The Last Tycoon. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

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СКАЧАТЬ necks—in other words, unless they’re a celebrity. And they’d better look out even then.

      “You should have risen above it,” I said smugly. “It’s not a slam at you when people are rude—it’s a slam at the people they’ve met before.”

      “Such a pretty girl—to say such wise things.”

      There was an eager to-do in the eastern sky, and Wylie could see me plain—thin with good features and lots of style, and the kicking fetus of a mind. I wonder what I looked like in that dawn, five years ago. A little rumpled and pale, I suppose, but at that age, when one has the young illusion that most adventures are good, I needed only a bath and a change to go on for hours.

      Wylie stared at me with really flattering appreciation—and then suddenly we were not alone. Mr. Schwartz wandered apologetically into the pretty scene.

      “I fell upon a large metal handle,” he said, touching the corner of his eye.

      Wylie jumped up.

      “Just in time, Mr. Schwartz,” he said. “The tour is just starting. Home of Old Hickory—America’s tenth president. The victor of New Orleans, opponent of the National Bank, and inventor of the Spoils System.”

      Schwartz looked toward me as toward a jury.

      “There’s a writer for you,” he said. “Knows everything and at the same time he knows nothing.”

      “What’s that?” said Wylie, indignant.

      It was my first inkling that he was a writer. And while I like writers—because if you ask a writer anything, you usually get an answer—still it belittled him in my eyes. Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. It’s like actors, who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors. Who lean backward trying—only to see their faces in the reflecting chandeliers.

      “Ain’t writers like that, Celia?” demanded Schwartz. “I have no words for them. I only know it’s true.”

      Wylie looked at him with slowly gathering indignation. “I’ve heard that before,” he said. “Look, Manny, I’m a more practical man than you any day! I’ve sat in an office and listened to some mystic stalk up and down for hours spouting tripe that’d land him on a nut-farm anywhere outside of California—and then at the end tell me how practical he was, and I was a dreamer—and would I kindly go away and make sense out of what he’d said.”

      Mr. Schwartz’s face fell into its more disintegrated alignments. One eye looked upward through the tall elms. He raised his hand and bit without interest at the cuticle on his second finger. There was a bird flying about the chimney of the house, and his glance followed it. It perched on the chimney pot like a raven, and Mr. Schwartz’s eyes remained fixed upon it as he said: “We can’t get in, and it’s time for you two to go back to the plane.”

      It was still not quite dawn. The Hermitage looked like a nice big white box, but a little lonely and vacated still after a hundred years. We walked back to the car. Only after we had gotten in, and Mr. Schwartz had surprisingly shut the taxi door on us, did we realize he didn’t intend to come along.

      “I’m not going to the Coast—I decided that when I woke up. So I’ll stay here, and afterwards the driver could come back for me.”

      “Going back East?” said Wylie with surprise. “Just because—”

      “I have decided,” said Schwartz, faintly smiling. “Once I used to be a regular man of decision—you’d be surprised.” He felt in his pocket, as the taxi driver warmed up the engine. “Will you give this note to Mr. Smith?”

      “Shall I come in two hours?” the driver asked Schwartz.

      “Yes … sure. I shall be glad to entertain myself looking around.”

      I kept thinking of him all the way back to the airport—trying to fit him into that early hour and into that landscape. He had come a long way from some ghetto to present himself at that raw shrine. Manny Schwartz and Andrew Jackson—it was hard to say them in the same sentence. It was doubtful if he knew who Andrew Jackson was as he wandered around, but perhaps he figured that if people had preserved his house Andrew Jackson must have been someone who was large and merciful, able to understand. At both ends of life man needed nourishment: a breast—a shrine. Something to lay himself beside when no one wanted him further, and shoot a bullet into his head.

      Of course we did not know this for twenty hours. When we got to the airport we told the purser that Mr. Schwartz was not continuing, and then forgot about him. The storm had wandered away into Eastern Tennessee and broken against the mountains, and we were taking off in less than an hour. Sleepy-eyed travellers appeared from the hotel, and I dozed a few minutes on one of those Iron Maidens they use for couches. Slowly the idea of a perilous journey was recreated out of the debris of our failure: a new stewardess, tall, handsome, flashing dark, exactly like the other except she wore seersucker instead of Frenchy red-and-blue, went briskly past us with a suitcase. Wylie sat beside me as we waited.

      “Did you give the note to Mr. Smith?” I asked, half asleep.

      “Yeah.”

      “Who is Mr. Smith? I suspect he spoiled Mr. Schwartz’s trip.”

      “It was Schwartz’s fault.”

      “I’m prejudiced against steam-rollers,” I said. “My father tries to be a steam-roller around the house, and I tell him to save it for the studio.”

      I wondered if I was being fair; words are the palest counters at that time in the morning. “Still, he steam-rollered me into Bennington and I’ve always been grateful for that.”

      “There would be quite a crash,” Wylie said, “if steamroller Brady met steam-roller Smith.”

      “Is Mr. Smith a competitor of Father’s?”

      “Not exactly. I should say no. But if he was a competitor, I know where my money would be.”

      “On Father?”

      “I’m afraid not.”

      It was too early in the morning for family patriotism. The pilot was at the desk with the purser and he shook his head as they regarded a prospective passenger who had put two nickels in the electric phonograph and lay alcoholically on a bench fighting off sleep. The first song he had chosen, Lost, thundered through the room, followed, after a slight interval, by his other choice, Gone, which was equally dogmatic and final. The pilot shook his head emphatically and walked over to the passenger.

      “Afraid we’re not going to be able to carry you this time, old man.”

      “Wha’?”

      The drunk sat up, awful-looking, yet discernibly attractive, and I was sorry for him in spite of his passionately ill-chosen music.

      “Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. There’ll be another plane tonight.”

      “Only going up in ee air.”

      “Not this time, old man.”

      In СКАЧАТЬ