The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby, Tender Is the Night, This Side of Paradise, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, The Beautiful and Damned, The Love of the Last Tycoon and many more stories…. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
home.”
“Well then we’ll go to your old rooms in Grove Street. You’ve still got them, haven’t you?”
Before he could answer she had spoken to the chauffer and was leaning back in the corner smiling at him.
“Why Eleanor, we can’t do that—talk there—”
“Are the rooms cleaned?” she interrupted.
“About once a month I think, but—”
“That’s all that’s necessary. In fact it’ll be wonderfully proper, won’t be clothes lying around the room as there usually are at bachelor teas. At Colonel Hotesane’s farewell party, Gertrude Evarts and I saw—in the middle of the floor, well, my dear, a series of garments and—as we were the first to arrive we—”
“Eleanor,” said Clay firmly, “I don’t like this.”
“I know you don’t, and that’s why we’re going to your rooms to talk it over. Good heavens, do you think people worry these days about where conversations take place, unless they’re in wireless towers, or shoreways in coast towns?”
The machine had stopped and before he could bring further argument to bear she had stepped out and scurried up the steps, where she announced that she would wait until he came and opened the door. He had no alternative. He followed, and as they mounted the stairs inside he could hear her laughing softly at him in the darkness.
He threw open the door and groped for the electric light, and in the glow that followed both stood without moving. There on the table sat a picture of Dick, Dick almost as they had last seen him, worldly wise and sophisticated, in his civilian clothes. Eleanor was the first to move. She crossed swiftly over, the dust rising with the swish of her silk, and elbows on the table said softly:
“Poor old handsome, with your beautiful self all smashed.” She turned to Clay: “Dick didn’t have much of a soul, such a small soul. He never bothered about eternity and I doubt if he knows any—but he had a way with him, and oh, that magnificent body of his, red gold hair, brown eyes—” her voice trailed off and she sank lazily onto the sofa in front of the hearth.
“Build a fire and then come and put your arm around me and we’ll talk.” Obediently he searched for wood while she sat and chatted. “I won’t pretend to busybody around and try to help—I’m far too tired. I’m sure I can give the impression of home much better by just sitting here and talking, can’t I?”
He looked up from where he knelt at her feet manipulating the kerosene can, and realized that his voice was husky as he spoke.
“Just talk about England—about the country a little and about Scotland and tell me things that have happened, amusing provincial things and things with women in them—Put yourself in,” he finished rather abruptly.
Eleanor smiled and kneeling down beside him lit the match and ran it along the edge of the paper that undermined the logs. She twisted her head to read it as it curled up in black at the corners, “August 14h, 1915. Zeppelin raid in—there it goes,” as it disappeared in little, licking flames. “My little sister—you remember Katherine; Kitty, the one with the yellow hair and the little lisp—she was killed by one of those things—she and a governess, that summer.”
“Little Kitty,” he said sadly, “a lot of children were killed I know, a lot, I didn’t know she was gone,” he was far away now and a set look had come into his eyes. She hastened to change the subject.
“Lots—but we’re not on death tonight. We’re going to pretend we’re happy. Do you see?” She patted his knee reprovingly, “we are happy. We are! Why you were almost whimsical awhile ago. I believe you’re a sentimentalist. Are you?”
He was still gazing absently at the fire but he looked up at this.
“Tonight, I am—almost—for the first time in my life. Are you, Eleanor?”
“No, I’m romantic. There’s a huge difference; a sentimental person thinks things will last, a romantic person hopes they wont.”
He was in a reverie again and she knew that he had hardly heard her.
“Excuse please,” she pleaded, slipping close to him. “Do be a nice boy and put your arm around me.” He put his arm gingerly about until she began to laugh quietly. When he hastily withdrew it, and bending forward, talked quickly at the fire.
“Will you tell me why in the name of this mad world we’re here tonight? Do you realize that this is—was a bachelor apartment before the bachelors all married the red widow over the channel—and you’ll be compromised?”
She seized the straps of his shoulder belt and tugged at him until his grey eyes looked into hers.
“Clay, Clay, don’t—you musn’t use small petty words like that at this time. Compromise! What’s that to words like Life and Love and Death and England. Compromise! Clay, I don’t believe anyone uses that word except servants.” She laughed. “Clay, you and our butler are the only men in England who use the word compromise. My maid and I have been warned within a week—How odd—Clay, look at me.”
He looked at her and saw what she intended, beauty heightened by enthusiasm. Her lips were half parted in a smile, her hair just so slightly disarranged.
“Damned witch,” he muttered. “You used to read Tolstoy, and believe him.”
“Did I?” her gaze wandered to the fire. “So I did, so I did.” Then her eyes came back to him and the present. “Really, Clay, we must stop gazing at the fire. It puts our minds on the past and tonight there’s got to be no past or future, no time, just tonight, you and I sitting here and I most tired for a military shoulder to rest my head upon.” But he was off on an old tack thinking of Dick and he spoke his thoughts aloud.
“You used to talk Tolstoy to Dick and I thought it was scandalous for such a good-looking girl to be intellectual.”
“I wasn’t, really,” she admitted. “It was to impress Dick.”
“I was shocked, too, when I read something of Tolstoy’s, I struck the something Sonata.”
“‘Kreutzer Sonata,’” she suggested.
“That’s it. I thought it was immoral for young girls to read Tolstoy and told Dick so. He used to nag me about that. I was nineteen.”
“Yes, we thought you quite the young prig. We considered ourselves advanced.”
“You’re only twenty, aren’t you?” asked Clay suddenly.
She nodded.
“Don’t you believe in Tolstoy any more?” he asked, almost fiercely.
She shook her head and then looked up at him almost wistfully.
“Won’t you let me lean against your shoulder just the smallest bit?”
He put his arm around her, never once taking his eyes from her face, and suddenly the whole strength of her appeal burst upon him. Clay was no saint, but he had always been rather decent about women. Perhaps that’s why he felt so helpless now. His emotions were not complex. He knew what was wrong, but he knew also that he wanted this woman, this wallet creature of silk and life who crept so close to him. There were reasons why he oughtn’t to have her, but he had suddenly seen how love was a big word like Life and Death, and she knew that he realized and was glad. Still they sat without moving for a long while and watched the fire.
II.
At two-twenty next day Clay shook hands gravely with his father and stepped into the train for Dover. Eleanor, comfortable with a novel, was nestled into a corner of his compartment, and as he entered she smiled a welcome and closed the book.
“Well,” she began. “I felt like a minion