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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ