Tales of the Jazz Age (Classic Reprint)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  It was indeed a strange state of affairs and a sorry one for many worthy and God–fearing men. For the first time in the history of the Republic almost any negro north of Georgia could change a one–dollar bill. But as at that time the cent was rapidly approaching the purchasing power of the Chinese ubu and was only a thing you got back occasionally after paying for a soft drink, and could use merely in getting your correct weight, this was perhaps not so strange a phenomenon as it at first seems. It was too curious a state of things, however, for Merlin Grainger to take the step that he did take—the hazardous, almost involuntary step of proposing to Miss Masters. Stranger still that she accepted him,

  It was at Pulpat's on Saturday night and over a $1.75 bottle of water diluted with vin ordinaire that the proposal occurred.

  "Wine makes me feel all tingly, doesn't it you?" chattered Miss Masters gaily.

  "Yes," answered Merlin absently; and then, after a long and pregnant pause: "Miss Masters—Olive—I want to say something to you if you'll listen to me."

  The tingliness of Miss Masters (who knew what was coming) increased until it seemed that she would shortly be electrocuted by her own nervous reactions. But her "Yes, Merlin," came without a sign or flicker of interior disturbance. Merlin swallowed a stray bit of air that he found in his mouth.

  "I have no fortune," he said with the manner of making an announcement. "I have no fortune at all."

  Their eyes met, locked, became wistful, and dreamy and beautiful.

  "Olive," he told her, "I love you."

  "I love you too, Merlin," she answered simply. "Shall we have another bottle of wine?"

  "Yes," he cried, his heart beating at a great rate. "Do you mean—"

  "To drink to our engagement," she interrupted bravely. "May it be a short one!"

  "No!" he almost shouted, bringing his fist fiercely down upon the table. "May it last forever!"

  "What?"

  "I mean—oh, I see what you mean. You're right. May it be a short one." He laughed and added, "My error."

  After the wine arrived they discussed the matter thoroughly.

  "We'll have to take a small apartment at first," he said, "and I believe, yes, by golly, I know there's a small one in the house where I live, a big room and a sort of a dressing–room–kitchenette and the use of a bath on the same floor."

  She clapped her hands happily, and he thought how pretty she was really, that is, the upper part of her face—from the bridge of the nose down she was somewhat out of true. She continued enthusiastically:

  "And as soon as we can afford it we'll take a real swell apartment, with an elevator and a telephone girl."

  "And after that a place in the country—and a car."

  "I can't imagine nothing more fun. Can you?"

  Merlin fell silent a moment. He was thinking that he would have to give up his room, the fourth floor rear. Yet it mattered very little now. During the past year and a half—in fact, from the very date of Caroline's visit to the Moonlight Quill—he had never seen her. For a week after that visit her lights had failed to go on—darkness brooded out into the areaway, seemed to grope blindly in at his expectant, uncurtained window. Then the lights had appeared at last, and instead of Caroline and her callers they stowed a stodgy family—a little man with a bristly mustache and a full–bosomed woman who spent her evenings patting her hips and rearranging bric-à-brac. After two days of them Merlin had callously pulled down his shade.

  No, Merlin could think of nothing more fun than rising in the world with Olive. There would be a cottage in a suburb, a cottage painted blue, just one class below the sort of cottages that are of white stucco with a green roof. In the grass around the cottage would be rusty trowels and a broken green bench and a baby–carriage with a wicker body that sagged to the left. And around the grass and the baby–carriage and the cottage itself, around his whole world there would be the arms of Olive, a little stouter, the arms of her neo–Olivian period, when, as she walked, her cheeks would tremble up and down ever so slightly from too much face–massaging. He could hear her voice now, two spoons' length away:

  "I knew you were going to say this to–night, Merlin. I could see—"

  She could see. Ah—suddenly he wondered how much she could see. Could she see that the girl who had come in with a party of three men and sat down at the next table was Caroline? Ah, could she see that? Could she see that the men brought with them liquor far more potent than Pulpat's red ink condensed threefold?…

  Merlin stared breathlessly, half–hearing through an auditory ether Olive's low, soft monologue, as like a persistent honey–bee she sucked sweetness from her memorable hour. Merlin was listening to the clinking of ice and the fine laughter of all four at some pleasantry—and that laughter of Caroline's that he knew so well stirred him, lifted him, called his heart imperiously over to her table, whither it obediently went. He could see her quite plainly, and he fancied that in the last year and a half she had changed, if ever so slightly. Was it the light or were her cheeks a little thinner and her eyes less fresh, if more liquid, than of old? Yet the shadows were still purple in her russet hair; her mouth hinted yet of kisses, as did the profile that came sometimes between his eyes and a row of books, when it was twilight in the bookshop where the crimson lamp presided no more.

  And she had been drinking. The threefold flush in her cheeks was compounded of youth and wine and fine cosmetic—that he could tell. She was making great amusement for the young man on her left and the portly person on her right, and even for the old fellow opposite her, for the latter from time to time uttered the shocked and mildly reproachful cackles of another generation. Merlin caught the words of a song she was intermittently singing—

  Just snap your fingers at care,

  Don't cross the bridge 'til you're there—

  The portly person filled her glass with chill amber. A waiter after several trips about the table, and many helpless glances at Caroline, who was maintaining a cheerful, futile questionnaire as to the succulence of this dish or that, managed to obtain the semblance of an order and hurried away…

  Olive was speaking to Merlin—

  "When, then?" she asked, her voice faintly shaded with disappointment. He realized that he had just answered no to some question she had asked him.

  "Oh, sometime."

  "Don't you—care?"

  A rather pathetic poignancy in her question brought his eyes back to her.

  "As soon as possible, dear," he replied with surprising tenderness. "In two months—in June."

  "So soon?" Her delightful excitement quite took her breath away.

  "Oh, yes, I think we'd better say June. No use waiting."

  Olive began to pretend that two months was really too short a time for her to make preparations. Wasn't he a bad boy! Wasn't he impatient, though! Well, she'd show him he mustn't be too quick with her. Indeed he was so sudden she didn't exactly know whether she ought to marry him at all.

  "June," he repeated sternly.

  Olive sighed and smiled and drank her coffee, her little finger lifted high above the others in true refined fashion. A stray thought came to Merlin that he would like to buy five rings and throw at it.

  "By gosh!" he exclaimed aloud. Soon he would be putting rings on one of her fingers.

  His eyes swung sharply to the right. The party of four had become so riotous that the head–waiter had approached and spoken to them. Caroline was arguing with this head–waiter in a raised voice, a voice so clear and young that it seemed as though the whole restaurant would listen—the whole restaurant except Olive Masters, self–absorbed in her new secret.

  "How do you do?" Caroline was saying. "Probably the handsomest head–waiter in captivity. Too much noise? Very unfortunate. Something'll have to be done about it. Gerald"—she addressed the man on her right—"the head–waiter says there's too much noise. Appeals to us to have it stopped. What'll I say?"

  "Sh!" remonstrated Gerald, with laughter. "Sh!" and Merlin heard him add
in an undertone: "All the bourgeoisie will be aroused. This is where the floorwalkers learn French."

  Caroline sat up straight in sudden alertness.

  "Where's a floorwalker?" she cried. "Show me a floorwalker." This seemed to amuse the party, for they all, including Caroline, burst into renewed laughter. The head–waiter, after a last conscientious but despairing admonition, became Gallic with his shoulders and retired into the background.

  Pulpat's, as every one knows, has the unvarying respectability of the table d'hôte. It is not a gay place in the conventional sense. One comes, drinks the red wine, talks perhaps a little more and a little louder than usual under the low, smoky ceilings, and then goes home. It closes up at nine–thirty, tight as a drum; the policeman is paid off and given an extra bottle of wine for the missis, the coat–room girl hands her tips to the collector, and then darkness crushes the little round tables out of sight and life. But excitement was prepared for Pulpat's this evening—excitement of no mean variety. A girl with russet, purple–shadowed hair mounted to her table–top and began to dance thereon.

  "Sacré nom de Dieu! Come down off there!" cried the head–waiter. "Stop that music!"

  But the musicians were already playing so loud that they could pretend not to hear his order; having once been young, they played louder and gayer than ever, and Caroline danced with grace and vivacity, her pink, filmy dress swirling about her, her agile arms playing in supple, tenuous gestures along the smoky air.

  A group of Frenchmen at a table near by broke into cries of applause, in which other parties joined—in a moment the room was full of clapping and shouting; half the diners were on their feet, crowding up, and on the outskirts the hastily summoned proprietor was giving indistinct vocal evidences of his desire to put an end to this thing as quickly as possible.

  "… Merlin!" cried Olive, awake, aroused at last; "she's such a wicked girl! Let's get out—now!"

  The fascinated Merlin protested feebly that the check was not paid.

  "It's all right. Lay five dollars on the table. I despise that girl. I can't bear to look at her." She was on her feet now, tagging at Merlin's arm.

  Helplessly, listlessly, and then with what amounted to downright unwillingness, Merlin rose, followed Olive dumbly as she picked her way through the delirious clamor, now approaching its height and threatening to become a wild and memorable riot. Submissively he took his coat and stumbled up half a dozen steps into the moist April air outside, his ears still ringing with the sound of light feet on the table and of laughter all about and over the little world of the cafe. In silence they walked along toward Fifth Avenue and a bus,

  It was not until next day that she told him about the wedding—how she had moved the date forward: it was much better that they should be married on the first of May.

  III

  And married they were, in a somewhat stuffy manner, under the chandelier of the flat where Olive lived with her mother. After marriage came elation, and then, gradually, the growth of weariness. Responsibility descended upon Merlin, the responsibility of making his thirty dollars a week and her twenty suffice to keep them respectably fat and to hide with decent garments the evidence that they were.

  It was decided after several weeks of disastrous and well–nigh humiliating experiments with restaurants that they would join the great army of the delicatessen–fed, so he took up his old way of life again, in that he stopped every evening at Braegdort's delicatessen and bought potatoes in salad, ham in slices, and sometimes even stuffed tomatoes in bursts of extravagance.

  Then he would trudge homeward, enter the dark hallway, and climb three rickety flights of stairs covered by an ancient carpet of long obliterated design. The hall had an ancient smell—of the vegetables of 1880, of the furniture polish in vogue when "Adam–and Eve" Bryan ran against William McKinley, of portieres an ounce heavier with dust, from worn–out shoes, and lint from dresses turned long since into patch–work quilts. This smell would pursue him up the stairs, revivified and made poignant at each landing by the aura of contemporary cooking, then, as he began the next flight, diminishing into the odor of the dead routine of dead generations.

  Eventually would occur the door of his room, which slipped open with indecent willingness and closed with almost a sniff upon his "Hello, dear! Got a treat for you to–night."

  Olive, who always rode home on the bus to "get a morsel of air," would be making the bed and hanging up things. At his call she would come up to him and give him a quick kiss with wide–open eyes, while be held her upright like a ladder, his hands on her two arms, as though she were a thing without equilibrium, and would, once he relinquished hold, fall stiffly backward to the floor. This is the kiss that comes in with the second year of marriage, succeeding the bridegroom kiss (which is rather stagey at best, say those who know about such things, and apt to be copied from passionate movies).

  Then came supper, and after that they went out for a walk, up two blocks and through Central Park, or sometimes to a moving picture, which taught them patiently that they were the sort of people for whom life was ordered, and that something very grand and brave and beautiful would soon happen to them if they were docile and obedient to their rightful superiors and kept away from pleasure.

  Such was their day for three years. Then change came into their lives: Olive had a baby, and as a result Merlin had a new influx of material resources. In the third week of Olive's confinement, after an hour of nervous rehearsing, he went into the office of Mr. Moonlight Quill and demanded an enormous increase in salary.

  "I've been here ten years," he said; "since I was nineteen. I've always tried to do my best in the interests of the business."

  Mr. Moonlight Quill said that he would think it over. Next morning he announced, to Merlin's great delight, that he was going to put into effect a project long premeditated—he was going to retire from active work in the bookshop, confining himself to periodic visits and leaving Merlin as manager with a salary of fifty dollars a week and a one–tenth interest in the business. When the old man finished, Merlin's cheeks were glowing and his eyes full of tears. He seized his employer's hand and shook it violently, saying over and over again:

  "It's very nice of you, sir. It's very white of you. It's very, very nice of you."

  So after ten years of faithful work in the store he had won out at last. Looking back, he saw his own progress toward this hill of elation no longer as a sometimes sordid and always gray decade of worry and failing enthusiasm and failing dreams, years when the moonlight had grown duller in the areaway and the youth had faded out of Olive's face, but as a glorious and triumphant climb over obstacles which he had determinedly surmounted by unconquerable will–power. The optimistic self–delusion that had kept him from misery was seen now in the golden garments of stern resolution. Half a dozen times he had taken steps to leave the Moonlight Quill and soar upward, but through sheer faintheartedness he had stayed on. Strangely enough he now thought that those were times when he had exerted tremendous persistence and had "determined" to fight it out where he was.

  At any rate, let us not for this moment begrudge Merlin his new and magnificent view of himself. He had arrived. At thirty he had reached a post of importance. He left the shop that evening fairly radiant, invested every penny in his pocket in the most tremendous feast that Braegdort's delicatessen offered, and staggered homeward with the great news and four gigantic paper bags. The fact that Olive was too sick to eat, that he made himself faintly but unmistakably ill by a struggle with four stuffed tomatoes, and that most of the food deteriorated rapidly in an iceless ice–box: all next day did not mar the occasion. For the first time since the week of his marriage Merlin Grainger lived under a sky of unclouded tranquillity.

  The baby boy was christened Arthur, and life became dignified, significant, and, at length, centered. Merlin and Olive resigned themselves to a somewhat secondary place in their own cosmos; but what they lost in personality they regained in a sort of primordial pride. The cou
ntry house did not come, but a month in an Asbury Park boarding–house each summer filled the gap; and during Merlin's two weeks' holiday this excursion assumed the air of a really merry jaunt—especially when, with the baby asleep in a wide room opening technically on the sea, Merlin strolled with Olive along the thronged board–walk puffing at his cigar and trying to look like twenty thousand a year.

  With some alarm at the slowing up of the days and the accelerating of the years, Merlin became thirty–one, thirty–two—then almost with a rush arrived at that age which, with all its washing and panning, can only muster a bare handful of the precious stuff of youth: he became thirty–five. And one day on Fifth Avenue he saw Caroline.

  It was Sunday, a radiant, flowerful Easter morning and the avenue was a pageant of lilies and cutaways and happy April–colored bonnets. Twelve o'clock: the great churches were letting out their people—St. Simon's, St. Hilda's, the Church of the Epistles, opened their doors like wide mouths until the people pouring forth surely resembled happy laughter as they met and strolled and chattered, or else waved white bouquets at waiting chauffeurs.

  In front of the Church of the Epistles stood its twelve vestrymen, carrying out the time–honored custom of giving away Easter eggs full of face–powder to the church–going debutantes of the year. Around them delightedly danced the two thousand miraculously groomed children of the very rich, correctly cute and curled, shining like sparkling little jewels upon their mothers' fingers. Speaks the sentimentalist for the children of the poor? Ah, but the children of the rich, laundered, sweet–smelling, complexioned of the country, and, above all, with soft, in–door voices.

  Little Arthur was five, child of the middle class. Undistinguished, unnoticed, with a nose that forever marred what Grecian yearnings his features might have had, he held tightly to his mother's warm, sticky hand, and, with Merlin on his other side, moved, upon the home–coming throng. At Fifty–third Street, where there were two churches, the congestion was at its thickest, its richest. Their progress was of necessity retarded to such an extent that even little Arthur had not the slightest difficulty in keeping up. Then it was that Merlin perceived an open landaulet of deepest crimson, with handsome nickel trimmings, glide slowly up to the curb and come to a stop. In it sat Caroline.