This Side of Paradise (Wisehouse Classics Edition). F. Scott Fitzgerald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 habitué 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 cafés. 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 café, 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 Min-neapolis—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 СКАЧАТЬ