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

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СКАЧАТЬ world, immersing them in a saccharine plot that would offend not a single stomach in Marietta. He had it typed in double space — this last as advised by a booklet, “Success as a Writer Made Easy,” by R. Meggs Widdlestien, which assured the ambitious plumber of the futility of perspiration, since after a six-lesson course he could make at least a thousand dollars a month.

      After reading it to a bored Gloria and coaxing from her the immemorial remark that it was “better than a lot of stuff that gets published,” he satirically affixed the nom de plume of “Gilles de Sade,” enclosed the proper return envelope, and sent it off.

      Following the gigantic labor of conception he decided to wait until he heard from the first story before beginning another. Dick had told him that he might get as much as two hundred dollars. If by any chance it did happen to be unsuited, the editor’s letter would, no doubt, give him an idea of what changes should be made.

      “It is, without question, the most abominable piece of writing in existence,” said Anthony.

      The editor quite conceivably agreed with him. He returned the manuscript with a rejection slip. Anthony sent it off elsewhere and began another story. The second one was called “The Little Open Doors”; it was written in three days. It concerned the occult: an estranged couple were brought together by a medium in a vaudeville show.

      There were six altogether, six wretched and pitiable efforts to “write down” by a man who had never before made a consistent effort to write at all. Not one of them contained a spark of vitality, and their total yield of grace and felicity was less than that of an average newspaper column. During their circulation they collected, all told, thirty-one rejection slips, headstones for the packages that he would find lying like dead bodies at his door.

      In mid-January Gloria’s father died, and they went again to Kansas City — a miserable trip, for Gloria brooded interminably, not upon her father’s death, but on her mother’s. Russel Gilbert’s affairs having been cleared up they came into possession of about three thousand dollars, and a great amount of furniture. This was in storage, for he had spent his last days in a small hotel. It was due to his death that Anthony made a new discovery concerning Gloria. On the journey East she disclosed herself, astonishingly, as a Bilphist.

      “Why, Gloria,” he cried, “you don’t mean to tell me you believe that stuff.”

      “Well,” she said defiantly, “why not?”

      “Because it’s — it’s fantastic. You know that in every sense of the word you’re an agnostic. You’d laugh at any orthodox form of Christianity — and then you come out with the statement that you believe in some silly rule of reincarnation.”

      “What if I do? I’ve heard you and Maury, and every one else for whose intellect I have the slightest respect, agree that life as it appears is utterly meaningless. But it’s always seemed to me that if I were unconsciously learning something here it might not be so meaningless.”

      “You’re not learning anything — you’re just getting tired. And if you must have a faith to soften things, take up one that appeals to the reason of some one beside a lot of hysterical women. A person like you oughtn’t to accept anything unless it’s decently demonstrable.”

      “I don’t care about truth. I want some happiness.”

      “Well, if you’ve got a decent mind the second has got to be qualified by the first. Any simple soul can delude himself with mental garbage.”

      “I don’t care,” she held out stoutly, “and, what’s more, I’m not propounding any doctrine.”

      The argument faded off, but reoccurred to Anthony several times thereafter. It was disturbing to find this old belief, evidently assimilated from her mother, inserting itself again under its immemorial disguise as an innate idea.

      They reached New York in March after an expensive and ill-advised week spent in Hot Springs, and Anthony resumed his abortive attempts at fiction. As it became plainer to both of them that escape did not lie in the way of popular literature, there was a further slipping of their mutual confidence and courage. A complicated struggle went on incessantly between them. All efforts to keep down expenses died away from sheer inertia, and by March they were again using any pretext as an excuse for a “party.” With an assumption of recklessness Gloria tossed out the suggestion that they should take all their money and go on a real spree while it lasted — anything seemed better than to see it go in unsatisfactory driblets.

      “Gloria, you want parties as much as I do.”

      “It doesn’t matter about me. Everything I do is in accordance with my ideas: to use every minute of these years, when I’m young, in having the best time I possibly can.”

      “How about after that?”

      “After that I won’t care.”

      “Yes, you will.”

      “Well, I may — but I won’t be able to do anything about it. And I’ll have had my good time.”

      “You’ll be the same then. After a fashion, we have had our good time, raised the devil, and we’re in the state of paying for it.”

      Nevertheless, the money kept going. There would be two days of gaiety, two days of moroseness — an endless, almost invariable round. The sharp pull-ups, when they occurred, resulted usually in a spurt of work for Anthony, while Gloria, nervous and bored, remained in bed or else chewed abstractedly at her fingers. After a day or so of this, they would make an engagement, and then — Oh, what did it matter? This night, this glow, the cessation of anxiety and the sense that if living was not purposeful it was, at any rate, essentially romantic! Wine gave a sort of gallantry to their own failure.

      Meanwhile the suit progressed slowly, with interminable examinations of witnesses and marshallings of evidence. The preliminary proceedings of settling the estate were finished. Mr. Haight saw no reason why the case should not come up for trial before summer.

      Bloeckman appeared in New York late in March; he had been in England for nearly a year on matters concerned with “Films Par Excellence.” The process of general refinement was still in progress — always he dressed a little better, his intonation was mellower, and in his manner there was perceptibly more assurance that the fine things of the world were his by a natural and inalienable right. He called at the apartment, remained only an hour, during which he talked chiefly of the war, and left telling them he was coming again. On his second visit Anthony was not at home, but an absorbed and excited Gloria greeted her husband later in the afternoon.

      “Anthony,” she began, “would you still object if I went in the movies?”

      His whole heart hardened against the idea. As she seemed to recede from him, if only in threat, her presence became again not so much precious as desperately necessary.

      “Oh, Gloria — !”

      “Blockhead said he’d put me in — only if I’m ever going to do anything I’ll have to start now. They only want young women. Think of the money, Anthony!”

      “For you — yes. But how about me?”

      “Don’t you know that anything I have is yours too?”

      “It’s such a hell of a career!” he burst out, the moral, the infinitely circumspect Anthony, “and such a hell of a bunch. And I’m so utterly tired of that fellow Bloeckman СКАЧАТЬ