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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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