The Beautiful and Damned / Прекрасные и обреченные. Уровень 4
Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
Легко читаем по-английски
Перед вами роман, ставший вторым по счету в творчестве Фрэнсиса Скотта Фицджеральда – «Прекрасные и обреченные». Он повествует об Энтони и Глории Пэтч – типичных представителях высшего общества Нью-Йорка 1920-х годов. Они молоды, привлекательны, поверхностны и нацелены лишь на исполнение каждого своего каприза. Однако непрекращающаяся погоня за богатством и удовольствиями оборачивается настоящей трагедией, а счастье, к которому они так стремились, становится недостижимым. Текст произведения адаптирован для уровня Upper-Intermediate (для продолжающих учить английский язык верхней ступени), а также снабжен комментариями.
Ф. С. Фицджеральд
The Beautiful and Damned / Прекрасные и обреченные. Уровень 4
Francis Scott Fitzgerald
The Beautiful and Damned
© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2020
Scott Fitzgerald
The Beautiful And Damned
Book One
Chapter I
Anthony Patch
In 1913, when Anthony Patch[1 - Anthony Patch – Энтони Пэтч] was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him. Irony was the final polish of the shoe. Yet at the brink of this story he has as yet gone no further than the conscious stage[2 - conscious stage – стадия пробуждения сознания]. He thought himself an exceptional young man, thoroughly sophisticated, well adjusted to his environment, and somewhat more significant than any one else he knew.
This was his healthy state and it made him cheerful, pleasant, and very attractive to intelligent men and to all women. In this state he considered that he would one day accomplish some quiet subtle thing. Until the time came for this he would be Anthony Patch.
A Worthy Man And His Gifted Son
Anthony was the grandson of Adam J. Patch. Adam J. Patch, more familiarly known as “Cross Patch[3 - Cross Patch – Сердитый Пэтч],” left his father’s farm in Tarrytown[4 - Tarrytown – Тэрритаун] early in sixty-one to join a New York cavalry regiment. He came home from the war a major, walked to Wall Street, and he gathered for himself some seventy-five million dollars.
This occupied his energies until he was fifty-seven years old. Then, after a severe attack of sclerosis, he decided to consecrate the remainder of his life to the moral regeneration of the world. He became a reformer among reformers. From an armchair in the office of his Tarrytown estate he directed against the enormous hypothetical enemy, unrighteousness.
Early in his career Adam Patch had married an anemic lady of thirty, Alicia Withers[5 - Alicia Withers – Алисия Уитерс], who brought him one hundred thousand dollars. Immediately she had borne him a son. The boy, Adam Ulysses Patch, became an inveterate joiner of clubs, and at the age of twenty-six he began his memoirs under the title “New York Society as I Have Seen It.”
This man married at twenty-two. His wife was Henrietta Lebrune[6 - Henrietta Lebrune – Генриетта Лебрюн], and the single child of the union was, at the request of his grandfather, christened Anthony Comstock Patch. Young Anthony had one picture of his father and mother together. It showed a dandy of the nineties, standing beside a tall dark lady with a muff. Between them was a little boy with long brown curls, dressed in a velvet suit. This was Anthony at five, the year of his mother’s death.
His mother was a lady who sang, sang, sang, in the music room of their house on Washington Square – sometimes with guests scattered all about her, and often she sang to Anthony alone, in Italian or French or in a strange and terrible dialect.
After Henrietta Lebrune Patch had “joined another choir,” as her widower remarked, father and son lived up at grandfather’s in Tarrytown. Ulysses came daily to Anthony’s nursery and was continually promising Anthony hunting trips and fishing trips and excursions to Atlantic City, “oh, some time soon now”; but none of them ever materialized. One trip they took; when Anthony was eleven they went abroad, to England and Switzerland, and there in the best hotel in
Lucerne his father died. Anthony was brought back to America, and a vague melancholy stayed beside him through the rest of his life.
Past And Person Of The Hero
At eleven he knew a horror of death. Within six years his parents had died and his grandmother had faded off almost imperceptibly. So to Anthony life was a struggle against death, that waited at every corner. He formed the habit of reading in bed – it soothed him. He read until he was tired and often fell asleep with the lights still on.
His favorite diversion until he was fourteen was his stamp collection; his grandfather considered fatuously that it was teaching him geography. His stamps were his greatest happiness; they devoured his money.
At sixteen he became an inarticulate boy. His private tutor persuaded to go to Harvard.
There he lived for a while alone – a slim dark boy of medium height with a shy sensitive mouth. He laid the foundations for a library by purchasing from a wandering bibliophile some books, finding later that he had paid too much. He became an exquisite dandy, bought a pathetic collection of silk pajamas, brocaded dressing-gowns, and neckties too flamboyant to wear. In this he could parade before a mirror in his room.
Curiously enough he found that he was looked upon[7 - he was looked upon – его почитали]as a rather romantic figure, a scholar, a recluse, an erudite. This amused him but secretly pleased him. In 1909, when he graduated, he was only twenty years old.
Then abroad again – to Rome this time, architecture and painting. He wrote some ghastly Italian sonnets.
He returned to America in 1912 because of his grandfather’s sudden illness, and decided to put off the idea of living permanently abroad. He took an apartment on Fifty-second Street and settled down.
In 1913 Anthony Patch’s shoulders had widened and his brunette face had lost the frightened look. His friends declared that they had never seen his hair rumpled. His nose was too sharp; his mouth was a mirror of mood, but his blue eyes were charming. Moreover, he was very clean, in appearance and in reality, with that especial cleanness borrowed from beauty.
The Work
His apartment was kept clean by an English servant with the appropriate name of Bounds. From eight until eleven in the morning he was entirely Anthony’s. He arrived with the mail and cooked breakfast. At nine-thirty he pulled the edge of Anthony’s blanket; then he served breakfast on a card-table in the front room, made the bed and, after asking with some hostility if there was anything else, went away.
In the mornings, at least once a week, Anthony went to see his broker. His income was slightly under seven thousand a year, he inherited money from his mother. His grandfather judged that this sum was sufficient for young Anthony’s needs. Every Christmas he sent him a five-hundred-dollar bond, which Anthony usually sold.
Anthony always enjoyed the visits to his broker. The big trust company building linked him to the great fortunes. From the hurried men he derived the sense of safety.
Some golden day, of course, Anthony would have many millions. Let’s go back to the conversation with his grandfather immediately upon his return from Rome.
He had hoped to find his grandfather dead, but had learned by telephoning that Adam Patch was comparatively well again – the next day he had concealed his disappointment and gone out to Tarrytown.
Anthony was late and the venerable philanthropist was awaiting him in a parlor, where he was glancing through the morning papers for the second time. His secretary ushered Anthony into the room.
They shook hands gravely.
“I’m glad to hear you’re better,” Anthony said.
The senior Patch pulled out his watch.
“Train late?” he asked mildly. And then after a long sigh, “Sit down.”
Anthony felt that he was expected to outline his intentions. He wished that the secretary would have tact enough to leave the room.
“Now you ought to do something,” said his grandfather softly, “accomplish something.”
Anthony made a suggestion:
“I thought – it seemed to me that perhaps I’m best qualified to write – “
Adam Patch winced, visualizing a family poet with a long hair and three mistresses.
“ – history,” finished Anthony.
“History? History of what? The Civil War? The Revolution?”
“Why – no, sir. A history of the Middle Ages.”
“Middle Ages? Why not your own country? Something you know about?”
“Well, you see I’ve lived so much abroad – “
“Why you should write about the Middle Ages, I don’t know. Dark Ages, we call them. Nobody knows what happened, and nobody cares, except that they’re over now. Do you think you’ll be able to do any work in New York – or do you really intend to work at all?”
This last with soft, almost imperceptible, cynicism.
“Why, yes, I do, sir.”
The conversation came toward a rather abrupt conclusion, when Anthony rose, looked at his watch, and remarked that he had an engagement with his broker that afternoon. He had intended to stay a few days with his grandfather, but he was tired and irritated. He will come again in a few days.
Afternoon
It was October in 1913. It was pleasant to sit lazily by the open window. It was pleasant to yawn about five, toss the book on a table, and go to the bath.
“To… you… beautiful lady,” he was singing as he turned on the tap.
“I raise… my… eyes;
To… you… beaut-if-ul la-a-dy
My… heart… cries”
Through his closed lips he made a humming noise, which he vaguely imagined resembled the sound of a violin. Stripped, and adopting an athletic posture, he regarded himself with some satisfaction in the mirror.
Once accustomed to the temperature of the water he relaxed. When he finished his bath he dressed leisurely and walked down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz[8 - the Ritz – отель «Риц»], where he had an appointment for dinner with his two companions, Dick Caramel[9 - Dick Caramel – Дик Кэрэмэл] and Maury Noble[10 - Maury Noble – Мори Нобл]. Afterward he and Maury will go to the theatre – Caramel will work on his book.
Emerging from his bath Anthony polished himself with the meticulous attention. Then he wandered into the bedroom, and whistling a weird, uncertain melody, strolled here and there, enjoying the warmth of the thick carpet on his feet.
He lit a cigarette. His eyes were focussed upon a spot of brilliant color on the roof of a house farther down the alley.
It was a girl in a red negligée, silk surely, drying her hair by the hot sun of late afternoon. He walked cautiously nearer the window with a sudden impression that she was beautiful.
He watched her for several minutes. He felt persistently that the girl was beautiful. The autumn air was between them, and the roofs and the voices.
He finished his dressing. Then he walked quickly into the bedroom and again looked out the window. The woman was standing up now. She was fat, full thirty-five. So he returned to the bathroom.
“To… you… beaut-if-ul lady,” he sang lightly, “I raise… my… eyes,”
Then he left his bathroom and his apartment and walked down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz.
Three Men
At seven Anthony and his friend Maury Noble are sitting at a corner table on the cool roof. Maury Noble is like a large slender cat. His eyes are narrow, his hair is smooth and flat. This is the man whom Anthony considers his best friend. This is the only man whom he admires and envies.
They are glad to see each other now. They are drawing a relaxation from each other’s presence, a serenity. They are engaged in one of those conversations that only men under thirty indulge in.
ANTHONY: Seven o’clock. Where’s the Caramel? (Impatiently.) Still writing? I’m hungry.
MAURY: He’s got a new name for his novel. “The Demon Lover “ – not bad, eh?
ANTHONY (interested): “The Demon Lover”? No – not bad! Not bad at all – do you think?
MAURY: Rather good. What time did you say?
ANTHONY: Seven.
MAURY: He drove me crazy the other day.
ANTHONY: How?
MAURY: That habit of taking notes.
ANTHONY: Me, too. One day I said something that he considered important but he forgot it. So he said, “Can’t you try to concentrate?” And I said, “How do I remember?”
MAURY (laughs noiselessly.)
ANTHONY: Do you remember him in college? He was just swallowing every writer, one after another, every idea, every character.
MAURY: Let’s order.
ANTHONY: Sure. Let’s order. I told him -
MAURY: Here he comes. (He lifts his finger as a claw.) Here you are, Caramel.
Richard Caramel is short and fair. He has yellowish eyes. When he reaches the table he shakes hands[11 - shakes hands – здоровается за руку]with Anthony and Maury. He is one of those men who invariably shake hands, even with people whom they have seen an hour before.
ANTHONY: Hello, Caramel. Glad you’re here.
MAURY: You’re late. We’ve been talking about you.
DICK (looking at Anthony): What did you say? Tell me and I’ll write it down. I cut three thousand words out of Part One this afternoon.
MAURY: And I poured alcohol into my stomach.
DICK: I don’t doubt it. I bet you have been sitting here for an hour talking about liquor.
ANTHONY: So what?
DICK: Are you going to the theatre?
MAURY: Yes. We intend to spend the evening thinking over of life’s problems. The thing is called “The Woman.”
ANTHONY: My God! Is it?
DICK (As though talking to himself): I think – that when I’ve done another novel and a play, and maybe a book of short stories, I’ll do a musical comedy.
MAURY: I know – with intellectual lyrics that no one will listen to.
ANTHONY: Why write? The very attempt is purposeless.
DICK: Well, I believe that every one in America should accept a very rigid system of morals – Roman Catholicism, for instance.
(Here the soup arrives and Maury’s words were lost.)
Night
Afterward they bought tickets for a new musical comedy called “High Jinks[12 - High Jinks – «Шумные забавы»].” In the foyer of the theatre they waited a few moments to see crowd.
After the play they parted – Maury was going to dance, Anthony homeward and to bed.
He found his way slowly over the evening mass of Times Square. Faces swirled about him, a kaleidoscope of girls, ugly, ugly as sin – too fat, too lean, floating upon this autumn. Anthony inhaled, swallowing into his lungs perfume and the not unpleasant scent of many cigarettes. He caught the glance of a dark young girl sitting alone in a taxicab.
Two young Jewish men passed him, talking in loud voices. They were wore gray spats and carried gray gloves on their cane handles.
An old lady borne between two men passed. Anthony heard a snatch of their conversation:
“There’s the Astor, mama!”
“Look! See the chariot race sign!”
“There’s where we were today. No, there!”
“Good gracious!”
He turned down the hush, passed a bakery-restaurant. From the door came a smell that was hot, and doughy. Then a Chinese laundry, still open, steamy and stifling. All these depressed him; reaching Sixth Avenue he stopped at a corner cigar store.
Once in his apartment he smoked a last cigarette, sitting in the dark by his open front window. For the first time he thought New York was not bad. A lonesome town, though. Oh, there was a loneliness here.
Chapter II
Portrait Of A Siren
Crispness folded down upon New York a month later, bringing November and the three big football games. Anthony, walking along Forty-second Street one afternoon under a steel-gray sky, met unexpectedly Richard Caramel emerging from the Manhattan Hotel barber shop. It was a cold day, the first definitely cold day, and Caramel stopped Anthony enthusiastically, and, after his inevitable hand shake, said:
“Cold as the devil, I’ve been working like the deuce all day till my room got so cold I thought I’d get pneumonia. That darn landlady is economizing on coal.”
He had seized Anthony’s arm and drawn him briskly up Madison Avenue.
“Where to?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Well, then why?” demanded Anthony.
They stopped and stared at each other. After a moment they began walking again.
“You know,” Dick was looking and talking emphatically at the sidewalk. “I have to talk to someone.”
He glanced at Anthony apologetically.
“I have to talk. I do my thinking in writing or conversation.”
Anthony grunted and withdrew his arm gently.
“I mean,” continued Richard Caramel gravely, “that on paper your first paragraph contains the idea you’re going to enlarge.”
They passed Forty-fifth Street. Both of them lit cigarettes and blew tremendous clouds of smoke into the air.
“Let’s walk up to the Plaza,” suggested Anthony. “Come on – I’ll let you talk about your book all the way.”
“I don’t want to if it bores you. I mean you needn’t do it as a favor.”
Anthony protested:
“Bore me? I say no!”
“I’ve got a cousin,” began Dick, but Anthony interrupted.
“Good weather!” he exclaimed, “isn’t it? It makes me feel about ten. Murderous! Oh, God!”
“I’ve got a cousin at the Plaza. A nice girl. We can meet her. She lives there in the winter – with her mother and father.”
“I didn’t know you had cousins in New York.”
“Her name’s Gloria. She’s from Kansas City. Gloria Gilbert. She goes to dances at colleges.”
“I’ve heard her name.”
“Good-looking – in fact attractive.”
They reached Fiftieth Street and turned over toward the Avenue.
“I don’t care for young girls as a rule,” said Anthony, frowning.
This was not true. Any nice girl interested him enormously.
“Gloria is nice – and not a brain in her head.”
Anthony laughed.
“You mean that she can’t talk about literature.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Dick, you like earnest young women who sit with you in a corner and talk earnestly about life. When they were sixteen they argued with grave faces as to whether kissing was right or wrong – and whether it was immoral to drink beer.”
Richard Caramel was offended.
“No,” he began, but Anthony interrupted ruthlessly.
“Oh, yes; who sit in corners talk about the latest Scandinavian Dante available in English translation.”
Dick turned to him.
“What’s the matter with you and Maury? You talk sometimes as though I am a fool.”
Anthony was confused.
“Dick,” said Anthony, changing his tone, “I want to beg your pardon.”
“Why?”
“I’m honestly sorry. I was talking just for fun.”
Mollified, Dick rejoined:
“I’ve often said you’re a boaster.”
A clerk announced them over the phone, and ascending to the tenth floor they followed a winding corridor and knocked at 1088. The door was answered by a middle-aged lady – Mrs. Gilbert herself.
“How do you do? Well, I’m awfully glad to see you. Mr. Pats? Well, do come in, and leave your coat there.”
She pointed to a chair.
“This is really lovely – lovely. Why, Richard, you haven’t been here for so long! Well, do sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing. Are you a writer too, Mr. Pats? Gloria’s out,” she said. “She’s dancing somewhere. Gloria goes, goes, goes. She dances all afternoon and all night. Her father is very worried about her.”
She smiled from one to the other. They both smiled.
“I always say,” she remarked to Anthony, “that Richard is an ancient soul. We all have souls of different ages, at least that’s what I say.”
“Perhaps so,” agreed Anthony.
“Gloria has a very young soul – irresponsible, as much as anything else. She has no sense of responsibility.”
“Aunt Catherine,” said Richard pleasantly. “A sense of responsibility would spoil her. She’s too pretty.”
“Well,” confessed Mrs. Gilbert, “all I know is that she goes and goes and goes.”
Mr. Gilbert entered. He was a short man with a mustache resting like a small white cloud beneath his nose. His ideas were popular twenty years ago. After graduating from a small Western university, he had entered the celluloid business, and he did well for several years.
He disapproved of Gloria: she stayed out late, she never ate her meals. His wife was easier. After fifteen years of war he had conquered her. Mrs. Gilbert introduced him to Anthony.
“This is Mr. Pats,” she said.
The young man and the old shook hands. Then husband and wife exchanged greetings-he told her it had grown colder out; he said he had walked down to a news-stand on Forty-fourth Street for a Kansas City paper. He had intended to ride back in the bus but he had found it too cold, yes, yes, yes, yes, too cold.
“Well, you are the hero!” she exclaimed admiringly. “I wouldn’t have gone out for anything.”
Mr. Gilbert He turned to the two young men and began to talk to them on the subject of the weather. Then he rather abruptly changed the subject.
“Where’s Gloria?”
“She will be here any minute.”
“Have you met my daughter, Mr…?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure. But Dick spoke of her often.”
“She and Richard are cousins.”
“Yes?” Anthony smiled with some effort.
Richard Caramel was afraid they’d have to leave.
Mrs. Gilbert was tremendously sorry.
Mr. Gilbert thought it was too bad.
Would they come again soon?
“Oh, yes.”
Gloria would be awfully sorry!
“Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
Smiles!
Smiles!
Two disconsolate young men are walking down the tenth-floor corridor of the Plaza in the direction of the elevator.
A Lady’s Legs
Maury Noble was purposeful. His intention, as he stated it in college was: to use three years in travel, three years in leisure – and then to become immensely rich as quickly as possible.
His three years of travel were over. Back in America, he was searching for amusement. He taught himself to drink as he taught himself Greek – like Greek it would be the gateway to new sensations, new psychical states, new reactions.
He had three rooms in a bachelor apartment on Forty-forth street, but he was there. The telephone girl[13 - telephone girl – телефонистка] had a list of half a dozen people to whom he was never at home, and of the same number to whom he was always at home. Foremost on the latter list were Anthony Patch and Richard Caramel.
Maury’s mother lived in Philadelphia, and there Maury went usually for the week-ends, so one Saturday night Anthony was overjoyed to find that Mr. Noble was at home.
There he was! The room warmed Anthony. Maury filled the room, tigerlike, godlike. The winds outside were stilled.
“What keeps you here today?” Anthony asked.
“I was at a tea-party. I missed my train to Philadelphia. And you?”
“Geraldine[14 - Geraldine – Джеральдина]. I told you about her.”
“Oh!”
“She called me about three and stayed till five. She’s so utterly stupid.”
Maury was silent.
Anthony had known her a month. He considered her amusing and rather liked the chaste and fairylike kisses she had given him on the third night of their acquaintance, when they had driven in a taxi through the Park. She had a shadowy aunt and uncle who shared with her an apartment. She familiar and intimate and restful.
“She gets her hair over her eyes some way and then blow it out,” he informed Maury; “and she likes to say ‘You cra-a-azy!’ when some one makes a remark that she does not understand. It fascinates me.”
Maury spoke.
“Remarkable that a person can comprehend so little and yet live in such a complex civilization.”
“Our Richard could write about her.”
“Anthony, surely you don’t think she’s worth writing about.”
“As much as anybody,” he answered, yawning. “You know I was thinking today that I have a great confidence in Dick. If he sticks to people and not to ideas, I believe he’ll be a big man.”
Anthony raised himself.
“He tries to go to life. So does every author except the very worst. The incident or character may be from life, but the writer usually interprets it in terms of the last book he read. For instance, suppose he meets a captain. He already knows how to set this sea captain on paper…Whose tea was it?”
“People named Abercrombie[15 - Abercrombie – Аберкромби].”
“Why did you stay late? Did you meet a girl?”
“Yes.”
“Did you really?” Anthony’s voice lifted in surprise.
“Yes. She seemed the youngest person there.”
“Not too young to make you miss a train.”
“Young enough. Beautiful child.”
Anthony chuckled.
“Oh, Maury, what do you mean by beautiful?”
Maury gazed helplessly into space.
“Well, I can’t describe her exactly – except to say that she was beautiful. She was tremendously alive.”
“What!”
“Mostly we talked about legs.”
“My God! Whose legs?”
“Hers. She talked a lot about hers.”
“What is she – a dancer?”
“No, she was a cousin of Dick’s.”
Anthony sat upright suddenly
“Her name is Gloria Gilbert!” he cried.
“Yes. Isn’t she remarkable?”
“I don’t know – but her father…”
“Well,” interrupted Maury, “her family may be as sad as professional mourners but I’m think that she’s a quite authentic and original character.”
“Go on, go on!” urged Anthony. “Soon as[16 - soon as – как только] Dick told me she didn’t have a brain in her head I knew she must be pretty good.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes,” said Anthony with snorting laugh.
“Well, this girl talked about legs. She talked about skin too – her own skin. Always her own. And her tan”
“You sat enraptured by her voice?”
“No, by tan! I began thinking about tan. I began to think what color I turned about two years ago.”
Anthony was shaken with laughter.
“Oh, Maury!”
Maury sighed; rising he walked to the window and raised the shade.
“Snowing hard.”
Anthony, still laughing quietly to himself, made no answer.
“Another winter.” Maury’s voice from the window was almost a whisper. “We’re growing old, Anthony. I’m twenty-seven, by God! Three years to thirty, and then I’m a middle-aged man.”
Anthony was silent for a moment.
“You are old, Maury,” he agreed at length. “The first sign – you have spent the afternoon talking about tan and a lady’s legs.”
“Idiot!” cried Maury, “that from you! Here I sit, young Anthony, as I’ll sit for years and watch such souls as you and Dick and Gloria Gilbert go past me, dancing and singing and loving and hating one another. And I shall sit and the snow will come – and another winter and I shall be thirty and you and Dick and Gloria will eternally move and dance by me and sing.”
Maury left the window, stirred the blaze with a poker, and dropped a log upon the andirons. Then he sat back in his chair.
“After all, Anthony, it’s you who are very romantic and young. And it’s me who tries again and again to move – and I’m always me. Nothing stirs me.”
Turbulence
Anthony turned over sleepily in his bed. Bounds was close to the bed, his dark-brown eyes fixed imperturbably upon his master.
Anthony blinked.
“Bounds.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Can you come around about four and serve some tea and sandwiches or something?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Some sandwiches,” Anthony repeated helplessly, “oh, some cheese sandwiches and chicken and olive, I guess.”
He shut his eyes wearily, let his head roll to rest inertly, and quickly relaxed. Richard Caramel had called on him[17 - had called on him – зашёл к нему] at midnight; they had drunk four bottles of beer.
Suddenly he was awake, saying: “What?”
“For how many, sir?” It was still Bounds, standing patient and motionless.
“How many what?”
“I think, sir, I’d better know how many are coming. I’ll have to plan for the sandwiches, sir.”
“Two,” muttered Anthony huskily; “lady and a gentleman.”
Bounds said, “Thank you, sir,” and moved away.
After a long time Anthony arose. With a last yawn he went into the bathroom. Then he lit a cigarette and glanced through several letters and the morning Tribune.
An hour later, shaven and dressed, he was sitting at his desk looking at a small piece of paper he had taken out of his wallet. “Dick and Gloria Gilbert for tea.”
These words brought him obvious satisfaction. In justification of his manner of living there was first, of course, The Meaninglessness of Life. From a world fraught with the stupidity of many Geraldines he was thankfully delivered.
But he found in himself a growing horror and loneliness. The idea of eating alone frightened him; in preference he dined often with men he detested. Travel, which had once charmed him, seemed unendurable.
And yet he wanted something, something. After cocktails and luncheon at the University Club Anthony felt better. He was Anthony Patch, brilliant, magnetic, the heir of many years and many men. With his grandfather’s money he might build his own pedestal. The clarity of his mind, its sophistication, its versatile intelligence. He tried to imagine himself in Congress. Little men with copy-book ambitions, the lustreless and unromantic heaven of a government.
Back in his apartment the grayness returned. His thoughts were bitter. Anthony Patch with no achievement, without courage, without strength. Oh, he was a pretentious fool, making careers out of cocktails. He was empty, it seemed, empty as an old bottle.
The buzzer rang at the door. Anthony sprang up and lifted the tube to his ear. It was Richard Caramel’s voice, stilted and facetious:
“Announcing Miss Gloria Gilbert.”
The Lady
“How do you do?” he said, smiling and holding the door ajar.
Dick bowed.
“Gloria, this is Anthony.”
“Well!” she cried.
“Let me take your things.”
Anthony stretched out his arms and the brown mass of fur tumbled into them.
“Thanks.”
“What do you think of her, Anthony?” Richard Caramel demanded barbarously. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Well!” cried the girl defiantly.
She was dazzling.
“I’m a solid block of ice,” murmured Gloria, glancing around. “We found a place where you could stand on an iron-bar grating, and it blew warm air up at you – but Dick wouldn’t wait there with me. I told him to go on alone and let me be happy.”
She seemed talking for her own pleasure, without effort. Anthony, sitting at one end of the sofa, examined her profile: the exquisite regularity of nose and upper lip, the chin, balanced beautifully on a rather short neck.
“I think you’ve got the best name I’ve heard,” she was saying, still apparently to herself. “Anthony Patch. You look like Anthony, rather majestic and solemn.”
Anthony smiled.
“My name is too flamboyant,” she went on, “I used to know two girls named Jinks, though, and just think what they were named – Judy Jinks and Jerry Jinks. Cute, what? Don’t you think?”
“Everybody in the next generation,” suggested Dick, “will be named Peter or Barbara – because at present all the piquant literary characters are named Peter or Barbara.”
Anthony continued the prophecy:
“Of course Gladys and Eleanor.”
“Displacing Ella and Stella,” interrupted Dick.
“And Pearl and Jewel,” Gloria added cordially, “and Earl and Elmer and Minnie.”
“Where are you from?” inquired Anthony.
“Kansas City, Missouri.”
“I must confess,” said Anthony gravely, “that even I’ve heard one thing about you.”
She sat up straight.
“Tell me. I’ll believe it. I always believe anything any one tells me about myself.”
“I’m not sure that I ought to,” said Anthony. She was so obviously interested.
“He means your nickname,” said her cousin.
“What name?” inquired Anthony, politely puzzled.
Instantly she was shy – then she laughed, and turned her eyes up as she spoke:
“Coast-to-Coast Gloria.” Her voice was full of laughter. “O Lord!”
Still Anthony was puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“Me, I mean. That’s what some silly boys called me.”
“Don’t you see, Anthony,” explained Dick, “a great traveler? Isn’t that what you’ve heard? She’s been called that for years – since she was seventeen.”
“What have you heard of me?” asked she.
“Something about your tan.”
“My tan?” She was puzzled. Her hand rose to her throat.
“Do you remember Maury Noble? Man you met about a month ago. You made a great impression.”
She thought a moment.
“I remember – but he didn’t call me up.”
“He was afraid to, I don’t doubt.”
Dissatisfaction
On Thursday afternoon Gloria and Anthony had tea together in the grill room at the Plaza. She seemed so young, scarcely eighteen; her form was amazingly supple and slender, and her hands were small as a child’s hands should be.
Gloria considered several locations, and rather to Anthony’s annoyance paraded him to a table for two at the far side of the room. Would she sit on the right or on the left? Anthony thought again how naïve was her every gesture.
She watched the dancers, commenting murmurously.
“There’s a pretty girl in blue, there! No. Behind you – there!”
“Yes,” he agreed helplessly.
“You didn’t see her.”
“I’d rather look at you.”
“I know, but she was pretty. Except that she had big ankles.”
“Did she?” he said indifferently.
A girl’s salutation came from a couple dancing close to them.
“Hello, Gloria! O Gloria!”
“Hello there.”
“Who’s that?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. Somebody.” She caught sight of another face. “Hello, Muriel!” Then to Anthony: “There’s Muriel Kane[18 - Muriel Kane – Мюриэл Кейн]. Now I think she’s attractive, but not very.”
Anthony chuckled.
“Attractive, but not very,” he repeated.
She smiled.
“Why is that funny? Do you want to dance?”
“Do you?”
“Sort of. But let’s sit,” she decided.
“And talk about you? You love to talk about you, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She laughed.
“I imagine your autobiography is a classic.”
“Dick says I haven’t got one.”
“Dick!” he exclaimed. “What does he know about you?”
“Nothing. But he says the biography of every woman begins with the first kiss, and ends when her last child is laid in her arms.”
“He’s talking from his book.”
“He says unloved women have no biographies – they have histories.”
Anthony laughed again.
“Then why haven’t you a biography? Haven’t you ever had a kiss that counted?”
“I don’t know what you mean ‘counts,’” she objected.
“I wish you’d tell me how old you are.”
“Twenty-two,” she said. “How old did you think?”
“About eighteen.”
“Let’s be eighteen, then. I don’t like being twenty-two. I hate it more than anything in the world.”
“Being twenty-two?”
“No. Getting old and everything. Getting married.”
“Don’t you ever want to marry?”
“I don’t want to have responsibility and a lot of children to take care of.”
He waited rather breathlessly for her next remark. She was smiling, without amusement but pleasantly.
“What do you do with yourself?[19 - What do you do with yourself? – Чем вы занимаетесь?]” she asked.
Anthony was in a mood to talk. He wanted, moreover, to impress this girl. He wanted to pose.
“I do nothing,” he began. “I do nothing, for there’s nothing I can do that’s worth doing.”
“Well?” He had not surprised her.
“Don’t you approve of lazy men?”
She nodded.
“I want to know just why it’s impossible for an American to be gracefully idle, it astonishes me.
I don’t understand why people think that every young man ought to go downtown and work ten hours a day for the best twenty years of his life at dull, unimaginative work.”
She watched him inscrutably. He waited for her to agree or disagree, but she did neither.
“Don’t you ever form judgments on things?” he asked with some exasperation.
She shook her head and her eyes wandered back to the dancers as she answered:
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about – what you should do, or what anybody should do. I don’t mind if people don’t do anything. I don’t see why they should; in fact it always astonishes me when anybody does anything.”
“You don’t want to do anything?”
“I want to sleep.”
“Sleep?”
“Sort of. I want to just be lazy and I want some of the people around me to be doing things, because that makes me feel comfortable and safe. And some of them can do nothing at all, because they can be graceful and companionable for me. But I never want to change people.”
“You’re a little determinist,” laughed Anthony. “It’s your world, isn’t it?”
“Well,” she said, “isn’t it? As long as I’m – young.”
She paused slightly before the last word and Anthony suspected that she wanted to say “beautiful.”
Admiration
That winter afternoon at the Plaza was the first of a succession of “dates” Anthony made with her before Christmas. Invariably she was busy. She attended the charity dances at the big hotels; he saw her several times at dinner parties.
He made engagements with her several times for lunch and tea. She was sleepy, incapable of concentrating upon anything.
One Sunday afternoon just before Christmas he called up and found her after some important but mysterious quarrel.
“Let’s go to something!” she proposed. “I want to see a show, don’t you? Oh, let’s go somewhere!”
“We’ll go to a good cabaret.”
“I’ve seen every one in town.”
“Well, we’ll find a new one.”
“Well, come on, then.”
A dozen blocks down Broadway Anthony’s eyes were caught by a large and unfamiliar electric sign “Marathon” in glorious yellow script.
“Shall we try it?”
With a sigh Gloria tossed her cigarette out the open door; then they had passed under the screaming sign, under the wide portal, and up by a stuffy elevator into this palace of pleasure.
There on Sunday nights gather the credulous, sentimental, underpaid, overworked people: book-keepers, ticket-sellers, office-managers, salesmen, and, most of all, clerks – clerks of the mail, of the grocery, of the brokerage, of the bank.
Anthony and Gloria sat down.
“How do you like it?” inquired Anthony.
“I love it,” she said frankly. Her gray eyes roved here and there, drowsing on each group, passing to the next. They two, it seemed to him, were alone quiet.
“I’m like these people,” she murmured. “I’m like they are – like Japanese lanterns and crape paper, and the music of that orchestra. I am like them. You don’t know me.” She hesitated. “These people could appreciate me, and these men would fall in love with me and admire me, whereas the clever men I meet would just analyze me and tell me I’m this because of this or that because of that.”
Chapter III
Gloria
From his undergraduate days Richard Caramel had desired to write.
“I’m absorbed, Aunt Catherine,” he told his aunt, “I really am. All my friends are joshing me – but I don’t care.”
“You’re an ancient soul, I always say.”
“Maybe I am. But where is my cousin Gloria? I think my friend Anthony Patch is in love with her.”
Mrs. Gilbert started,
“Really?”
“I think so,” said Dick gravely. “She’s the first girl I’ve ever seen him with.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Gilbert “Gloria is very secretive. Between you and me,” she bent forward, “between you and me, I’d like to see her settle down.”
“I’m not claiming I’m right,” Dick said. “But I think Anthony is interested. He talks about her constantly.”
“Gloria is a very young soul,” began Mrs. Gilbert eagerly, but her nephew interrupted with a hurried sentence:
“Gloria would be very young and silly not to marry him.” He stopped. “Gloria’s a wild one, Aunt Catherine. She’s uncontrollable.”
She knew; oh, yes, mothers see these things. But what could she do? At sixteen Gloria began going to dances at schools, and then came the colleges; and everywhere she went, boys, boys, boys. Sometimes the men were undergraduates, sometimes just out of college – they lasted on an average of several months each. Once or twice her mother had hoped she would be engaged, but always a new one came.
Geraldine
It was Monday and Anthony took Geraldine Burke to luncheon, afterward they went up to his apartment.
Geraldine Burke had been an amusement of several months. She demanded so little that he liked her.
“You drink all the time, don’t you?” she said suddenly.
“Why, I suppose so,” replied Anthony in some surprise. “Don’t you?”
“No. I go on parties sometimes – you know, about once a week, but I only take two or three drinks. You and your friends keep on drinking all the time. I should think you’d ruin your health.”
Anthony was somewhat touched.
“You worry about me!”
“Well, I do.”
“I don’t drink so very much,” he declared. “Last month I didn’t touch a drop for three weeks. And I’m really drunk only once a week.”
“But you drink every day and you’re only twenty-five. Haven’t you any ambition? Think what you’ll be at forty?”
“I sincerely trust that I won’t live that long.”
“You cra-azy!” she said – and then: “Are you any relation to Adam Patch?”
“Yes, he’s my grandfather.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s funny. My daddy used to work for him. Tell me about him.”
“Why,” Anthony considered, “he’s very moral.”
“He’s done a lot of good,” said Geraldine with intense gravity. “Why don’t you live with him?”
“Why should I live with a pastor?”
“You cra-azy!”
Anthony thought how moral was this little waif at heart.
“Do you hate him?”
“I don’t know. I never liked him. You never like people who do things for you.”
“Does he hate you?”
“My dear Geraldine,” protested Anthony, frowning humorously, “do have another cocktail. I annoy him. He’s a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite.”
“Why do you call him a hypocrite?”
“Well,” said Anthony impatiently, “maybe he’s not. But he doesn’t like the things that I like.”
“Hm.” Her curiosity seemed satisfied. She sank back into the sofa and sipped her cocktail.
“You’re a funny one,” she commented thoughtfully. “Does everybody want to marry you because your grandfather is rich?”
“They don’t – but I shouldn’t blame them if they did. Still, you see, I never intend to marry.”
“You’ll fall in love someday. Oh, you will – I know.” She nodded wisely. “You will get married, just wait and see.”
“You’re a little idiot, Geraldine.”
She smiled provokingly.
“Oh, I am, am I? Want to bet?”
“That’d be silly too.”
“Oh, it would, would it? Well, I’ll just bet you’ll marry somebody inside of a year.”
“Geraldine,” he said, “in the first place I have no one I want to marry. In the second place I haven’t enough money to support two people. In the third place I am entirely opposed to marriage for people of my type. In the fourth place I have a strong distaste for even the consideration of it.”
Geraldine said she must be going. It was late.
“Call me up soon,” she reminded him as he kissed her goodbye, “you haven’t for three weeks, you know.”
“I will,” he promised fervently.
Magic
Anthony was convinced that no woman he had ever met compared in any way with Gloria. She was deeply herself; she was immeasurably sincere – of these things he was certain. Beside her the two dozen schoolgirls, young married women and waifs and strays whom he had known were just females, nothing more.
He went to the phone and called up the Plaza Hotel. Gloria was out. Her mother knew neither where she had gone nor when she would return.
One o’clock. Four o’clock. He sprang excitedly to his feet. How inappropriate that she should be out! He had realized what he wanted – to kiss her. She was the end of all restlessness, all malcontent.
Anthony dressed and went out to Richard Caramel’s room to hear the last revision of the last chapter of “The Demon Lover.” He did not call Gloria again until six. He did not find her in until eight and she could give him no engagement until Tuesday afternoon.
Tuesday was freezing cold.
“I called you four times on Sunday,” he told her.
“Did you?”
There was surprise in her voice and interest in her expression.
“I was anxious to see you,” he said simply. “I want to talk to you – I mean really talk, somewhere where we can be alone. May I?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, not at a tea table,” he said.
“Well, all right, but not today. Let’s walk!”
It was bitter and raw. All the evil of February was wrought into the forlorn and icy wind. It was almost impossible to talk, and discomfort made him distracted. He turned at Sixty-first Street and found she was no longer beside him. He looked around. She was forty feet in the rear standing motionless, her face showed anger or laughter – he could not determine which.
“Don’t let me interrupt your walk!” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he answered in confusion. “Did I go too fast?”
“I’m cold,” she announced. “I want to go home. And you walk too fast.”
“I’m very sorry.”
Side by side they started for the Plaza. He wished he could see her face.
“Men don’t usually get so absorbed in themselves when they’re with me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“It is rather too cold to walk,” he said, briskly, to hide his annoyance.
She walked in without speaking, however, she threw him a single remark as she entered it:
“You’d better come up.”
He found himself in her room.
“Aren’t you interested in anything except yourself?”
“Not much.”
Anthony stared morosely at the fire. Then a strange thing happened. She turned to him and smiled.
He moved closer and taking her hand pulled her gently toward him until she half lay against his shoulder. She smiled up at him as he kissed her.
“Gloria,” he whispered very softly.
He had risen. She was fascinating, he told her. He had never met any one like her before. He besought her jauntily but earnestly to send him away; he didn’t want to fall in love.
What delicious romance!
“This is all. It’s very strange and wonderful to meet you. But this wouldn’t last.”
“A woman should be able to kiss a man beautifully and romantically without any desire to be either his wife or his mistress,” she said
Anthony pulled her quickly to her feet and kissed her. In an instant she was free.
“Don’t!” she said quietly. “I don’t want that.”
She sat down on the far side of the lounge and gazed straight before her.
“Why, Gloria!” He made a motion but she drew away.
“I don’t want that,” she repeated.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, a little impatiently. “Won’t you kiss me, Gloria?”
“I don’t want to.”
“A sudden change, isn’t it? Perhaps I’d better go.”
No reply. He rose and regarded her angrily, uncertainly. Again he sat down.
“Gloria, Gloria, won’t you kiss me?”
“No.” Her lips had faintly stirred.
Again he got to his feet, this time with less decision, less confidence.
“Then I’ll go.”
Silence.
“All right – I’ll go. If you’re tired of kissing me I’d better go.”
He saw her lips. She spoke, at length:
“I believe you’ve made that remark several times before.”
He saw his hat and coat on a chair. He perceived that she had not turned, not even moved. He went quickly but without dignity from the room.
For over a moment Gloria made no sound. Her glance was straight, proud, remote. Then she murmured three words:
“Good-bye, you ass!” she said.
Panic
Anthony had had the hardest blow of his life. He reached home in misery, dropped into an armchair without even removing his overcoat, and sat there for over an hour. She had sent him away! Instead of seizing the girl and holding her by strength until she became passive to his desire, he had walked, defeated and powerless, from her door. And she had nearly loved him! He was not so much in love with Gloria as mad for her. Unless he could have her near him again, kiss her, hold her close and acquiescent, he wanted nothing more from life.
She was beautiful – but especially she was without mercy. He must own that strength that could send him away.
About midnight he began to realize that he was hungry. He went down into Fifty-second Street, where it was so cold that he could scarcely see. Anthony turned over toward Sixth Avenue, so absorbed in his thoughts as not to notice that several passers-by had stared at him. His overcoat was wide open.
After a while a fat waitress spoke to him.
“Order, please!”
Her voice, he considered, was unnecessarily loud. He looked up resentfully.
“Will you order or not?”
“Of course,” he protested.
“Well, I asked you three times. This isn’t a rest-room.”
He glanced at the big clock and discovered with a start that it was after two.
“Give me some bacon and eggs[20 - bacon and eggs – яичница с беконом] and coffee, please.”
The waitress hurried away.
God! Gloria’s kisses had been such flowers. Misery struck at him again. He had lost her. It was true – no denying it, no softening it. Anthony was in love, profoundly and truly in love.
Wisdom
Anthony was in love – he cried it passionately to himself. If he did not marry her his life would be a feeble parody on his own adolescence. To be able to face people and to endure the constant reminder of Gloria that all existence had become, it was necessary for him to have hope. So he built hope desperately and tenaciously. Out of this developed a spark of wisdom.
“Memory is short,” he thought.
Anthony had seen Gloria altogether about a dozen times, say two dozen hours. Supposing he left her alone for a month, made no attempt to see her or speak to her, and avoided every place where she might possibly be. Wasn’t it possible that at the end of that time the rush of events would efface his personality from her conscious mind, and with his personality his offense and humiliation? She would forget, for there would be other men. He winced. Other men! Two months – God! Better three weeks, two weeks…
Two weeks – that was worse than no time at all. No, two weeks was too short a time. He must give her a period when the incident should fade, and then a new period when she should gradually begin to think of him, no matter how dimly.
He fixed, finally, on six weeks as approximately the interval best suited to his purpose, and on a desk calendar he marked the days off, finding that it would fall on the ninth of April. Very well, on that day he would phone and ask her if he might call. Until then – silence.
In another hour he fell into a deep sleep.
Nevertheless, though, as the days passed, the glory of her hair dimmed perceptibly for him and in a year of separation might have departed completely. He didn’t want to see Dick and Maury, imagining that they knew all – but when they met it was Richard Caramel and not Anthony who was the centre of attention. “The Demon Lover” had been accepted for immediate publication. Anthony felt that from now on he moved apart. He needed no more Maury’s society. Only Gloria could give him everything and no one else ever again. So Dick’s success rejoiced him and worried him. It meant that the world was going ahead – writing and reading and publishing – and living. And he wanted the world to wait motionless and breathless for six weeks – while Gloria forgot.
Two Encounters
His greatest satisfaction was in Geraldine’s company. He took her once to dinner and the theatre and entertained her several times in his apartment. When he was with her she absorbed him. It didn’t matter how he kissed Geraldine. A kiss was a kiss. A kiss was one thing, anything further was quite another; a kiss was all right; the other things were “bad.”
One day he saw Gloria. It was a short meeting. Both bowed. Both spoke, yet neither heard the other.
Once he went around the corner one morning to be shaved, and while waiting his turn he took off coat and vest, and stood near the front of the shop. Two strollers caught his eye casually, a man and a girl – then the girl resolved herself into Gloria. He stood here powerless; they came nearer and Gloria, glancing in, saw him. Her eyes widened and she smiled politely. Her lips moved. She was less than five feet away.
“How do you do?” he muttered.
Gloria, happy, beautiful, and young – with a man he had never seen before!
The second incident took place the next day. Going into the Manhattan bar about seven he met Bloeckman[21 - Bloeckman – Бликман]. Bloeckman was a movie producer who was a friend of Gloria’s family.
“Hello, Mr. Patch,” said Bloeckman amiably enough. “Do you come in here much?”
“No, very seldom.” He omitted to add that the Plaza bar had, until lately, been his favorite.
“Nice bar. One of the best bars in town.”
Anthony nodded. Bloeckman emptied his glass and picked up his cane. He was in evening dress.
“Well, I’ll be hurrying on. I’m going to dinner with Miss Gilbert.”
It was a vital blow at Anthony. With tremendous effort he mustered a rigid smile, and said a conventional good-bye. But that night he lay awake until after four, wild with grief and fear.
And one day in the fifth week he called her up. With suddenly quickened breath he walked to the telephone. Mrs. Gilbert’s voice said,
“Hello-o-ah? Miss Gloria’s not feeling well. She’s lying down, asleep. Who shall I say called?”
“Nobody!” he shouted.
In a wild panic he slammed down the receiver.
Serenade
The first thing he said to her was: “Why, you’ve cut your hair!” and she answered: “Yes, isn’t it gorgeous?”
It was not fashionable then. At that time it was considered extremely daring.
“It’s a sunny day,” he said gravely. “Don’t you want to take a walk?”
She put on a light coat and they walked along the Avenue and into the Zoo, where they admired the grandeur of the elephant and the giraffe, but did not visit the monkey house because Gloria said that monkeys smelt so bad.
Then they returned toward the Plaza, talking about nothing, but glad for the spring. Gloria walked ahead of him.
“Oh!” she cried, “I want to go south! I want to get out in the air and just roll around on the new grass and forget there’s ever been any winter.”
“Don’t you, though!”
“I want to hear a million robins. I like birds.”
“All women are birds,” he ventured.
“What kind am I?”
“A swallow, I think, and sometimes a bird of paradise. Most girls are sparrows, of course. And of course you’ve met canary girls – and robin girls.”
“And swan girls and parrot girls. All grown women are hawks, I think, or owls.”
“What am I – a buzzard?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Oh, no, you’re not a bird at all. You’re a Russian wolfhound. Dick’s a fox terrier, a trick fox terrier,” she continued.
“And Maury’s a cat.”
Later, as they parted, Anthony asked when he might see her again. She thought for a moment. “Maybe next Sunday.”
“All right.”
And when the day came they sat upon the lounge. After a while Anthony kissed her. And he had told her gently, almost in the middle of a kiss, that he loved her, and she had smiled and held him closer and murmured, “I’m glad,” looking into his eyes.
He had felt nearer to her than ever before. In a rare delight he cried aloud to the room that he loved her.
He phoned next morning:
“Good morning, Gloria.”
“Good morning.”
“I just called to say that.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I wish I could see you.”
“You will, tomorrow night.”
“That’s a long time, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Her voice was reluctant.
“Couldn’t I come tonight?”
“I have a date.”
“Oh.”
“But I might – I might be able to break it.”
“Oh! Gloria?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
Another pause and then:
“I–I’m glad.”
When Anthony walked down the tenth-floor corridor of the Plaza that night, his dark eyes were gleaming. He knocked and entered. Gloria, dressed in pink, was across the room, standing very still, and looking at him. As he closed the door behind him she gave a little cry and moved.
Book Two
Chapter I
The Radiant Hour
After a fortnight Anthony and Gloria began talk about marriage.
“Tell me all the reasons why you’re going to marry me in June,” said Anthony.
“Well, because you’re so clean, like I am. There are two sorts, you know. One’s like Dick: he’s clean like polished pans. You and I are clean like streams and winds. I can tell whenever I see a person whether he is clean, and if so, which kind of clean he is.”
“We’re twins.”
“Mother says” – she hesitated uncertainly – “mother says that two souls are sometimes created together and – and in love before they’re born.”
He lifted up his head and laughed soundlessly toward the ceiling. When his eyes came back to her he saw that she was angry.
“Why did you laugh?” she cried, “you’ve done that twice before. There’s nothing funny about our relation to each other.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t say you’re sorry! If you can’t think of anything better than that, just keep quiet!”
“I love you.”
“I don’t care.”
There was a pause. Anthony was depressed. At length Gloria murmured:
“I’m sorry I was rude.”
“You weren’t. I was the one.”
Peace was restored: the passion of their pretense created the actuality. But Anthony felt often like a scarcely tolerated guest at a party she was giving.
Mrs. Gilbert must have known everything – for three weeks Gloria had seen no one else – and she must have noticed that this time there was a difference in her daughter’s attitude. So she declared herself immensely pleased; she doubtless was.
But between kisses Anthony and this golden girl quarrelled incessantly.
“Now, Gloria,” he would cry, “please let me explain!”
“Don’t explain. Kiss me.”
“I don’t think that’s right. If I hurt your feelings we ought to discuss it. I don’t like this kiss-and-forget.”
“But I don’t want to argue. I think it’s wonderful that we can kiss and forget, and when we can’t it’ll be time to argue.”
Meanwhile they knew each other, unwillingly, by curious reactions, by distastes and prejudices. The girl was proudly incapable of jealousy and, because he was extremely jealous, this virtue piqued him.
“Oh, Anthony,” she would say, “always when I’m mean to you I’m sorry afterward.”
Yet Anthony knew that there were days when they hurt each other purposely.
“Why do you like Muriel?” he demanded one day.
“I don’t very much.”
“Then why do you go with her?”
“Just for some one to go with. But I rather like Rachael. I think she’s cute – and so clean and slick. I used to have other friends – in Kansas City and at school – casual, all of them. Now they’re mostly married. What does it matter – they were all just people.”
“You like men better, don’t you?”
“Oh, much better. I’ve got a man’s mind.”
“You’ve got a mind like mine.”
Later she told him about the beginnings of her friendship with Bloeckman. One day Gloria and Rachael had come upon Bloeckman. She had liked him. He was a relief from younger men. He humored her and he laughed, whether he understood her or not. She met him several times, despite the disapproval of her parents, and within a month he had asked her to marry him, promising her everything from a villa in Italy to a brilliant career on the screen. She had laughed in his face – and he had laughed too.
She told Bloeckman about the engagement. It was a heavy blow. Gloria had been sorry for him but she had decided not to show it. And Anthony forgot Bloeckman entirely.
Three Digressions
Just before the engagement was announced Anthony had gone up to Tarrytown to see his grandfather, who greeted the news with profound cynicism.
“Oh, you’re going to get married, are you?”
He said this with such a dubious mildness and shook his head up and down so many times that Anthony was depressed. While he was unaware of his grandfather’s intentions he presumed that a large part of the money would come to him. “Are you going to work?”
“Why,” said Anthony, somewhat disconcerted. “I am working. You know…”
“Ah, I mean real work,” said Adam Patch dispassionately.
“I’m not quite sure yet what I’ll do. I’m not exactly a beggar,” he asserted.
The old man almost apologetically asked:
“How much do you save a year?”
“Nothing.”
“And you’ve decided that by some miracle two of you can get along on it.”
“Gloria has some money of her own. Enough to buy clothes.”
“How much?”
“About a hundred a month.”
“That’s altogether about seventy-five hundred a year.” Then he added softly: “Not bad.”
“I suppose it is. I can manage very well. You are convinced that I’m worthless. I came up here simply to tell you that I’m getting married in June. Good-bye, sir.” With this he turned away and headed for the door.
“Wait!” called Adam Patch, “I want to talk to you.”
“Well, sir?”
“Sit down.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to see Gloria tonight.”
“What’s her name?”
“Gloria Gilbert.”
“New York girl? Someone you know?”
“She’s from the Middle West.”
“What does her father do?”
“He is in a celluloid corporation or trust or something. They’re from Kansas City.”
“You going to be married out there?”
“Why, no, sir. We thought we’d be married in New York – rather quietly.”
“What about wedding here?”
Anthony hesitated. He was touched.
“That’s very kind of you, grandpa, but wouldn’t it be a lot of trouble?”
“Everything’s a lot of trouble.”
“Well, I’ll speak to Gloria about it. Personally I’d like to, but of course it’s up to the Gilberts, you see.”
His grandfather drew a long sigh, half closed his eyes, and sank back in his chair.
“In a hurry?”
“Not especially.”
“I began thinking,” said Adam Patch, “and it seemed to me that you ought to be steadier, more industrious…Well, good-bye,” added his grandfather suddenly, “you’ll miss your train.”
Richard Caramel, who was one of the ushers, caused Anthony and Gloria much distress in the last few weeks. “The Demon Lover” had been published in April. The book hesitated and then suddenly “went.” The author, indeed, spent his days in a state of pleasant madness. The book was in his conversation three-fourths of the time.
So to Dick’s great annoyance Gloria publicly boasted that she had never read “The Demon Lover,” and didn’t intend to until every one stopped talking about it. As a matter of fact, she had no time to read now, for the presents were pouring in.
The most munificent gift was simultaneously the most disappointing. It was a concession of Adam Patch’s – a check for five thousand dollars.
Mrs. Gilbert arranged and rearranged their hypothetical house, distributing the gifts among the different rooms.
Five days! A platform was erected on the lawn at Tarrytown. Four days! A special train was chartered to convey the guests to and from New York. Three days!
Anthony
In the gray light Anthony found that it was only five o’clock. He regretted nervously that he had awakened so early.
In his bathroom he contemplated himself in the mirror and saw that he was unusually white. On his dressing table were spread a number of articles – their tickets to California, the book of traveller’s checks, his watch, the key to his apartment, which he must not forget to give to Maury, and, most important of all, the ring. It was of platinum set around with small emeralds; Gloria had insisted on this; she had always wanted an emerald wedding ring, she said.
It was the third present he had given her; first had come the engagement ring, and then a little gold cigarette-case. He would be giving her many things now – clothes and jewels and friends and excitement. It seemed absurd that from now on he would pay for all her meals. The question worried him.
Anthony laughed nervously.
“By God!” he muttered to himself, “I’m almost married!”
Mistress Of The Situation
The breathless idyll of their engagement gave way to the intense romance of the more passionate relationship. The breathless idyll left them, fled on to other lovers; they looked around one day and it was gone, how they scarcely knew.
The idyll passed. Came a day when Gloria found that other men no longer bored her; came a day when Anthony discovered that he could sit again late into the evening, talking with Dick.
It was a time of discovery. Anthony found that he was living with a girl of tremendous nervous tension and of the most high-handed selfishness. Gloria knew within a month that her husband was a coward toward any one of a million phantasms created by his imagination. She was unable to understand it.
It was after midnight. Gloria was dozing off, when suddenly she saw her husband raise himself on his elbow and stare at the window.
“What is it, dearest?” she murmured.
“Nothing,” he turned toward her, “nothing, my darling wife.”
“Don’t say ‘wife.’ I’m your mistress. Wife’s such an ugly word. Your ‘permanent mistress’ is so much more tangible and desirable. Come into my arms,” she added in a rush of tenderness; “I can sleep so well, so well with you in my arms. I’ll protect my Anthony. Oh, nobody’s ever going to harm my Anthony!”
He laughed as though it were a jest, but to Gloria it was never a jest. It was a keen disappointment.
The management of Gloria’s temper became almost the primary duty of Anthony’s day. In her angers her inordinate egotism chiefly displayed itself.
“It seems to me,” he said one day, “that you expect me to be some a valet to you.”
Gloria laughed, so infectiously that Anthony was unwise enough to smile. Unfortunate man! His smile made her mistress of the situation.
The Gray House
In six weeks Anthony and Gloria arrived in New York. It was a struggle to keep many of their conversations on the level of discussions. Arguments were fatal to Gloria’s disposition. She had all her life been associated with men who had not dared to contradict her. What Anthony chiefly missed in her mind was the sense of order and accuracy.
It is in the twenties that the actual momentum of life begins to slacken. At thirty an organ-grinder[22 - organ-grinder – шарманщик] is a more or less moth-eaten man who grinds an organ – and once he was an organ-grinder!
The gray house caught Gloria and Anthony when she was twenty-three; he was twenty-six. They lived impatiently in Anthony’s apartment for the first fortnight after the return from California, in a stifled atmosphere of open trunks, too many callers, and the eternal laundry-bags[23 - laundry-bags – мешки для прачечной]. They discussed with their friends the stupendous problem of their future. Dick and Maury would sit with them agreeing solemnly, almost thoughtfully, as Anthony ran through his list of what they “ought” to do, and where they “ought” to live.
“I’d like to take Gloria abroad,” he complained, “and then to have a place in the country, somewhere near New York, of course, where I could write – or whatever I decide to do.”
Gloria laughed.
“Isn’t he cute?” she required of Maury. “‘Whatever he decides to do!’ But what am I going to do if he works? Maury, will you entertain me if Anthony works?”
“Anyway, I’m not going to work yet,” said Anthony quickly.
“Why don’t you go out to – out to Greenwich or something?” suggested Richard Caramel.
“I’d like that,” said Gloria, brightening. “Do you think we could get a house there?”
Dick shrugged his shoulders and Maury laughed.
“Well, it seems to me there’re a lot of towns like Rye between New York and Greenwich where you could buy a little gray house,” said Dick.
Gloria leaped at the phrase triumphantly. For the first time since their return she knew what she wanted.
“Oh, yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes! that’s it: a little gray house! Where can we find one?”
As the unfortunate upshot of this conversation, they took Dick’s advice literally, and two days later went out to Rye. They were shown houses at a hundred a month; they were shown isolated houses. They looked at a few really nice houses, aloof, dignified, and cool – at three hundred a month. But they did not like them.
Anthony ran into the living room one afternoon.
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notes
Примечания
1
Anthony Patch – Энтони Пэтч
2
conscious stage – стадия пробуждения сознания
3
Cross Patch – Сердитый Пэтч
4
Tarrytown – Тэрритаун
5
Alicia Withers – Алисия Уитерс
6
Henrietta Lebrune – Генриетта Лебрюн
7
he was looked upon – его почитали
8
the Ritz – отель «Риц»
9
Dick Caramel – Дик Кэрэмэл
10
Maury Noble – Мори Нобл
11
shakes hands – здоровается за руку
12
High Jinks – «Шумные забавы»
13
telephone girl – телефонистка
14
Geraldine – Джеральдина
15
Abercrombie – Аберкромби
16
soon as – как только
17
had called on him – зашёл к нему
18
Muriel Kane – Мюриэл Кейн
19
What do you do with yourself? – Чем вы занимаетесь?
20
bacon and eggs – яичница с беконом
21
Bloeckman – Бликман
22
organ-grinder – шарманщик
23
laundry-bags – мешки для прачечной