The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald. F. Scott Fitzgerald
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 14th, 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 a while 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 won’t.”
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 her until she began to laugh quietly. Then 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 anymore?” 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 warm 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 of the almighty secret service as I slid by your inspiring and impeccable father, swathed in yards and yards of veiling.”
“He wouldn’t have noticed you without your veil,” answered Clayton, sitting down. “He was really most emotional under all that brusqueness. Really, you know, he’s quite a nice chap. Wish I knew him better.”
The train was in motion; the last uniforms had drifted in like brown, blown leaves, and now it seemed as if one tremendous wind was carrying them shoreward.
“How far are you going with me?” asked Clayton.
“Just to Rochester, an hour and a half. I absolutely had to see you before you left, which isn’t very Spartan of me. But really, you see, I feel that you don’t quite understand about last night, and look at me as” she paused “well—as rather exceptional.”
“Wouldn’t I be rather an awful cad if I thought about it in those terms at all?”
“No,” she said cheerily. “I, for instance, am both a romanticist and a psychologist. It does take the romance out of anything to analyze it, but I’m going to do it if only to clear myself in your eyes.”
“You don’t have to—” he began.
“I know I don’t,” she interrupted, “but I’m going to, and when I’ve finished you’ll see where weakness and inevitability shade off. No, I don’t believe in Zola.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Well, my dear, Zola said that environment is environment, but he referred to families and races, and this is the story of a class.”
“What class?”
“Our class.”
“Please,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to hear.”
She settled herself against his shoulder and, gazing out at the vanishing country, began to talk very deliberately.
“It was said, before the war, that England was the only country in the world where women weren’t safe from men of their own class.”
“One