Babylon Revisited

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  The party of eight moved into the theater.

  Miles had gone after all and Joel wondered if he should have come. But during the performance, with Stella a profile under the pure grain of light hair, he thought no more about Miles. Once he turned and looked at her and she looked back at him, smiling and meeting his eyes for as long as he wanted. Between the acts they smoked in the lobby and she whispered:

  “They’re all going to the opening of Jack Johnson’s night club—I don’t want to go, do you?”

  “Do we have to?”

  “I suppose not.” She hesitated. “I’d like to talk to you. I suppose we could go to our house—if I were only sure—”

  Again she hesitated and Joel asked:

  “Sure of what?”

  “Sure that—oh, I’m haywire I know, but how can I be sure Miles went to the game?”

  “You mean you think he’s with Eva Goebel?”

  “No, not so much that—but supposing he was here watching everything I do. You know Miles does odd things sometimes. Once he wanted a man with a long beard to drink tea with him and he sent down to the casting agency for one, and drank tea with him all afternoon.”

  “That’s different. He sent you a wire from South Bend—that proves he’s at the game.”

  After the play they said good night to the others at the curb and were answered by looks of amusement. They slid off along the golden garish thoroughfare through the crowd that had gathered around Stella.

  “You see he could arrange the telegrams,” Stella said, “very easily.”

  That was true. And with the idea that perhaps her uneasiness was justified, Joel grew angry: if Miles had trained a camera on them he felt no obligations toward Miles. Aloud he said:

  “That’s nonsense.”

  There were Christmas trees already in the shop windows and the full moon over the boulevard was only a prop, as scenic as the giant boudoir lamps of the corners. On into the dark foliage of Beverly Hills that flamed as eucalyptus by day, Joel saw only the flash of a white face under his own, the arc of her shoulder. She pulled away suddenly and looked up at him.

  “Your eyes are like your mothers,” she said. “I used to have a scrap book full of pictures of her.”

  “Your eyes are like your own and not a bit like any other eyes,” he answered.

  Something made Joel look out into the grounds as they went into the house, as if Miles were lurking in the shrubbery. A telegram waited on the hall table. She read aloud:

  “CHICAGO. “Home tomorrow night. Thinking of you. Love.

  “MILES.”

  “You see,” she said, throwing the slip back on the table, “he could easily have faked that.” She asked the butler for drinks and sandwiches and ran upstairs, while Joel walked into the empty reception rooms. Strolling about he wandered to the piano where he had stood in disgrace two Sundays before.

  “Then we could put over,” he said aloud, “a story of divorce, the younger generation and the Foreign Legion.”

  His thoughts jumped to another telegram.

  “You were one of the most agreeable people at our party—”

  An idea occurred to him. If Stella’s telegram had been purely a gesture of courtesy then it was likely that Miles had inspired it, for it was Miles who had invited him. Probably Miles had said:

  “Send him a wire—he’s miserable—he thinks he’s queered himself.”

  It fitted in with “I’ve influenced Stella in everything. Especially I’ve influenced her so that she likes all the men I like.” A woman would do a thing like that because she felt sympathetic—only a man would do it because he felt responsible.

  When Stella came back into the room he took both her hands.

  “I have a strange feeling that I’m a sort of pawn in a spite game you’re playing against Miles,” he said.

  “Help yourself to a drink.”

  “And the odd thing is that I’m in love with you anyhow.”

  The telephone rang and she freed herself to answer it.

  “Another wire from Miles,” she announced. “He dropped it, or it says he dropped it, from the airplane at Kansas City.”

  “I suppose he asked to be remembered to me.”

  “No, he just said he loved me. I believe he does. He’s so very weak.”

  “Come sit beside me,” Joel urged her.

  It was early. And it was still a few minutes short of midnight a half-hour later, when Joel walked to the cold hearth, and said tersely:

  “Meaning that you haven’t any curiosity about me?”

  “Not at all. You attract me a lot and you know it. The point is that I suppose I really do love Miles.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And tonight I feel uneasy about everything.”

  He wasn’t angry—he was even faintly relieved that a possible entanglement was avoided. Still as he looked at her, the warmth and softness of her body thawing her cold blue costume, he knew she was one of the things he would always regret.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll phone a taxi.”

  “Nonsense—there’s a chauffeur on duty.”

  He winced at her readiness to have him go, and seeing this she kissed him lightly and said, “You’re sweet, Joel.” Then suddenly three things happened: he took down his drink at a gulp, the phone rang loud through the house and a clock in the hall struck in trumpet notes.

  Nine—ten—eleven—twelve—

  It was Sunday again. Joel realized that he had come to the theater this evening with the work of the week still hanging about him like cerements. He had made love to Stella as he might attack some matter to be cleaned up hurriedly before the days end. But this was Sunday—the lovely, lazy perspective of the next twenty-four hours unrolled before him—every minute was something to be approached with lulling indirection, every moment held the germ of innumerable possibilities. Nothing was impossible—everything was just beginning. He poured himself another drink.

  With a sharp moan, Stella slipped forward inertly by the telephone. Joel picked her up and laid her on the sofa. He squirted soda-water on a handkerchief and slapped it over her face. The telephone mouthpiece was still grinding and he put it to his ear.

  “—the plane fell just this side of Kansas City. The body of Miles Calman has been identified and—”

  He hung up the receiver.

  “Lie still,” he said, stalling, as Stella opened her eyes.

  “Oh, what’s happened?” she whispered. “Call them back. Oh, what’s happened?”

  “I’ll call them right away. What’s your doctor’s name?”

  “Did they say Miles was dead?”

  “Lie quiet—is there a servant still up?”

  “Hold me—I’m frightened.”

  He put his arm around her.

  “I want the name of your doctor,” he said sternly. “It may be a mistake but I want someone here.”

  “It’s Doctor—Oh, God, is Miles dead?”

  Joel ran upstairs and searched through strange medicine cabinets for spirits of ammonia. When he came down Stella cried:

  “He isn’t dead—I know he isn’t. This is part of his scheme. He’s torturing me. I know he’s alive. I can feel he’s alive.”

  “I want to get hold of some close friend of yours, Stella. You can’t stay here alone tonight.”

  “Oh, no,” she cried. “I can’t see anybody. You stay. I haven’t got any friend.” She got up, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Miles is my only friend. He’s not dead—he can’t be dead. I’m going there right away and see. Get a train. You’ll have to come with me.”

  “You can’t. There’s nothing to do tonight. I want you to tell me the name of some woman I can call: Lois? Joan? Carmel? Isn’t there somebody?”

  Stella stared at him blindly.

  “Eva Goebel was my best friend,” she said.

  Joel thought of Miles, his sad and desperate face in the office two days before. In the awful silence of his death all was clear about him. He w
as the only American-born director with both an interesting temperament and an artistic conscience. Meshed in an industry, he had paid with his ruined nerves for having no resilience, no healthy cynicism, no refuge—only a pitiful and precarious escape.

  There was a sound at the outer door—it opened suddenly, and there were footsteps in the hall.

  “Miles!” Stella screamed. “Is it you, Miles? Oh, it’s Miles.”

  A telegraph boy appeared in the doorway.

  “I couldn’t find the bell. I heard you talking inside.”

  The telegram was a duplicate of the one that had been phoned. While Stella read it over and over, as though it were a black lie, Joel telephoned. It was still early and he had difficulty getting anyone; when finally he succeeded in finding some friends he made Stella take a stiff drink.

  “You’ll stay here, Joel,” she whispered, as though she were half-asleep. “You won’t go away. Miles liked you—he said you—” She shivered violently, “Oh, my God, you don’t know how alone I feel.” Her eyes closed, “Put your arms around me. Miles had a suit like that.” She started bolt upright. “Think of what he must have felt. He was afraid of almost everything, anyhow.”

  She shook her head dazedly. Suddenly she seized Joel’s face and held it close to hers.

  “You won’t go. You like me—you love me, don’t you? Don’t call up anybody. Tomorrow’s time enough. You stay here with me tonight.”

  He stared at her, at first incredulously, and then with shocked understanding. In her dark groping Stella was trying to keep Miles alive by sustaining a situation in which he had figured—as if Miles’ mind could not die so long as the possibilities that had worried him still existed. It was a distraught and tortured effort to stave off the realization that he was dead.

  Resolutely Joel went to the phone and called a doctor.

  “Don’t, oh, don’t call anybody!” Stella cried. “Come back here and put your arms around me.”

  “Is Doctor Bales in?”

  “Joel,” Stella cried. “I thought I could count on you. Miles liked you. He was jealous of you—Joel, come here.”

  Ah then—if he betrayed Miles she would be keeping him alive—for if he were really dead how could he be betrayed?

  “—has just had a very severe shock. Can you come at once, and get hold of a nurse?”

  “Joel!”

  Now the door-bell and the telephone began to ring intermittently, and automobiles were stopping in front of the door.

  “But you’re not going,” Stella begged him. “You’re going to stay, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he answered. “But I’ll be back, if you need me.”

  Standing on the steps of the house which now hummed and palpitated with the life that flutters around death like protective leaves, he began to sob a little in his throat.

  “Everything he touched he did something magical to,” he thought. “He even brought that little gamin alive and made her a sort of master-piece.”

  And then:

  “What a hell of a hole he leaves in this damn wilderness—already!”

  And then with a certain bitterness. “Oh, yes, I’ll be back—I’ll be back!”

  1932

  THE LONG WAY OUT

  We were talking about some of the older castles in Touraine and we touched upon the iron cage in which Louis XI imprisoned Cardinal Balue for six years, then upon oubliettes and such horrors. I had seen several of the latter, simply dry wells thirty or forty feet deep where a man was thrown to wait for nothing; since I have such a tendency to claustrophobia that a Pullman berth is a certain nightmare, they had made a lasting impression. So it was rather a relief when a doctor told this story—that is, it was a relief when he began it, for it seemed to have nothing to do with the tortures long ago.

  There was a young woman named Mrs. King who was very happy with her husband. They were well-to-do and deeply in love, but at the birth of her second child she went into a long coma and emerged with a clear case of schizophrenia or “split personality.” Her delusion, which had something to do with the Declaration of Independence, had little bearing on the case and as she regained her health it began to disappear. At the end of ten months she was a convalescent patient scarcely marked by what had happened to her and very eager to go back into the world.

  She was only twenty-one, rather girlish in an appealing way and a favorite with the staff of the sanitarium. When she became well enough so that she could take an experimental trip with her husband there was a general interest in the venture. One nurse had gone into Philadelphia with her to get a dress, another knew the story of her rather romantic courtship in Mexico and everyone had seen her two babies on visits to the hospital. The trip was to Virginia Beach for five days.

  It was a joy to watch her make ready, dressing and packing meticulously and living in the gay trivialities of hair waves and such things. She was ready half an hour before the time of departure and she paid some visits on the floor in her powder-blue gown and her hat that looked like one minute after an April shower. Her frail lovely face, with just that touch of startled sadness that often lingers after an illness, was alight with anticipation.

  “We’ll just do nothing,” she said. “That’s my ambition. To get up when I want to for three straight mornings and stay up late for three straight nights. To buy a bathing suit by myself and order a meal.”

  When the time approached Mrs. King decided to wait downstairs instead of in her room and as she passed along the corridors, with an orderly carrying her suitcase, she waved to the other patients, sorry that they too were not going on a gorgeous holiday. The superintendent wished her well, two nurses found excuses to linger and share her infectious joy.

  “What a beautiful tan you’ll get, Mrs. King.”

  “Be sure and send a postcard.”

  About the time she left her room her husband’s car was hit by a truck on his way from the city—he was hurt internally and was not expected to live more than a few hours. The information was received at the hospital in a glassed-in office adjoining the hall where Mrs. King waited. The operator, seeing Mrs. King and knowing that the glass was not sound proof, asked the head nurse to come immediately. The head nurse hurried aghast to a doctor and he decided what to do. So long as the husband was still alive it was best to tell her nothing, but of course she must know that he was not coming today.

  Mrs. King was greatly disappointed.

  “I suppose it’s silly to feel that way,” she said. “After all these months what’s one more day? He said he’d come tomorrow, didn’t he?” The nurse was having a difficult time but she managed to pass it off until the patient was back in her room. Then they assigned a very experienced and phlegmatic nurse to keep Mrs. King away from other patients and from newspapers. By the next day the matter would be decided one way or another.

  But her husband lingered on and they continued to prevaricate. A little before noon next day one of the nurses was passing along the corridor when she met Mrs. King, dressed as she had been the day before but this time carrying her own suitcase.

  “I’m going to meet my husband,” she explained. “He couldn’t come yesterday but he’s coming today at the same time.”

  The nurse walked along with her. Mrs. King had the freedom of the building and it was difficult to simply steer her back to her room, and the nurse did not want to tell a story that would contradict what the authorities were telling her. When they reached the front hall she signaled to the operator, who fortunately understood. Mrs. King gave herself a last inspection in the mirror and said:

  “I’d like to have a dozen hats just like this to remind me to be this happy always.”

  When the head nurse came in frowning a minute later she demanded:

  “Don’t tell me George is delayed?”

  “I’m afraid he is. There is nothing much to do but be patient.”

  Mrs. King laughed ruefully. “I wanted him to see my costume when it was absolutely new.”

  “Why, the
re isn’t a wrinkle in it.”

  “I guess it’ll last till tomorrow. I oughtn’t to be blue about waiting one more day when I’m so utterly happy.”

  “Certainly not.”

  That night her husband died and at a conference of doctors next morning there was some discussion about what to do—it was a risk to tell her and a risk to keep it from her. It was decided finally to say that Mr. King had been called away and thus destroy her hope of an immediate meeting; when she was reconciled to this they could tell her the truth.

  As the doctors came out of the conference one of them stopped and pointed. Down the corridor toward the outer hall walked Mrs. King carrying her suitcase.

  Dr. Pirie, who had been in special charge of Mrs. King, caught his breath.

  “This is awful,” he said. “I think perhaps I’d better tell her now. There’s no use saying he’s away when she usually hears from him twice a week, and if we say he’s sick she’ll want to go to him. Anybody else like the job?”

  One of the doctors in the conference went on a fortnight’s vacation that afternoon. On the day of his return in the same corridor at the same hour, he stopped at the sight of a little procession coming toward him—an orderly carrying a suitcase, a nurse and Mrs. King dressed in the powder-blue suit and wearing the spring hat.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” she said. “I’m going to meet my husband and we’re going to Virginia Beach. I’m going to the hall because I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  He looked into her face, clear and happy as a child’s. The nurse signaled to him that it was as ordered, so he merely bowed and spoke of the pleasant weather.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” said Mrs. King, “but of course even if it was raining it would be a beautiful day for me.”

  The doctor looked after her, puzzled and annoyed—why are they letting this go on, he thought. What possible good can it do?

  Meeting Dr. Pirie, he put the question to him.

  “We tried to tell her,” Dr. Pirie said. “She laughed and said we were trying to see whether she’s still sick. You could use the word unthinkable in an exact sense here—his death is unthinkable to her.”