THE COMPLETE WORKS OF F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

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СКАЧАТЬ fella in short golfin’ pants come runnin’ along and went after her. He throwed me this.’ The old fellow had a dollar bill he was waving around—”

      “Oh, the poor old man!” ejaculated Gloria, moved.

      “I threw him another and we went on, though he asked us to stay and tell him what it was all about.”

      “Poor old man,” repeated Gloria dismally.

      Dick sat down sleepily on a box.

      “And now what?” he inquired in the tone of stoic resignation.

      “Gloria’s upset,” explained Anthony. “She and I are going to the city by the next train.”

      Maury in the darkness had pulled a time-table from his pocket.

      “Strike a match.”

      A tiny flare leaped out of the opaque background illuminating the four faces, grotesque and unfamiliar here in the open night.

      “Let’s see. Two, two-thirty — no, that’s evening. By gad, you won’t get a train till five-thirty.”

      Anthony hesitated.

      “Well,” he muttered uncertainly, “we’ve decided to stay here and wait for it. You two might as well go back and sleep.”

      “You go, too, Anthony,” urged Gloria; “I want you to have some sleep, dear. You’ve been as pale as a ghost all day.”

      “Why, you little idiot!”

      Dick yawned.

      “Very well. You stay, we stay.”

      He walked out from under the shed and surveyed the heavens.

      “Rather a nice night, after all. Stars are out and everything.. Exceptionally tasty assortment of them.”

      “Let’s see.” Gloria moved after him and the other two followed her..

      “Let’s sit out here,” she suggested. “I like it much better.”

      Anthony and Dick converted a long box into a backrest and found a board dry enough for Gloria to sit on. Anthony dropped down beside her and with some effort Dick hoisted himself onto an apple-barrel near them.

      “Tana went to sleep in the porch hammock,” he remarked. “We carried him in and left him next to the kitchen stove to dry. He was drenched to the skin.”

      “That awful little man!” sighed Gloria.

      “How do you do!” The voice, sonorous and funereal, had come from above, and they looked up startled to find that in some manner Maury had climbed to the roof of the shed, where he sat dangling his feet over the edge, outlined as a shadowy and fantastic gargoyle against the now brilliant sky.

      “It must be for such occasions as this,” he began softly, his words having the effect of floating down from an immense height and settling softly upon his auditors, “that the righteous of the land decorate the railroads with billboards asserting in red and yellow that ‘Jesus Christ is God,’ placing them, appropriately enough, next to announcements that ‘Gunter’s Whiskey is Good.’”

      There was gentle laughter and the three below kept their heads tilted upward.

      “I think I shall tell you the story of my education,” continued Maury, “under these sardonic constellations.”

      “Do! Please!”

      “Shall I, really?”

      They waited expectantly while he directed a ruminative yawn toward the white smiling moon.

      “Well,” he began, “as an infant I prayed. I stored up prayers against future wickedness. One year I stored up nineteen hundred ‘Now I lay me’s.’”

      “Throw down a cigarette,” murmured some one.

      A small package reached the platform simultaneously with the stentorian command:

      “Silence! I am about to unburden myself of many memorable remarks reserved for the darkness of such earths and the brilliance of such skies.”

      Below, a lighted match was passed from cigarette to cigarette. The voice resumed:

      “I was adept at fooling the deity. I prayed immediately after all crimes until eventually prayer and crime became indistinguishable to me. I believed that because a man cried out ‘My God!’ when a safe fell on him, it proved that belief was rooted deep in the human breast. Then I went to school. For fourteen years half a hundred earnest men pointed to ancient flintlocks and cried to me: ‘There’s the real thing. These new rifles are only shallow, superficial imitations.’ They damned the books I read and the things I thought by calling them immoral; later the fashion changed, and they damned things by calling them ‘clever’.

      “And so I turned, canny for my years, from the professors to the poets, listening — to the lyric tenor of Swinburne and the tenor robusto of Shelley, to Shakespeare with his first bass and his fine range, to Tennyson with his second bass and his occasional falsetto, to Milton and Marlow, bassos profundo. I gave ear to Browning chatting, Byron declaiming, and Wordsworth droning. This, at least, did me no harm. I learned a little of beauty — enough to know that it had nothing to do with truth — and I found, moreover, that there was no great literary tradition; there was only the tradition of the eventful death of every literary tradition….

      “Then I grew up, and the beauty of succulent illusions fell away from me. The fibre of my mind coarsened and my eyes grew miserably keen. Life rose around my island like a sea, and presently I was swimming.

      “The transition was subtle — the thing had lain in wait for me for some time. It has its insidious, seemingly innocuous trap for every one. With me? No — I didn’t try to seduce the janitor’s wife — nor did I run through the streets unclothed, proclaiming my virility. It is never quite passion that does the business — it is the dress that passion wears. I became bored — that was all. Boredom, which is another name and a frequent disguise for vitality, became the unconscious motive of all my acts. Beauty was behind me, do you understand? — I was grown.” He paused. “End of school and college period. Opening of Part Two.”

      Three quietly active points of light showed the location of his listeners. Gloria was now half sitting, half lying, in Anthony’s lap. His arm was around her so tightly that she could hear the beating of his heart. Richard Caramel, perched on the apple-barrel, from time to time stirred and gave off a faint grunt.

      “I grew up then, into this land of jazz, and fell immediately into a state of almost audible confusion. Life stood over me like an immoral schoolmistress, editing my ordered thoughts. But, with a mistaken faith in intelligence, I plodded on. I read Smith, who laughed at charity and insisted that the sneer was the highest form of self-expression — but Smith himself replaced charity as an obscurer of the light. I read Jones, who neatly disposed of individualism — and behold! Jones was still in my way. I did not think — I was a battle-ground for the thoughts of many men; rather was I one of those desirable but impotent countries over which the great powers surge back and forth.

      “I reached СКАЧАТЬ