TENDER IS THE NIGHT (The Original 1934 Edition). Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 matinées. 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 СКАЧАТЬ