Beautiful and Damned (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  The other two agreed.

  “Good idea.”

  “Hey, Sammy, wantcha do somep’m for us....”

  Just after nine o’clock Anthony staggered to his feet and, bidding them a thick good night, walked unsteadily to the door, handing Sammy one of his two quarters as he passed out. Once in the street he hesitated uncertainly and then started in the direction of Sixth Avenue, where he remembered to have frequently passed several loan-offices. He went by a news-stand and two drug-stores—and then he realized that he was standing in front of the place which he sought, and that it was shut and barred. Unperturbed he continued; another one, half a block down, was also closed—so were two more across the street, and a fifth in the square below. Seeing a faint light in the last one, he began to knock on the glass door; he desisted only when a watchman appeared in the back of the shop and motioned him angrily to move on. With growing discouragement, with growing befuddlement, he crossed the street and walked back toward Forty-third. On the corner near Sammy’s he paused undecided—if he went back to the apartment, as he felt his body required, he would lay himself open to bitter reproach; yet, now that the pawnshops were closed, he had no notion where to get the money. He decided finally that he might ask Parker Allison, after all—but he approached Sammy’s only to find the door locked and the lights out. He looked at his watch; nine-thirty. He began walking.

  Ten minutes later he stopped aimlessly at the corner of Forty-third Street and Madison Avenue, diagonally across from the bright but nearly deserted entrance to the Biltmore Hotel. Here he stood for a moment, and then sat down heavily on a damp board amid some debris of construction work. He rested there for almost half an hour, his mind a shifting pattern of surface thoughts, chiefest among which were that he must obtain some money and get home before he became too sodden to find his way.

  Then, glancing over toward the Biltmore, he saw a man standing directly under the overhead glow of the porte-cochère lamps beside a woman in an ermine coat. As Anthony watched, the couple moved forward and signalled to a taxi. Anthony perceived by the infallible identification that lurks in the walk of a friend that it was Maury Noble.

  He rose to his feet.

  “Maury!” he shouted.

  Maury looked in his direction, then turned back to the girl just as the taxi came up into place. With the chaotic idea of borrowing ten dollars, Anthony began to run as fast as he could across Madison Avenue and along Forty-third Street.

  As he came up Maury was standing beside the yawning door of the taxicab. His companion turned and looked curiously at Anthony.

  “Hello, Maury!” he said, holding out his hand. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Their hands dropped and Anthony hesitated. Maury made no move to introduce him, but only stood there regarding him with an inscrutable feline silence.

  “I wanted to see you—” began Anthony uncertainly. He did not feel that he could ask for a loan with the girl not four feet away, so he broke off and made a perceptible motion of his head as if to beckon Maury to one side.

  “I’m in rather a big hurry, Anthony.”

  “I know—but can you, can you—” Again he hesitated.

  “I’ll see you some other time,” said Maury.

  “It’s important.”

  “I’m sorry, Anthony.”

  Before Anthony could make up his mind to blurt out his request, Maury had turned coolly to the girl, helped her into the car and, with a polite “good evening,” stepped in after her. As he nodded from the window it seemed to Anthony that his expression had not changed by a shade or a hair. Then with a fretful clatter the taxi moved off, and Anthony was left standing there alone under the lights.

  Anthony went on into the Biltmore, for no reason in particular except that the entrance was at hand, and ascending the wide stair found a seat in an alcove. He was furiously aware that he had been snubbed; he was as hurt and angry as it was possible for him to be when in that condition. Nevertheless, he was stubbornly preoccupied with the necessity of obtaining some money before he went home, and once again he told over on his fingers the acquaintances he might conceivably call on in this emergency. He thought, eventually, that he might approach Mr. Howland, his broker, at his home.

  After a long wait he found that Mr. Howland was out. He returned to the operator, leaning over her desk and fingering his quarter as though loath to leave unsatisfied.

  “Call Mr. Bloeckman,” he said suddenly. His own words surprised him. The name had come from some crossing of two suggestions in his mind.

  “What’s the number, please?”

  Scarcely conscious of what he did, Anthony looked up Joseph Bloeckman in the telephone directory. He could find no such person, and was about to close the book when it flashed into his mind that Gloria had mentioned a change of name. It was the matter of a minute to find Joseph Black—then he waited in the booth while central called the number.

  “Hello-o. Mr. Bloeckman—I mean Mr. Black in?”

  “No, he’s out this evening. Is there any message?” The intonation was cockney; it reminded him of the rich vocal deferences of Bounds.

  “Where is he?”

  “Why, ah, who is this, please, sir?”

  “This Mr. Patch. Matter of vi’al importance.”

  “Why, he’s with a party at the Boul’ Mich’, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  Anthony got his five cents change and started for the Boul’ Mich‘, a popular dancing resort on Forty-fifth Street. It was nearly ten but the streets were dark and sparsely peopled until the theatres should eject their spawn an hour later. Anthony knew the Boul’ Mich’, for he had been there with Gloria during the year before, and he remembered the existence of a rule that patrons must be in evening dress. Well, he would not go up-stairs—he would send a boy up for Bloeckman and wait for him in the lower hall. For a moment he did not doubt that the whole project was entirely natural and graceful. To his distorted imagination Bloeckman had become simply one of his old friends.

  The entrance-hall of the Boul’ Mich’ was warm. There were high yellow lights over a thick green carpet, from the centre of which a white stairway rose to the dancing floor.

  Anthony spoke to the hallboy:

  “I want to see Mr. Bloeckman—Mr. Black,” he said. “He’s up-stairs—have him paged.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “’Sagainsa rules to have him paged. You know what table he’s at?”

  “No. But I’ve got see him.”

  “Wait an’ I’ll getcha waiter.”

  After a short interval a head waiter appeared, bearing a card on which were charted the table reservations. He darted a cynical look at Anthony—which, however, failed of its target. Together they bent over the cardboard and found the table without difficulty—a party of eight, Mr. Black’s own.

  “Tell him Mr. Patch. Very, very important.”

  Again he waited, leaning against the banister and listening to the confused harmonies of “Jazz-mad” which came floating down the stairs. A check-girl near him was singing:

  “Out in—the shimmee sanitarium

  The jazz-mad nuts reside.

  Out in—the shimmee sanitarium

  I left my blushing bride.

  She went and shook herself insane,

  So let her shiver back again—”

  Then he saw Bloeckman descending the staircase, and took a step forward to meet him and shake hands.

  “You wanted to see me?” said the older man coolly.

  “Yes,” answered Anthony, nodding, “personal matter. Can you jus’ step over here?”

  Regarding him narrowly Bloeckman followed Anthony to a half bend made by the staircase where they were beyond observation or earshot of any one entering or leaving the restaurant.

  “Well?” he inquired.

  “Wanted talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  Anthony only laughed—a silly laugh; he intended it to sound casual.

&
nbsp; “What do you want to talk to me about?” repeated Bloeckman.

  “Wha’s hurry, old man?” He tried to lay his hand in a friendly gesture upon Bloeckman’s shoulder, but the latter drew away slightly. “How’ve been?”

  “Very well, thanks.... See here, Mr. Patch; I’ve got a party up-stairs. They’ll think it’s rude if I stay away too long. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

  For the second time that evening Anthony’s mind made an abrupt jump, and what he said was not at all what he had intended to say.

  “Un’erstand you kep’ my wife out of the movies.”

  “What?” Bloeckman’s ruddy face darkened in parallel planes of shadows.

  “You heard me.”

  “Look here, Mr. Patch,” said Bloeckman, evenly and without changing his expression, “you’re drunk. You’re disgustingly and insultingly drunk.”

  “Not too drunk talk to you,” insisted Anthony with a leer. “Firs’ place, my wife wants nothin’ whatever do with you. Never did. Un’erstand me?”

  “Be quiet!” said the older man angrily. “I should think you’d respect your wife enough not to bring her into the conversation under these circumstances.”

  “Never you min’ how I expect my wife. One thing—you leave her alone. You go to hell!”

  “See here—I think you’re a little crazy!” exclaimed Bloeckman. He took two paces forward as though to pass by, but Anthony stepped in his way.

  “Not so fas’, you Goddam Jew”

  For a moment they stood regarding each other, Anthony swaying gently from side to side, Bloeckman almost trembling with fury.

  “Be careful!” he cried in a strained voice.

  Anthony might have remembered then a certain look Bloeckman had given him in the Biltmore Hotel years before. But he remembered nothing, nothing—

  “I’ll say it again, you God—”

  Then Bloeckman struck out, with all the strength in the arm of a well-conditioned man of forty-five, struck out and caught Anthony squarely in the mouth. Anthony cracked up against the staircase, recovered himself and made a wild drunken swing at his opponent, but Bloeckman, who took exercise every day and knew something of sparring, blocked it with ease and struck him twice in the face with two swift smashing jabs. Anthony gave a little grunt and toppled over onto the green-plush carpet, finding, as he fell, that his mouth was full of blood and seemed oddly loose in front. He struggled to his feet, panting and spitting, and then as he started toward Bloeckman, who stood a few feet away, his fists clenched but not up, two waiters who had appeared from nowhere seized his arms and held him, helpless. In back of them a dozen people had miraculously gathered.

  “I’ll kill him,” cried Anthony, pitching and straining from side to side. “Let me kill—”

  “Throw him out!” ordered Bloeckman excitedly, just as a small man with a pockmarked face pushed his way hurriedly through the spectators.

  “Any trouble, Mr. Black?”

  “This bum tried to blackmail me!” said Bloeckman, and then, his voice rising to a faintly shrill note of pride: “He got what was coming to him!”

  The little man turned to a waiter.

  “Call a policeman!” he commanded.

  “Oh, no,” said Bloeckman quickly. “I can’t be bothered. Just throw him out in the street.... Ugh! What an outrage!” He turned and with conscious dignity walked toward the wash-room just as six brawny hands seized upon Anthony and dragged him toward the door. The “bum” was propelled violently to the sidewalk, where he landed on his hands and knees with a grotesque slapping sound and rolled over slowly onto his side.

  The shock stunned him. He lay there for a moment in acute distributed pain. Then his discomfort became centralized in his stomach, and he regained consciousness to discover that a large foot was prodding him.

  “You’ve got to move on, y’ bum! Move on!”

  It was the bulky doorman speaking. A town car had stopped at the curb and its occupants had disembarked—that is, two of the women were standing on the dashboard, waiting in offended delicacy until this obscene obstacle should be removed from their path.

  “Move on! Or else I’ll throw y’on!”

  “Here—I’ll get him.”

  This was a new voice; Anthony imagined that it was somehow more tolerant, better disposed than the first. Again arms were about him, half lifting, half dragging him into a welcome shadow four doors up the street and propping him against the stone front of a millinery shop.

  “Much obliged,” muttered Anthony feebly. Some one pushed his soft hat down upon his head and he winced.

  “Just sit still, buddy, and you’ll feel better. Those guys sure give you a bump.”

  “I’m going back and kill that dirty—” He tried to get to his feet but collapsed backward against the wall.

  “You can’t do nothin’ now,” came the voice. “Get ’em some other time. I’m tellin’ you straight, ain’t I? I’m helpin’ you.”

  Anthony nodded.

  “An’ you better go home. You dropped a tooth to-night, buddy. You know that?”

  Anthony explored his mouth with his tongue, verifying the statement. Then with an effort he raised his hand and located the gap.

  “I’m agoin’ to get you home, friend. Whereabouts do you live—”

  “Oh, by God! By God!” interrupted Anthony, clenching his fists passionately. “I’ll show the dirty bunch. You help me show’em and I’ll fix it with you. My grandfather’s Adam Patch, of Tarrytown—”

  “Who?”

  “Adam Patch, by God!”

  “You wanna go all the way to Tarrytown?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you tell me where to go, friend, and I’ll get a cab.”

  Anthony made out that his Samaritan was a short, broad-shouldered individual, somewhat the worse for wear.

  “Where d’you live, hey?”

  Sodden and shaken as he was, Anthony felt that his address would be poor collateral for his wild boast about his grandfather.

  “Get me a cab,” he commanded, feeling in his pockets.

  A taxi drove up. Again Anthony essayed to rise, but his ankle swung loose, as though it were in two sections. The Samaritan must needs help him in—and climb in after him.

  “See here, fella,” said he, “you’re soused and you’re bunged up, and you won’t be able to get in your house less somebody carries you in, so I’m going with you, and I know you’ll make it all right with me. Where d’you live?”

  With some reluctance Anthony gave his address. Then, as the cab moved off, he leaned his head against the man’s shoulder and went into a shadowy, painful torpor. When he awoke, the man had lifted him from the cab in front of the apartment on Claremont Avenue and was trying to set him on his feet.

  “Can y’ walk?”

  “Yes—sort of. You better not come in with me.” Again he felt helplessly in his pockets. “Say,” he continued, apologetically, swaying dangerously on his feet, “I’m afraid I haven’t got a cent.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m cleaned out.”

  “Sa-a-ay! Didn’t I hear you promise you’d fix it with me? Who’s goin’ to pay the taxi bill?” He turned to the driver for confirmation. “Didn’t you hear him say he’d fix it? All that about his grandfather?”

  “Matter of fact,” muttered Anthony imprudently, “it was you did all the talking; however, if you come round, to-morrow—”

  At this point the taxi-driver leaned from his cab and said ferociously:

  “Ah, poke him one, the dirty cheap skate. If he wasn’t a bum they wouldn’ta throwed him out.”

  In answer to this suggestion the fist of the Samaritan shot out like a battering-ram and sent Anthony crashing down against the stone steps of the apartment-house, where he lay without movement, while the tall buildings rocked to and fro above him....

  After a long while he awoke and was conscious that it had grown much colder. He tried to move himself but his muscles refused to function. He was cu
riously anxious to know the time, but he reached for his watch, only to find the pocket empty. Involuntarily his lips formed an immemorial phrase:

  “What a night!”

  Strangely enough, he was almost sober. Without moving his head he looked up to where the moon was anchored in mid-sky, shedding light down into Claremont Avenue as into the bottom of a deep and uncharted abyss. There was no sign or sound of life save for the continuous buzzing in his own ears, but after a moment Anthony himself broke the silence with a distinct and peculiar murmur. It was the sound that he had consistently attempted to make back there in the Boul’ Mich’, when he had been face to face with Bloeckman—the unmistakable sound of ironic laughter. And on his torn and bleeding lips it was like a pitiful retching of the soul.

  Three weeks later the trial came to an end. The seemingly endless spool of legal red tape having unrolled over a period of four and a half years, suddenly snapped off. Anthony and Gloria and, on the other side, Edward Shuttleworth and a platoon of beneficiaries testified and lied and ill-behaved generally in varying degrees of greed and desperation. Anthony awoke one morning in March realizing that the verdict was to be given at four that afternoon, and at the thought he got up out of his bed and began to dress. With his extreme nervousness there was mingled an unjustified optimism as to the outcome. He believed that the decision of the lower court would be reversed, if only because of the reaction, due to excessive prohibition, that had recently set in against reforms and reformers. He counted more on the personal attacks that they had levelled at Shuttleworth than on the more sheerly legal aspects of the proceedings.

  Dressed, he poured himself a drink of whiskey and then went into Gloria’s room, where he found her already wide awake. She had been in bed for a week, humoring herself, Anthony fancied, though the doctor had said that she had best not be disturbed.

  “Good morning,” she murmured, without smiling. Her eyes seemed unusually large and dark.

  “How do you feel?” he asked grudgingly. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Much?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel well enough to go down to court with me this afternoon?”