Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  (So she dances around the room to a tune from down-stairs, her arms outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand.)

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER

  The corner of a den down-stairs, filled by a very comfortable leather lounge. A small light is on each side above, and in the middle, over the couch hangs a painting of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period 1860. Outside the music is heard in a fox-trot.

  ROSALIND is seated on the lounge and on her left is HOWARD GILLESPIE, a vapid youth of about twenty-four. He is obviously very unhappy, and she is quite bored.

  GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I’ve changed. I feel the same toward you.

  ROSALIND: But you don’t look the same to me.

  GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I was so blasé, so indifferent — I still am.

  ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown eyes and thin legs.

  GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They’re still thin and brown. You’re a vampire, that’s all.

  ROSALIND: The only thing I know about vamping is what’s on the piano score. What confuses men is that I’m perfectly natural. I used to think you were never jealous. Now you follow me with your eyes wherever I go.

  GILLESPIE: I love you.

  ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it.

  GILLESPIE: And you haven’t kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that after a girl was kissed she was — was — won.

  ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me.

  GILLESPIE: Are you serious?

  ROSALIND: About as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now there’s a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he’d kissed a girl, every one knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same every one knows it’s because he can’t kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays.

  GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men?

  ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment, when he’s interested. There is a moment — Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word — something that makes it worth while.

  GILLESPIE: And then?

  ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty soon he thinks of nothing but being alone with you — he sulks, he won’t fight, he doesn’t want to play — Victory!

  (Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.)

  RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind.

  ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven’t got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie.

  (They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.)

  RYDER: Your party is certainly a success.

  ROSALIND: Is it — I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary — Do you mind sitting out a minute?

  RYDER: Mind — I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing” idea. See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow.

  ROSALIND: Dawson!

  RYDER: What?

  ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me.

  RYDER: (Startled) What — Oh — you know you’re remarkable!

  ROSALIND: Because you know I’m an awful proposition. Any one who marries me will have his hands full. I’m mean — mighty mean.

  RYDER: Oh, I wouldn’t say that.

  ROSALIND: Oh, yes, I am — especially to the people nearest to me. (She rises.) Come, let’s go. I’ve changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother is probably having a fit.

  (Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.)

  CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission.

  ALEC: (Gloomily) I’ll go if you want me to.

  CECELIA: Good heavens, no — with whom would I begin the next dance? (Sighs.) There’s no color in a dance since the French officers went back.

  ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don’t want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind.

  CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want.

  ALEC: I did, but since seeing these girls — I don’t know. I’m awfully attached to Amory. He’s sensitive and I don’t want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn’t care about him.

  CECELIA: He’s very good looking.

  ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won’t marry him, but a girl doesn’t have to marry a man to break his heart.

  CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret.

  ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It’s lucky for some that the Lord gave you a pug nose.

  (Enter MRS. CONNAGE.)

  MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind?

  ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you’ve come to the best people to find out. She’d naturally be with us.

  MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to meet her.

  ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls.

  MRS. CONNAGE: I’m perfectly serious — for all I know she may be at the Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her debut. You look left and I’ll —

  ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn’t you better send the butler through the cellar?

  MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don’t think she’d be there?

  CECELIA: He’s only joking, mother.

  ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high hurdler.

  MRS. CONNAGE: Let’s look right away.

  (They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.)

  GILLESPIE: Rosalind — Once more I ask you. Don’t you care a blessed thing about me?

  (AMORY walks in briskly.)

  AMORY: My dance.

  ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine.

  GILLESPIE: I’ve met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren’t you?

  AMORY: Yes.

  GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I’ve been there. It’s in the — the Middle West, isn’t it?

  AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I’d rather be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning.

  GILLESPIE: What!

  AMORY: Oh, no offense.

  (GILLESPIE bows and leaves.)

  ROSALIND: He’s too much people.

  AMORY: I was in love with a people once.

  ROSALIND: So?

  AMORY: Oh, yes — her name was Isabelle — nothing at all to her except what I read into her.

  ROSALIND: What happened?

  AMORY: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was — then she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, you know.

  ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical?

  AMORY: Oh — drive a car, but can’t change a tire.

  ROSALIND: What are you going to do?

  AMORY: Can’t say — run for President, write —

  ROSALIND: Greenwich Village?

  AMORY: Good heavens, no — I said write — not drink.

  ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely.

  AMORY: I feel as if I’d known you for ages.

  ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story?

  AMORY: No — I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you were one of my — my — (Changing his tone.) Suppose — we fell in love.

  ROSALIND: I’ve suggested pretending.

  AMORY: If we did it would be very big.

  ROSALIND: Why?

  AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.

  ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend.

  (Very deliberately they kiss.)

  AMORY: I can’t say sweet things. But you are beautiful.

  ROSALIND: Not that.

  AMORY: What then?

  ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing — only I want sentiment, real sentiment — and I never find it.

  AMORY: I never
find anything else in the world — and I loathe it.

  ROSALIND: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic taste.

  (Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the room. ROSALIND rises.)

  ROSALIND: Listen! they’re playing “Kiss Me Again.”

  (He looks at her.)

  AMORY: Well?

  ROSALIND: Well?

  AMORY: (Softly — the battle lost) I love you.

  ROSALIND: I love you — now.

  (They kiss.)

  AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done?

  ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don’t talk. Kiss me again.

  AMORY: I don’t know why or how, but I love you — from the moment I saw you.

  ROSALIND: Me too — I — I — oh, to-night’s to-night.

  (Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: “Oh, excuse me,” and goes.)

  ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don’t let me go — I don’t care who knows what I do.

  AMORY: Say it!

  ROSALIND: I love you — now. (They part.) Oh — I am very youthful, thank God — and rather beautiful, thank God — and happy, thank God, thank God — (She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, adds) Poor Amory!

  (He kisses her again.)

  KISMET

  Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately in love. The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of them a dozen romances were dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over them.

  “It may be an insane love-affair,” she told her anxious mother, “but it’s not inane.”

  The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March, where he alternated between astonishing bursts of rather exceptional work and wild dreams of becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind.

  They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly every evening — always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they feared that any minute the spell would break and drop them out of this paradise of rose and flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase from day to day; they began to talk of marrying in July — in June. All life was transmitted into terms of their love, all experience, all desires, all ambitions, were nullified — their senses of humor crawled into corners to sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely regretted juvenalia.

  For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement and was hurrying into line with his generation.

  A LITTLE INTERLUDE

  Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as inevitably his — the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets ... it seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these countless lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing — he moved in a half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying toward him with eager feet from every corner.... How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even his dreams now were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the summer air.

  The room was in darkness except for the faint glow of Tom’s cigarette where he lounged by the open window. As the door shut behind him, Amory stood a moment with his back against it.

  “Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business to-day?”

  Amory sprawled on a couch.

  “I loathed it as usual!” The momentary vision of the bustling agency was displaced quickly by another picture.

  “My God! She’s wonderful!”

  Tom sighed.

  “I can’t tell you,” repeated Amory, “just how wonderful she is. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.”

  Another sigh came from the window — quite a resigned sigh.

  “She’s life and hope and happiness, my whole world now.”

  He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid.

  “Oh, Golly, Tom!”

  BITTER SWEET

  “Sit like we do,” she whispered.

  He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle inside them.

  “I knew you’d come to-night,” she said softly, “like summer, just when I needed you most... darling... darling...”

  His lips moved lazily over her face.

  “You taste so good,” he sighed.

  “How do you mean, lover?”

  “Oh, just sweet, just sweet...” he held her closer.

  “Amory,” she whispered, “when you’re ready for me I’ll marry you.”

  “We won’t have much at first.”

  “Don’t!” she cried. “It hurts when you reproach yourself for what you can’t give me. I’ve got your precious self — and that’s enough for me.”

  “Tell me...”

  “You know, don’t you? Oh, you know.”

  “Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”

  “I love you, Amory, with all my heart.”

  “Always, will you?”

  “All my life — Oh, Amory — “

  “What?”

  “I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to have your babies.”

  “But I haven’t any people.”

  “Don’t laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me.”

  “I’ll do what you want,” he said.

  “No, I’ll do what you want. We’re you — not me. Oh, you’re so much a part, so much all of me...”

  He closed his eyes.

  “I’m so happy that I’m frightened. Wouldn’t it be awful if this was — was the high point?...”

  She looked at him dreamily.

  “Beauty and love pass, I know.... Oh, there’s sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses — “

  “Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony....”

  “And, Amory, we’re beautiful, I know. I’m sure God loves us — “

  “He loves you. You’re his most precious possession.”

  “I’m not his, I’m yours. Amory, I belong to you. For the first time I regret all the other kisses; now I know how much a kiss can mean.”

  Then they would smoke and he would tell her about his day at the office — and where they might live. Sometimes, when he was particularly loquacious, she went to sleep in his arms, but he loved that Rosalind — all Rosalinds — as he had never in the world loved any one else. Intangibly fleeting, unrememberable hours.

  AQUATIC INCIDENT

  One day Amory and Howard Gillespie meeting by accident down-town took lunch together, and Amory heard a story that delighted him. Gillespie after several cocktails was in a talkative mood; he began by telling Amory that he was sure Rosalind was slightly eccentric.

  He had gone with her on a swimming party up in WestchesterCounty, and some one mentioned that Annette Kellerman had been there one day on a visit and had dived from the top of a rickety, thirty-foot summer-house. Immediately Rosalind insisted that Howard should climb up with her to see what it looked like.

  A minute later, as he sat and dangled his feet on the edge, a form shot by him; Rosalind, her arms spread in a beautiful swan dive, had sailed through the air into the clear water.

  “Of course I had to go, after that — and I nearly killed myself. I thought I was pretty good to even try it. Nobody else in the party tried it. Well, afterward Rosalind had the nerve to ask me why I stooped over when I dove. ‘It didn’t make it any easier,’ she said, ‘it just took all the courage out of it.’ I ask you, what can a man do with a girl like that? Unnecessary, I call it.”

  Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly all through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow optimists.

  FIVE WEEKS LATER

  Again the library of the Connage house. ROSALIND
is alone, sitting on the lounge staring very moodily and unhappily at nothing. She has changed perceptibly — she is a trifle thinner for one thing; the light in her eyes is not so bright; she looks easily a year older.

  Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in ROSALIND with a nervous glance.

  MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night?

  (ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.)

  MRS. CONNAGE: Alec is coming up to take me to this Barrie play, “Et tu, Brutus.” (She perceives that she is talking to herself.) Rosalind! I asked you who is coming to-night?

  ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh — what — oh — Amory —

  MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so many admirers lately that I couldn’t imagine which one. (ROSALIND doesn’t answer.) Dawson Ryder is more patient than I thought he’d be. You haven’t given him an evening this week.

  ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her face.) Mother — please —

  MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, I won’t interfere. You’ve already wasted over two months on a theoretical genius who hasn’t a penny to his name, but go ahead, waste your life on him. I won’t interfere.

  ROSALIND: (As if repeating a tiresome lesson) You know he has a little income — and you know he’s earning thirty-five dollars a week in advertising —

  MRS. CONNAGE: And it wouldn’t buy your clothes. (She pauses but ROSALIND makes no reply.) I have your best interests at heart when I tell you not to take a step you’ll spend your days regretting. It’s not as if your father could help you. Things have been hard for him lately and he’s an old man. You’d be dependent absolutely on a dreamer, a nice, well-born boy, but a dreamer — merely clever. (She implies that this quality in itself is rather vicious.)

  ROSALIND: For heaven’s sake, mother —

  (A maid appears, announces Mr. Blaine who follows immediately. AMORY’S friends have been telling him for ten days that he “looks like the wrath of God,” and he does. As a matter of fact he has not been able to eat a mouthful in the last thirty-six hours.)

  AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage.