You're not sentimental? + +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. + +SHE: And you're not? (With her eyes half-closed.) You probably flatter +yourself that that's a superior attitude. + +HE: Well--Rosalind, Rosalind, don't argue--kiss me again. + +SHE: (Quite chilly now) No--I have no desire to kiss you. + +HE: (Openly taken aback) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago. + +SHE: This is now. + +HE: I'd better go. + +SHE: I suppose so. + +(He goes toward the door.) + +SHE: Oh! + +(He turns.) + +SHE: (Laughing) Score--Home Team: One hundred--Opponents: Zero. + +(He starts back.) + +SHE: (Quickly) Rain--no game. + +(He goes out.) + +(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.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Good--I've been wanting to speak to you alone before we go +down-stairs. + +ROSALIND: Heavens! you frighten me! + +MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you've been a very expensive proposition. + +ROSALIND: (Resignedly) Yes. + +MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn't what he once had. + +ROSALIND: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don't talk about money. + +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. + +ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Well--what is it? + +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. + +ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it _is_ better. + +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-- + +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. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor friends +of your father's that I want you to meet to-night--youngish men. + +ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five? + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not? + +ROSALIND: Oh, _quite_ all right--they know life and are so adorably tired +looking (shakes her head)--but they _will_ dance. + +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. + +ROSALIND: Mother, I never _think_ about money. + +MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to think about it. + +ROSALIND: (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I'll marry a ton of it--out of +sheer boredom. + +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. + +ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie? + +MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes. + +ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. They're +all wrong. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you to-night. + +ROSALIND: Don't you think I'm beautiful? + +MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. + +(From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of +a drum. MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Come! + +ROSALIND: One minute! + +(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.) + +CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming out is +_such_ 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. + +(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.) + + * * * * + +SEVERAL HOURS LATER + +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. + +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. + +GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I've changed. I feel the same +toward you. + +ROSALIND: But you don't look the same to me. + +GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I +was so blas, so indifferent--I still am. + +ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown +eyes and thin legs. + +GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They're still thin and brown. You're a vampire, +that's all. + +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. + +GILLESPIE: I love you. + +ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it. + +GILLESPIE: And you haven't kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that +after a girl was kissed she was--was--won. + +ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every +time you see me. + +GILLESPIE: Are you serious? + +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. + +GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men? + +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. + +GILLESPIE: And then? + +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! + +(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, +a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.) + +RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind. + +ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven't got +too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie. + +(They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.) + +RYDER: Your party is certainly a success. + +ROSALIND: Is it-- I haven't seen it lately. I'm weary-- Do you mind +sitting out a minute? + +RYDER: Mind--I'm delighted. You know I loathe this "rushing" idea. +See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow. + +ROSALIND: Dawson! + +RYDER: What? + +ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me. + +RYDER: (Startled) What-- Oh--you know you're remarkable! + +ROSALIND: Because you know I'm an awful proposition. Any one who marries +me will have his hands full. I'm mean--mighty mean. + +RYDER: Oh, I wouldn't say that. + +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. + +(Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.) + +CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission. + +ALEC: (Gloomily) I'll go if you want me to. + +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. + +ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don't want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind. + +CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want. + +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. + +CECELIA: He's very good looking. + +ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won't marry him, but a girl doesn't have +to marry a man to break his heart. + +CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret. + +ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It's lucky for some that the +Lord gave you a pug nose. + +(Enter MRS. CONNAGE.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind? + +ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you've come to the best people to find out. +She'd naturally be with us. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to +meet her. + +ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls. + +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-- + +ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn't you better send the butler through the cellar? + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don't think she'd be there? + +CECELIA: He's only joking, mother. + +ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high +hurdler. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Let's look right away. + +(They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.) + +GILLESPIE: Rosalind-- Once more I ask you. Don't you care a blessed +thing about me? + +(AMORY walks in briskly.) + +AMORY: My dance. + +ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine. + +GILLESPIE: I've met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren't you? + +AMORY: Yes. + +GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I've been there. It's in the--the Middle West, +isn't it? + +AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I'd rather be +provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning. + +GILLESPIE: What! + +AMORY: Oh, no offense. + +(GILLESPIE bows and leaves.) + +ROSALIND: He's too much _people_. + +AMORY: I was in love with a _people_ once. + +ROSALIND: So? + +AMORY: Oh, yes--her name was Isabelle--nothing at all to her except what +I read into her. + +ROSALIND: What happened? + +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. + +ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical? + +AMORY: Oh--drive a car, but can't change a tire. + +ROSALIND: What are you going to do? + +AMORY: Can't say--run for President, write-- + +ROSALIND: Greenwich Village? + +AMORY: Good heavens, no--I said write--not drink. + +ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely. + +AMORY: I feel as if I'd known you for ages. + +ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the "pyramid" story? + +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. + +ROSALIND: I've suggested pretending. + +AMORY: If we did it would be very big. + +ROSALIND: Why? + +AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great +loves. + +ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend. + +(Very deliberately they kiss.) + +AMORY: I can't say sweet things. But you _are_ beautiful. + +ROSALIND: Not that. + +AMORY: What then? + +ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing--only I want sentiment, real sentiment-- +and I never find it. + +AMORY: I never find anything else in the world--and I loathe it. + +ROSALIND: It's so hard to find a male to gratify one's artistic taste. + +(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the +room. ROSALIND rises.) + +ROSALIND: Listen! they're playing "Kiss Me Again." + +(He looks at her.) + +AMORY: Well? + +ROSALIND: Well? + +AMORY: (Softly--the battle lost) I love you. + +ROSALIND: I love you--now. + +(They kiss.) + +AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done? + +ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don't talk. Kiss me again. + +AMORY: I don't know why or how, but I love you--from the moment I saw you. + +ROSALIND: Me too--I--I--oh, to-night's to-night. + +(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: "Oh, +excuse me," and goes.) + +ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don't let me go--I don't care who +knows what I do. + +AMORY: Say it! + +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! + +(He kisses her again.) + + * * * * + +KISMET + +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. + +"It may be an insane love-affair," she told her anxious mother, "but it's +not inane." + +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. + +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. + +For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement +and was hurrying into line with his generation. + + * * * * + +A LITTLE INTERLUDE + +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. + +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. + +"Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business to-day?" + +Amory sprawled on a couch. + +"I loathed it as usual!" The momentary vision of the bustling agency was +displaced quickly by another picture. + +"My God! She's wonderful!" + +Tom sighed. + +"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." + +Another sigh came from the window--quite a resigned sigh. + +"She's life and hope and happiness, my whole world now." + +He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid. + +"Oh, _Golly_, Tom!" + + * * * * + +BITTER SWEET + +"Sit like we do," she whispered. + +He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle +inside them. + +"I knew you'd come to-night," she said softly, "like summer, just when I +needed you most . . . darling . . . darling . . ." + +His lips moved lazily over her face. + +"You _taste_ so good," he sighed. + +"How do you mean, lover?" + +"Oh, just sweet, just sweet . . ." he held her closer. + +"Amory," she whispered, "when you're ready for me I'll marry you." + +"We won't have much at first." + +"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." + +"Tell me . . ." + +"You know, don't you? Oh, you know." + +"Yes, but I want to hear you say it." + +"I love you, Amory, with all my heart." + +"Always, will you?" + +"All my life--Oh, Amory--" + +"What?" + +"I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to +have your babies." + +"But I haven't any people." + +"Don't laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me." + +"I'll do what you want," he said. + +"No, I'll do what _you_ want. We're _you_--not me. Oh, you're so much a +part, so much all of me . . ." + +He closed his eyes. + +"I'm so happy that I'm frightened. Wouldn't it be awful if this was-- +was the high point? . . ." + +She looked at him dreamily. + +"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--" + +"Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony. . . ." + +"And, Amory, we're beautiful, I know. I'm sure God loves us--" + +"He loves you. You're his most precious possession." + +"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." + +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. + + * * * * + +AQUATIC INCIDENT + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Of course _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." + +Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly all +through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow optimists. + + * * * * + +FIVE WEEKS LATER + +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. + +Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in ROSALIND +with a nervous glance. + +MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night? + +(ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.) + +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? + +ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh--what--oh--Amory-- + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so _many_ admirers lately that I +couldn't imagine _which_ 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. + +ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her face.) +Mother--please-- + +MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, _I_ won't interfere. You've already wasted over two +months on a theoretical genius who hasn't a penny to his name, but _go_ +ahead, waste your life on him. _I_ won't interfere. + +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-- + +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 _clever_. (She implies that this +quality in itself is rather vicious.) + +ROSALIND: For heaven's sake, mother-- + +(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.) + +AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage. + +MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory. + +(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.) + +ALEC: Hi, Amory! + +AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he'd meet you at the theatre. + +ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How's the advertising to-day? Write some +brilliant copy? + +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.) + +MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car. + +(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.) + +AMORY: Darling girl. + +(They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it with +kisses and holds it to her breast.) + +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! + +(Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry--a tearless +sobbing.) + +AMORY: Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: Oh, we're so darned pitiful! + +AMORY: Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die! + +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. + +ROSALIND: Amory, if you don't sit down I'll scream. + +AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord. + +ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don't you? + +AMORY: Yes. + +ROSALIND: You know I'll always love you-- + +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. + +ROSALIND: There's nothing to tell, I say. I'm just nervous. + +AMORY: Rosalind, you're playing with the idea of marrying Dawson Ryder. + +ROSALIND: (After a pause) He's been asking me to all day. + +AMORY: Well, he's got his nerve! + +ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him. + +AMORY: Don't say that. It hurts me. + +ROSALIND: Don't be a silly idiot. You know you're the only man I've ever +loved, ever will love. + +AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let's get married--next week. + +ROSALIND: We can't. + +AMORY: Why not? + +ROSALIND: Oh, we can't. I'd be your squaw--in some horrible place. + +AMORY: We'll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month all told. + +ROSALIND: Darling, I don't even do my own hair, usually. + +AMORY: I'll do it for you. + +ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks. + +AMORY: Rosalind, you _can't_ 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. + +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. + +AMORY: (Grimly) Go on. + +ROSALIND: Oh--it _is_ Dawson Ryder. He's so reliable, I almost feel that +he'd be a--a background. + +AMORY: You don't love him. + +ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he's a good man and a strong one. + +AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes--he's that. + +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. + +AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind! + +ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don't look so consciously suffering. + +AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other! + +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! + +AMORY: It won't--it won't! + +ROSALIND: I'd rather keep it as a beautiful memory--tucked away in my +heart. + +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. + +ROSALIND: Don't! + +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. + +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! + +(Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.) + +AMORY: Come over here and kiss me. + +ROSALIND: No. + +AMORY: Don't you _want_ to kiss me? + +ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly and coolly. + +AMORY: The beginning of the end. + +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-- + +AMORY: And you're afraid to take them with me. + +ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere--you'll say +Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh--but listen: + + "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." + +AMORY: But we haven't had. + +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. + +AMORY: We've got to take our chance for happiness. + +ROSALIND: Dawson says I'd learn to love him. + +(AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life seems +suddenly gone out of him.) + +ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can't do with you, and I can't imagine life +without you. + +AMORY: Rosalind, we're on each other's nerves. It's just that we're both +high-strung, and this week-- + +(His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his face in +her hands, kisses him.) + +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. + +(Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.) + +AMORY: Rosalind-- + +ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go-- Don't make it harder! I can't stand it-- + +AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what you're +saying? Do you mean forever? + +(There is a difference somehow in the quality of their suffering.) + +ROSALIND: Can't you see-- + +AMORY: I'm afraid I can't if you love me. You're afraid of taking two +years' knocks with me. + +ROSALIND: I wouldn't be the Rosalind you love. + +AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can't give you up! I can't, that's all! +I've got to have you! + +ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You're being a baby now. + +AMORY: (Wildly) I don't care! You're spoiling our lives! + +ROSALIND: I'm doing the wise thing, the only thing. + +AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder? + +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. + +AMORY: And you love me. + +ROSALIND: That's just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. +We can't have any more scenes like this. + +(She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their eyes +blind again with tears.) + +AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don't! Keep it, please--oh, +don't break my heart! + +(She presses the ring softly into his hand.) + +ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You'd better go. + +AMORY: Good-by-- + +(She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite sadness.) + +ROSALIND: Don't ever forget me, Amory-- + +AMORY: Good-by-- + +(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.) + +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? + +(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.) + + + + +BOOK TWO + +The Education of a Personage + +CHAPTER 2 + +Experiments in Convalescence + + +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. + +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. + +"Well, Amory . . ." + +It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the name. + +"Hello, old boy--" he heard himself saying. + +"Name's Jim Wilson--you've forgotten." + +"Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember." + +"Going to reunion?" + +"You know!" Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to reunion. + +"Get overseas?" + +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. + +"Too bad," he muttered. "Have a drink?" + +Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on the back. + +"You've had plenty, old boy." + +Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the scrutiny. + +"Plenty, hell!" said Amory finally. "I haven't had a drink to-day." + +Wilson looked incredulous. + +"Have a drink or not?" cried Amory rudely. + +Together they sought the bar. + +"Rye high." + +"I'll just take a Bronx." + +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. + +"'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." + +Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued: + +"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." + +"What are you celebrating, Amory?" + +Amory leaned forward confidentially. + +"Cel'brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can't tell you +'bout it--" + +He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender: + +"Give him a bromo-seltzer." + +Amory shook his head indignantly. + +"None that stuff!" + +"But listen, Amory, you're making yourself sick. You're white as a +ghost." + +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. + +"Like som'n solid. We go get some--some salad." + +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. + +"We'll go over to Shanley's," suggested Carling, offering an elbow. + +With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion enough to +propel him across Forty-second Street. + +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. . . . + +. . . He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a knot in +his shoe-lace. + +"Nemmine," he managed to articulate drowsily. "Sleep in 'em. . . ." + + * * * * + +STILL ALCOHOLIC + +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. + +"Hello--what hotel is this--? + +"Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high-balls--" + +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. + +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. + +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--" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"My own girl--my own-- Oh--" + +He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from his eyes. + +"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--" + +And then again: + +"We've been so happy, so very happy. . . ." + +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. . . . + +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." . . . + +. . . 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. . . . + +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. + +"Decided to commit suicide," he announced suddenly. + +"When? Next year?" + +"Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, get +into a hot bath and open a vein." + +"He's getting morbid!" + +"You need another rye, old boy!" + +"We'll all talk it over to-morrow." + +But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least. + +"Did you ever get that way?" he demanded confidentially fortaccio. + +"Sure!" + +"Often?" + +"My chronic state." + +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. . . . + +He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown, +disarranged hair and dark blue eyes. + +"Take me home!" she cried. + +"Hello!" said Amory, blinking. + +"I like you," she announced tenderly. + +"I like you too." + +He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of +his party was arguing with him. + +"Fella I was with's a damn fool," confided the blue-eyed woman. "I hate +him. I want to go home with you." + +"You drunk?" queried Amory with intense wisdom. + +She nodded coyly. + +"Go home with him," he advised gravely. "He brought you." + +At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his +detainers and approached. + +"Say!" he said fiercely. "I brought this girl out here and you're +butting in!" + +Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer. + +"You let go that girl!" cried the noisy man. + +Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. + +"You go to hell!" he directed finally, and turned his attention to the +girl. + +"Love first sight," he suggested. + +"I love you," she breathed and nestled close to him. She _did_ have +beautiful eyes. + +Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear. + +"That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and this fellow here brought +her. Better let her go." + +"Let him take care of her, then!" shouted Amory furiously. "I'm no +W. Y. C. A. worker, am I?--am I?" + +"Let her go!" + +"It's _her_ hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!" + +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. + +"Oh, Lord!" cried Amory. + +"Let's go!" + +"Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!" + +"Check, waiter." + +"C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over." + +Amory laughed. + +"You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 'At's the whole trouble." + + * * * * + +AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION + +Two mornings later he knocked at the president's door at Bascome and +Barlow's advertising agency. + +"Come in!" + +Amory entered unsteadily. + +"'Morning, Mr. Barlow." + +Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his mouth +slightly ajar that he might better listen. + +"Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven't seen you for several days." + +"No," said Amory. "I'm quitting." + +"Well--well--this is--" + +"I don't like it here." + +"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--" + +"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--" + +Mr. Barlow's face steeled by several ingots of expression. + +"You asked for a position--" + +Amory waved him to silence. + +"And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a week-- +less than a good carpenter." + +"You had just started. You'd never worked before," said Mr. Barlow +coolly. + +"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." + +"I'm not going to argue with you, sir," said Mr. Barlow rising. + +"Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I'm quitting." + +They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and then Amory +turned and left the office. + + * * * * + +A LITTLE LULL + +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. + +"Well?" + +"Well?" + +"Good Lord, Amory, where'd you get the black eye--and the jaw?" + +Amory laughed. + +"That's a mere nothing." + +He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders. + +"Look here!" + +Tom emitted a low whistle. + +"What hit you?" + +Amory laughed again. + +"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." + +"Who was it?" + +"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." + +Tom lighted a cigarette. + +"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." + +Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette. + +"You sober now?" asked Tom quizzically. + +"Pretty sober. Why?" + +"Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home and live, +so he--" + +A spasm of pain shook Amory. + +"Too bad." + +"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." + +"Sure. Get anybody. I'll leave it to you, Tom." + +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. + +"Got a cardboard box?" + +"No," answered Tom, puzzled. "Why should I have? Oh, yes--there may be +one in Alec's room." + +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 . . . + +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. + +"Going out?" Tom's voice held an undertone of anxiety. + +"Uh-huh." + +"Where?" + +"Couldn't say, old keed." + +"Let's have dinner together." + +"Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I'd eat with him." + +"Oh." + +"By-by." + +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. + +"Hi, Amory!" + +"What'll you have?" + +"Yo-ho! Waiter!" + + * * * * + +TEMPERATURE NORMAL + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +"I thought I'd better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence," he said rather +ambiguously when he arrived. + +"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." + +"Did he think I'd plunged into Bolshevism?" asked Amory, interested. + +"Oh, he's having a frightful time." + +"Why?" + +"About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity." + +"So?" + +"He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was greatly +distressed because the receiving committee, when they rode in an +automobile, _would_ put their arms around the President." + +"I don't blame him." + +"Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in the army? +You look a great deal older." + +"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." + +"What else?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you're his reincarnation, that your +faith will eventually clarify." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + + * * * * + +RESTLESSNESS + +"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. + +"You used to be entertaining before you started to write," he continued. +"Now you save any idea that you think would do to print." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes," said Amory speculatively, "but I'm more than bored; I am restless." + +"Love and war did for you." + +"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." + +Tom looked up in surprise. + +"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--" + +"I don't agree with you," Tom interrupted. "There never were men placed +in such egotistic positions since--oh, since the French Revolution." + +Amory disagreed violently. + +"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." + +"Then you don't think there will be any more permanent world heroes?" + +"Yes--in history--not in life. Carlyle would have difficulty getting +material for a new chapter on 'The Hero as a Big Man.'" + +"Go on. I'm a good listener to-day." + +"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." + +"Then you blame it on the press?" + +"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." + +Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly. + +"We _want_ 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 _can't_. 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--" + +He paused only to get his breath. + +"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--" + +Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of his connection with The +New Democracy. + +"What's all this got to do with your being bored?" + +Amory considered that it had much to do with it. + +"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." + +"Try fiction," suggested Tom. + +"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. + +"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." + +"You'll find another." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I am," agreed Amory reluctantly. "Yet when I see a happy family it +makes me sick at my stomach--" + +"Happy families try to make people feel that way," said Tom cynically. + + * * * * + +TOM THE CENSOR + +There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, wreathed in +smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American literature. Words failed +him. + +"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--" + +"They try." + +"No, they don't even try. Some of them _can_ write, but they won't sit +down and do one honest novel. Most of them _can't_ 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." + +"Is that double entente?" + +"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?" + +"How does little Tommy like the poets?" + +Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely beside +the chair and emitted faint grunts. + +"I'm writing a satire on 'em now, calling it 'Boston Bards and Hearst +Reviewers.'" + +"Let's hear it," said Amory eagerly. + +"I've only got the last few lines done." + +"That's very modern. Let's hear 'em, if they're funny." + +Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud, pausing at +intervals so that Amory could see that it was free verse: + + "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." + + +Amory roared. + +"You win the iron pansy. I'll buy you a meal on the arrogance of the +last two lines." + +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. + +"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.'" + +"It's ghastly!" + +"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--" + +"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--" + +"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." + + * * * * + +LOOKING BACKWARD + +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. + + 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. + + * * * * + +ANOTHER ENDING + +In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had evidently just +stumbled on his address: + + +MY DEAR BOY:-- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you. + + With greatest affection, + + THAYER DARCY. + + +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. + +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. + + + + +BOOK TWO + +The Education of a Personage + +CHAPTER 3 + +Young Irony + + +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. + +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: + +"And Amory will have no other adventure like me." + +Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh. + +Eleanor tried to put it on paper once: + + "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." + + +They quarrelled dangerously because Amory maintained that _sea_ and _see_ +couldn't possibly be used as a rhyme. And then Eleanor had part of +another verse that she couldn't find a beginning for: + + ". . . 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." + + +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. + +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. + +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: + + + "Les sanglots longs + Des violons + De l'automne + Blessent mon coeur + D'une langueur + Monotone." + + +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. + +Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that soared and +hung and fell and blended with the rain: + + + "Tout suffocant + Et bleme quand + Sonne l'heure + Je me souviens + Des jours anciens + Et je pleure. . . ." + + +"Who the devil is there in Ramilly County," muttered Amory aloud, "who +would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?" + +"Somebody's there!" cried the voice unalarmed. "Who are you?--Manfred, +St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?" + +"I'm Don Juan!" Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the +noise of the rain and the wind. + +A delighted shriek came from the haystack. + +"I know who you are--you're the blond boy that likes 'Ulalume'--I +recognize your voice." + +"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. + +"Run back!" came the voice, "and jump and I'll catch your hand--no, +not there--on the other side." + +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. + +"Here you are, Juan," cried she of the damp hair. "Do you mind if I drop +the Don?" + +"You've got a thumb like mine!" he exclaimed. + +"And you're holding my hand, which is dangerous without seeing my face." +He dropped it quickly. + +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. + +"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." + +"I was asked," Amory said joyfully; "you asked me--you know you did." + +"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." + +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. + +"I'm not," she said. + +"Not what?" + +"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." + +"How on earth--" + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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." + +"What color is your hair?" he asked intently. "It's bobbed, isn't it?" + +"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." + +"Answer my question, Madeline." + +"Don't remember them all--besides my name isn't Madeline, it's Eleanor." + +"I might have guessed it. You _look_ like Eleanor--you have that Eleanor +look. You know what I mean." + +There was a silence as they listened to the rain. + +"It's going down my neck, fellow lunatic," she offered finally. + +"Answer my questions." + +"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--" + +"And me," Amory interrupted, "where did you see me?" + +"Oh, you're one of _those_ 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: + + + "'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.' + +"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--" + +"All right," Amory interrupted. "Now go back to yourself." + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"Really! how banal!" + +"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. + +"Go on," Amory said politely. + +"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." + +"Why, you little wretch--" cried Amory indignantly. "Scared of what?" + +"_Yourself!_" 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--" + +"But I _have_ to have a soul," he objected. "I can't be rational-- +and I won't be molecular." + +She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and +whispered with a sort of romantic finality: + +"I thought so, Juan, I feared so--you're sentimental. You're not like +me. I'm a romantic little materialist." + +"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.) + +"Epigrams. I'm going home," she said sadly. "Let's get off the haystack +and walk to the cross-roads." + +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. + + * * * * + +SEPTEMBER + +Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically. + +"I never fall in love in August or September," he proffered. + +"When then?" + +"Christmas or Easter. I'm a liturgist." + +"Easter!" She turned up her nose. "Huh! Spring in corsets!" + +"Easter _would_ bore spring, wouldn't she? Easter has her hair braided, +wears a tailored suit." + + + "Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. + Over the splendor and speed of thy feet--" + + +quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: "I suppose Hallowe'en is a better +day for autumn than Thanksgiving." + +"Much better--and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but summer +. . ." + +"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." + +"Fourth of July," Amory suggested facetiously. + +"Don't be funny!" she said, raking him with her eyes. + +"Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?" + +She thought a moment. + +"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. + +"Why?" + +"Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert Brooke." + +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. + +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: + + + "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?" + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"The despairing, dying autumn and our love--how well they harmonize!" +said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by the water. + +"The Indian summer of our hearts--" he ceased. + +"Tell me," she said finally, "was she light or dark?" + +"Light." + +"Was she more beautiful than I am?" + +"I don't know," said Amory shortly. + +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. + +"Light a match," she whispered. "I want to see you." + +Scratch! Flare! + +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. + +"It's black as pitch." + +"We're just voices now," murmured Eleanor, "little lonesome voices. +Light another." + +"That was my last match." + +Suddenly he caught her in his arms. + +"You _are_ 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. + + * * * * + +THE END OF SUMMER + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old plug at +seven o'clock." + +"Don't be a spoil-sport--remember, you have a tendency toward wavering +that prevents you from being the entire light of my life." + +Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, grasped +her hand. + +"Say I am--_quick_, or I'll pull you over and make you ride behind me." + +She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + + + 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 _know_ that you were + Beauty for an afternoon. + + +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 _must_ 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 _more_ 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. . . . + +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. + +"Good Lord! It's quiet here!" whispered Eleanor; "much more lonesome +than the woods." + +"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." + +"The long slope of a long hill." + +"And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it." + +"And thee and me, last and most important." + +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. + +"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." + +The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and shivered. + +"Are you very cold?" asked Amory. + +"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." + +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. + +"Rotten, rotten old world," broke out Eleanor suddenly, "and the +wretchedest thing of all is me--oh, _why_ 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. + +"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 _real_ love in the world +is ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of jealousy." +She finished as suddenly as she began. + +"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. . . ." + +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. + +"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. + +"I can't--I can't kiss you now--I'm more sensitive." + +"You're more stupid then," he declared rather impatiently. "Intellect is +no protection from sex any more than convention is . . ." + +"What is?" she fired up. "The Catholic Church or the maxims of +Confucius?" + +Amory looked up, rather taken aback. + +"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. + +"If there's a God let him strike me--strike me!" + +"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. + +"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." + +Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her. + +"Will I?" she said in a queer voice that scared him. "Will I? Watch! +_I'm going over the cliff!_" And before he could interfere she had +turned and was riding breakneck for the end of the plateau. + +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. + +"Eleanor!" he cried. + +She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with sudden +tears. + +"Eleanor, are you hurt?" + +"No; I don't think so," she said faintly, and then began weeping. + +"My horse dead?" + +"Good God-- Yes!" + +"Oh!" she wailed. "I thought I was going over. I didn't know--" + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + + * * * * + +A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER + + + "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? + _What leered out of the dark in the ghostly clover?_ + 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." + + + * * * * + +A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED "SUMMER STORM" + + "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 . . ." + + + + +BOOK TWO + +The Education of a Personage + +CHAPTER 4 + +The Supercilious Sacrifice + + +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. + +"Well--Amory Blaine!" + +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. + +"Come on down, goopher!" cried Alec. + +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. + +"Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully." + +"How d'y do?" + +"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." + +Amory considered. + +"That's an idea." + +"Step in--move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at you." + +Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, vermilion-lipped blonde. + +"Hello, Doug Fairbanks," she said flippantly. "Walking for exercise or +hunting for company?" + +"I was counting the waves," replied Amory gravely. "I'm going in for +statistics." + +"Don't kid me, Doug." + +When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the car among +deep shadows. + +"What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?" he demanded, as he +produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug. + +Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason for +coming to the coast. + +"Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?" he asked instead. + +"Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park--" + +"Lord, Alec! It's hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are all +three dead." + +Alec shivered. + +"Don't talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough." + +Jill seemed to agree. + +"Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways," she commented. "Tell him to drink +deep--it's good and scarce these days." + +"What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are--" + +"Why, New York, I suppose--" + +"I mean to-night, because if you haven't got a room yet you'd better help +me out." + +"Glad to." + +"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?" + +Amory was willing, if he could get in right away. + +"You'll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name." + +Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left the car +and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +He remembered a poem he had read months before: + + + "Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, + I waste my years sailing along the sea--" + +Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that waste +implied. He felt that life had rejected him. + +"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. + +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. + +Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away. + +He became rigid. + +"Don't make a sound!" It was Alec's voice. "Jill--do you hear me?" + +"Yes--" breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the bathroom. + +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. + +"My God!" came the girl's voice again. "You'll have to let them in." + +"Sh!" + +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. + +"Amory!" an anxious whisper. + +"What's the trouble?" + +"It's house detectives. My God, Amory--they're just looking for a +test-case--" + +"Well, better let them in." + +"You don't understand. They can get me under the Mann Act." + +The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure in the +darkness. + +Amory tried to plan quickly. + +"You make a racket and let them in your room," he suggested anxiously, +"and I'll get her out by this door." + +"They're here too, though. They'll watch this door." + +"Can't you give a wrong name?" + +"No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they'd trail the +auto license number." + +"Say you're married." + +"Jill says one of the house detectives knows her." + +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: + +"Open up or we'll break the door in!" + +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. + +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. + +. . . Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for having +done so much for him. . . . + +. . . 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. + +Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; sacrifice +should be eternally supercilious. + +_Weep not for me but for thy children._ + +That--thought Amory--would be somehow the way God would talk to me. + +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. . . . + +"Do what I say, Alec--do what I say. Do you understand?" + +Alec looked at him dumbly--his face a tableau of anguish. + +"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?" + +"I hear you." The voice was curiously strained, the eyes never for a +second left Amory's. + +"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." + +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. + +"You're here with me," he said sternly. "You've been with me all +evening." + +She nodded, gave a little half cry. + +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. + +"You've been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!" + +Amory laughed. + +"Well?" + +The leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a check +suit. + +"All right, Olson." + +"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. + +The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously. + +"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 _this_." He shook his head implying that he had +struggled over Amory but now gave him up. + +"Well," said Amory rather impatiently, "what do you want us to do?" + +"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. + +"Anybody else here?" demanded Olson, trying to look keen and ferret-like. + +"Fellow who had the rooms," said Amory carelessly. "He's drunk as an owl, +though. Been in there asleep since six o'clock." + +"I'll take a look at him presently." + +"How did you find out?" asked Amory curiously. + +"Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman." + +Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if rather +untidily arrayed. + +"Now then," began Olson, producing a note-book, "I want your real names-- +no damn John Smith or Mary Brown." + +"Wait a minute," said Amory quietly. "Just drop that big-bully stuff. +We merely got caught, that's all." + +Olson glared at him. + +"Name?" he snapped. + +Amory gave his name and New York address. + +"And the lady?" + +"Miss Jill--" + +"Say," cried Olson indignantly, "just ease up on the nursery rhymes. +What's your name? Sarah Murphy? Minnie Jackson?" + +"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." + +"Come on now!" + +"Shut up!" cried Amory at Olson. + +An instant's pause. + +"Stella Robbins," she faltered finally. "General Delivery, Rugway, +New Hampshire." + +Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very ponderously. + +"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." + +"It doesn't want to get in the papers," cried Jill fiercely. "Let us +off! Huh!" + +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. + +"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?" + +"I see." + +"You're gettin' off light--damn light--but--" + +"Come on," said Amory briskly. "Let's get out of here. We don't need a +valedictory." + +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. + +"Would you mind taking off your hat? There's a lady in the elevator." + +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. + +"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. + +"Good-by," said Olson. He reached in his pocket suggestively, but Amory +snorted, and, taking the girl's arm, turned away. + +"Where did you tell the driver to go?" she asked as they whirled along +the dim street. + +"The station." + +"If that guy writes my mother--" + +"He won't. Nobody'll ever know about this--except our friends and +enemies." + +Dawn was breaking over the sea. + +"It's getting blue," she said. + +"It does very well," agreed Amory critically, and then as an after- +thought: "It's almost breakfast-time--do you want something to eat?" + +"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." + +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." + +"I'll remember." + +He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of an +all-night restaurant. + +"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. + +"He used to be. He probably won't want to be any more--and never +understand why." + +"It was sorta crazy you takin' all that blame. Is he pretty important? +Kinda more important than you are?" + +Amory laughed. + +"That remains to be seen," he answered. "That's the question." + + * * * * + +THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS + +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 _not_ his wife. + +Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was a +longer paragraph of which the first words were: + +"Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of their +daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, Connecticut--" + +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. + +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. + +He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains of the +room in Atlantic City. + + + + +BOOK TWO + +The Education of a Personage + +CHAPTER 5 + +The Egotist Becomes a Personage + + + "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." + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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: + +Question.--Well--what's the situation? + +Answer.--That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name. + +Q.--You have the Lake Geneva estate. + +A.--But I intend to keep it. + +Q.--Can you live? + +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. + +Q.--Be definite. + +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. + +Q.--Do you want a lot of money? + +A.--No. I am merely afraid of being poor. + +Q.--Very afraid? + +A.--Just passively afraid. + +Q.--Where are you drifting? + +A.--Don't ask _me!_ + +Q.--Don't you care? + +A.--Rather. I don't want to commit moral suicide. + +Q.--Have you no interests left? + +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. + +Q.--An interesting idea. + +A.--That's why a "good man going wrong" attracts people. They stand +around and literally _warm themselves_ at the calories of virtue he gives +off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and the faces simper in +delight--"How _innocent_ 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. + +Q.--All your calories gone? + +A.--All of them. I'm beginning to warm myself at other people's virtue. + +Q.--Are you corrupt? + +A.--I think so. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about good and evil at all +any more. + +Q.--Is that a bad sign in itself? + +A.--Not necessarily. + +Q.--What would be the test of corruption? + +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. + +Q.--Where are you drifting? + +This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind's most familiar state-- +a grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior impressions and +physical reactions. + +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-- + +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. + +"Hello," said Amory. + +"Got a pass?" + +"No. Is this private?" + +"This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club." + +"Oh! I didn't know. I'm just resting." + +"Well--" began the man dubiously. + +"I'll go if you want me to." + +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. + +"Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man," he said slowly. + + * * * * + +IN THE DROOPING HOURS + +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. + +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. . . . + + * * * * + +Amory smiled a bit. + +"You're too much wrapped up in yourself," he heard some one say. And +again-- + +"Get out and do some real work--" + +"Stop worrying--" + +He fancied a possible future comment of his own. + +"Yes--I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made me +morbid to think too much about myself." + + * * * * + +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. + +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. + + * * * * + +STILL WEEDING + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory knew, +not essentially older than he. + +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." + +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. . . . + +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. + +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. . . . + +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. . . . + +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. + +In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance +of the labyrinth. + + * * * * + +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. + + * * * * + +MONSIGNOR + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a sense of +security. + + * * * * + +THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"You bet I do. Thanks." + +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. + +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. + +"Going far?" asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested way. + +"Quite a stretch." + +"Hiking for exercise?" + +"No," responded Amory succinctly, "I'm walking because I can't afford to +ride." + +"Oh." + +Then again: + +"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. + +"Have you a trade?" + +No--Amory had no trade. + +"Clerk, eh?" + +No--Amory was not a clerk. + +"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. + +Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him could +think of only one thing to say. + +"Of course I want a great lot of money--" + +The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. + +"That's what every one wants nowadays, but they don't want to work for +it." + +"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?" + +"Of course not," said the secretary indignantly. + +"But," continued Amory disregarding him, "being very poor at present I am +contemplating socialism as possibly my forte." + +Both men glanced at him curiously. + +"These bomb throwers--" The little man ceased as words lurched +ponderously from the big man's chest. + +"If I thought you were a bomb thrower I'd run you over to the Newark +jail. That's what I think of Socialists." + +Amory laughed. + +"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." + +"Well," said Amory, "if being an idealist is both safe and lucrative, +I might try it." + +"What's your difficulty? Lost your job?" + +"Not exactly, but--well, call it that." + +"What was it?" + +"Writing copy for an advertising agency." + +"Lots of money in advertising." + +Amory smiled discreetly. + +"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--" + +"Who's he?" demanded the little man suspiciously. + +"Well," said Amory, "he's a--he's an intellectual personage not very well +known at present." + +The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped rather +suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned on him. + +"What are you laughing at?" + +"These _intellectual_ people--" + +"Do you know what it means?" + +The little man's eyes twitched nervously. + +"Why, it _usually_ means--" + +"It _always_ 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." + +"You object to the fact that capital controls printing?" said the big man, +fixing him with his goggles. + +"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." + +"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." + +"You've brought it on yourselves," insisted Amory. "You people never +make concessions until they're wrung out of you." + +"What people?" + +"Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by +inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the moneyed +class." + +"Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he'd be +any more willing to give it up?" + +"No, but what's that got to do with it?" + +The older man considered. + +"No, I'll admit it hasn't. It rather sounds as if it had though." + +"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." + +"Just exactly what is the question?" + +Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question was. + + * * * * + +AMORY COINS A PHRASE + +"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." + +Amory paused and decided that it wasn't such a bad phrase. + +"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." + +"He's the natural radical?" + +"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." + +"Why not?" + +"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." + +"But it appears," said the big man. + +"Where?--in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered weeklies." + +"All right--go on." + +"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." + +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. + +"Go on talking," said the big man. "I've been wanting to hear one of you +fellows." + + * * * * + +GOING FASTER + +"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 _dawdling_ 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. + +"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." + +"All right," said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval +nor objection. + +"Next I'd have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries." + +"That's been proven a failure." + +"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." + +"They wouldn't give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo--" + +"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." + +"You said a while ago that it was." + +"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." + +The big man made a sound that was very like _boo_. + +"That's the silliest thing you've said yet." + +"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." + +"Kids--child's play!" scoffed his antagonist. + +"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." + +"I don't agree with you." + +"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." + +A fierce hiss came from the little man. + +"_Machine-guns!_" + +"Ah, but you've taught them their use." + +The big man shook his head. + +"In this country there are enough property owners not to permit that sort +of thing." + +Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property +owners; he decided to change the subject. + +But the big man was aroused. + +"When you talk of 'taking things away,' you're on dangerous ground." + +"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." + +"Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?" + +"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." + +"Don't you believe in moderation?" + +"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." + +"What is it?" + +"That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs +are essentially the same." + + * * * * + +THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS + +"If you took all the money in the world," said the little man with much +profundity, "and divided it up in equ--" + +"Oh, shut up!" said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the little +man's enraged stare, he went on with his argument. + +"The human stomach--" he began; but the big man interrupted rather +impatiently. + +"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." + +When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as if +resolved this time to have his say out. + +"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." + +Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly. + +"Listen to that! _That's_ what makes me discouraged with progress. +_Listen_ 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." + +The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage. +Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man. + +"These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, +who _think_ 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!" + +The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the +little man. + +"You're catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?" + +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. + +"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." + +"I am both interested and amused," said the big man. "You are very +young." + +"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." + +"You talk glibly." + +"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." + +"But, if you're not sure--" + +"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_ was ineligible, because some silly old men thought we +should _all_ profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed +business. I'm in love with change and I've killed my conscience--" + +"So you'll go along crying that we must go faster." + +"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." + +"But you don't believe all this Socialist patter you talk." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked: + +"What was your university?" + +"Princeton." + +The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles +altered slightly. + +"I sent my son to Princeton." + +"Did you?" + +"Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed last +year in France." + +"I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends." + +"He was--a--quite a fine boy. We were very close." + +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-- + +The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a +huge hedge and a tall iron fence. + +"Won't you come in for lunch?" + +Amory shook his head. + +"Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I've got to get on." + +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. + +"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." + +"Same to you, sir," cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand. + + * * * * + +"OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM" + +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. + +"I am selfish," he thought. + +"This is not a quality that will change when I 'see human suffering' or +'lose my parents' or 'help others.' + +"This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living part. + +"It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that selfishness +that I can bring poise and balance into my life. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * + +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. + +Amory wanted to feel "William Dayfield, 1864." + +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. + + * * * * + +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. . . . + +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. . . . + +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! . . . + +"It's all a poor substitute at best," he said sadly. + +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. . . . + +He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. + +"I know myself," he cried, "but that is all." + + + + + + +Appendix: Production notes for eBook edition 11 + +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".) + +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. + +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. + +In edition 11, underscores are used to denote words and phrases +italicized for emphasis. + +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. + +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: + Aeschylus blase cafe debut debutante elan elite Encyclopaedia + matinee minutiae paean regime soupcon unaesthetic +Less-commonly-used 8-bit word forms in this book include: + anaemic bleme coeur manoeuvered mediaevalist tete-a-tete +and the name "Borge". + +Edition 11 was produced by Ken Reeder. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIS SIDE OF PARADISE *** + +This file should be named tspar11.txt or tspar11.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, tspar12.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tspar11a.txt + +This book was scanned by David Reed. Please let him know if you +find any errors or mistakes. haradda@aol.com + +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. 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