He was in rather grotesque3 condition: two days of worry and nervousness, of sleepless4 nights, of untouched meals, culminating in the emotional crisis and Rosalind's abrupt5 decision—the strain of it had drugged the foreground of his mind into a merciful coma6. As he fumbled7 clumsily with the olives at the free-lunch table, a man approached and spoke8 to him, and the olives dropped from his nervous hands.
“Well, Amory...”
It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the name.
“Hello, old boy—” he heard himself saying.
“Name's Jim Wilson—you've forgotten.”
“Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember.”
“Going to reunion?”
“You know!” Simultaneously9 he realized that he was not going to reunion.
“Get overseas?”
Amory nodded, his eyes staring oddly. Stepping back to let some one pass, he knocked the dish of olives to a crash on the floor.
“Too bad,” he muttered. “Have a drink?”
Wilson, ponderously10 diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on the back.
“You've had plenty, old boy.”
“Plenty, hell!” said Amory finally. “I haven't had a drink to-day.”
Wilson looked incredulous.
“Have a drink or not?” cried Amory rudely.
Together they sought the bar.
“Rye high.”
“I'll just take a Bronx.”
Wilson had another; Amory had several more. They decided12 to sit down. At ten o'clock Wilson was displaced by Carling, class of '15. Amory, his head spinning gorgeously, layer upon layer of soft satisfaction setting over the bruised13 spots of his spirit, was discoursing14 volubly on the war.
“'S a mental was'e,” he insisted with owl-like wisdom. “Two years my life spent inalleshual vacuity15. Los' idealism, got be physcal anmal,” he shook his fist expressively16 at Old King Cole, “got be Prussian 'bout17 ev'thing, women 'specially18. Use' be straight 'bout women college. Now don'givadam.” He expressed his lack of principle by sweeping19 a seltzer bottle with a broad gesture to noisy extinction20 on the floor, but this did not interrupt his speech. “Seek pleasure where find it for to-morrow die. 'At's philos'phy for me now on.”
Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued:
“Use' wonder 'bout things—people satisfied compromise, fif'y-fif'y att'tude on life. Now don' wonder, don' wonder—” He became so emphatic21 in impressing on Carling the fact that he didn't wonder that he lost the thread of his discourse22 and concluded by announcing to the bar at large that he was a “physcal anmal.”
“What are you celebrating, Amory?”
Amory leaned forward confidentially23.
“Cel'brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can't tell you 'bout it—”
He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender:
“Give him a bromo-seltzer.”
Amory shook his head indignantly.
“None that stuff!”
“But listen, Amory, you're making yourself sick. You're white as a ghost.”
Amory considered the question. He tried to look at himself in the mirror but even by squinting25 up one eye could only see as far as the row of bottles behind the bar.
“Like som'n solid. We go get some—some salad.”
He settled his coat with an attempt at nonchalance26, but letting go of the bar was too much for him, and he slumped27 against a chair.
“We'll go over to Shanley's,” suggested Carling, offering an elbow.
With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion enough to propel him across Forty-second Street.
Shanley's was very dim. He was conscious that he was talking in a loud voice, very succinctly28 and convincingly, he thought, about a desire to crush people under his heel. He consumed three club sandwiches, devouring29 each as though it were no larger than a chocolate-drop. Then Rosalind began popping into his mind again, and he found his lips forming her name over and over. Next he was sleepy, and he had a hazy30, listless sense of people in dress suits, probably waiters, gathering31 around the table....
... He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a knot in his shoe-lace.
He awoke laughing and his eyes lazily roamed his surroundings, evidently a bedroom and bath in a good hotel. His head was whirring and picture after picture was forming and blurring34 and melting before his eyes, but beyond the desire to laugh he had no entirely35 conscious reaction. He reached for the 'phone beside his bed.
“Hello—what hotel is this—?
“Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high-balls—”
He lay for a moment and wondered idly whether they'd send up a bottle or just two of those little glass containers. Then, with an effort, he struggled out of bed and ambled36 into the bathroom.
When he emerged, rubbing himself lazily with a towel, he found the bar boy with the drinks and had a sudden desire to kid him. On reflection he decided that this would be undignified, so he waved him away.
As the new alcohol tumbled into his stomach and warmed him, the isolated38 pictures began slowly to form a cinema reel of the day before. Again he saw Rosalind curled weeping among the pillows, again he felt her tears against his cheek. Her words began ringing in his ears: “Don't ever forget me, Amory—don't ever forget me—”
“Hell!” he faltered39 aloud, and then he choked and collapsed40 on the bed in a shaken spasm41 of grief. After a minute he opened his eyes and regarded the ceiling.
“Damned fool!” he exclaimed in disgust, and with a voluminous sigh rose and approached the bottle. After another glass he gave way loosely to the luxury of tears. Purposely he called up into his mind little incidents of the vanished spring, phrased to himself emotions that would make him react even more strongly to sorrow.
“We were so happy,” he intoned dramatically, “so very happy.” Then he gave way again and knelt beside the bed, his head half-buried in the pillow.
“My own girl—my own—Oh—”
“Oh... my baby girl, all I had, all I wanted!... Oh, my girl, come back, come back! I need you... need you... we're so pitiful ... just misery43 we brought each other.... She'll be shut away from me.... I can't see her; I can't be her friend. It's got to be that way—it's got to be—”
And then again:
“We've been so happy, so very happy....”
He rose to his feet and threw himself on the bed in an ecstasy44 of sentiment, and then lay exhausted45 while he realized slowly that he had been very drunk the night before, and that his head was spinning again wildly. He laughed, rose, and crossed again to Lethe....
At noon he ran into a crowd in the Biltmore bar, and the riot began again. He had a vague recollection afterward of discussing French poetry with a British officer who was introduced to him as “Captain Corn, of his Majesty's Foot,” and he remembered attempting to recite “Clair de Lune” at luncheon46; then he slept in a big, soft chair until almost five o'clock when another crowd found and woke him; there followed an alcoholic dressing24 of several temperaments47 for the ordeal49 of dinner. They selected theatre tickets at Tyson's for a play that had a four-drink programme—a play with two monotonous50 voices, with turbid51, gloomy scenes, and lighting52 effects that were hard to follow when his eyes behaved so amazingly. He imagined afterward that it must have been “The Jest.”...
... Then the Cocoanut Grove53, where Amory slept again on a little balcony outside. Out in Shanley's, Yonkers, he became almost logical, and by a careful control of the number of high-balls he drank, grew quite lucid55 and garrulous56. He found that the party consisted of five men, two of whom he knew slightly; he became righteous about paying his share of the expense and insisted in a loud voice on arranging everything then and there to the amusement of the tables around him....
Some one mentioned that a famous cabaret star was at the next table, so Amory rose and, approaching gallantly57, introduced himself... this involved him in an argument, first with her escort and then with the headwaiter—Amory's attitude being a lofty and exaggerated courtesy... he consented, after being confronted with irrefutable logic54, to being led back to his own table.
“Decided to commit suicide,” he announced suddenly.
“When? Next year?”
“Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, get into a hot bath and open a vein58.”
“You need another rye, old boy!”
“We'll all talk it over to-morrow.”
“Did you ever get that way?” he demanded confidentially fortaccio.
“Sure!”
“Often?”
This provoked discussion. One man said that he got so depressed62 sometimes that he seriously considered it. Another agreed that there was nothing to live for. “Captain Corn,” who had somehow rejoined the party, said that in his opinion it was when one's health was bad that one felt that way most. Amory's suggestion was that they should each order a Bronx, mix broken glass in it, and drink it off. To his relief no one applauded the idea, so having finished his high-ball, he balanced his chin in his hand and his elbow on the table—a most delicate, scarcely noticeable sleeping position, he assured himself—and went into a deep stupor63....
He was awakened64 by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown, disarranged hair and dark blue eyes.
“Take me home!” she cried.
“Hello!” said Amory, blinking.
“I like you,” she announced tenderly.
“I like you too.”
He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of his party was arguing with him.
“Fella I was with's a damn fool,” confided65 the blue-eyed woman. “I hate him. I want to go home with you.”
She nodded coyly.
“Go home with him,” he advised gravely. “He brought you.”
At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his detainers and approached.
Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer.
“You let go that girl!” cried the noisy man.
Amory tried to make his eyes threatening.
“You go to hell!” he directed finally, and turned his attention to the girl.
“Love first sight,” he suggested.
“I love you,” she breathed and nestled close to him. She did have beautiful eyes.
Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear.
“That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and this fellow here brought her. Better let her go.”
“Let him take care of her, then!” shouted Amory furiously. “I'm no W. Y. C. A. worker, am I?—am I?”
“Let her go!”
“It's her hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!”
The crowd around the table thickened. For an instant a brawl68 threatened, but a sleek69 waiter bent70 back Margaret Diamond's fingers until she released her hold on Amory, whereupon she slapped the waiter furiously in the face and flung her arms about her raging original escort.
“Oh, Lord!” cried Amory.
“Let's go!”
“Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!”
“Check, waiter.”
“C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over.”
Amory laughed.
“You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 'At's the whole trouble.”
Two mornings later he knocked at the president's door at Bascome and Barlow's advertising72 agency.
“Come in!”
Amory entered unsteadily.
“'Morning, Mr. Barlow.”
Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection73 and set his mouth slightly ajar that he might better listen.
“Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven't seen you for several days.”
“No,” said Amory. “I'm quitting.”
“Well—well—this is—”
“I don't like it here.”
“I'm sorry. I thought our relations had been quite—ah—pleasant. You seemed to be a hard worker—a little inclined perhaps to write fancy copy—”
“I just got tired of it,” interrupted Amory rudely. “It didn't matter a damn to me whether Harebell's flour was any better than any one else's. In fact, I never ate any of it. So I got tired of telling people about it—oh, I know I've been drinking—”
Mr. Barlow's face steeled by several ingots of expression.
“You asked for a position—”
Amory waved him to silence.
“And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a week—less than a good carpenter.”
“You had just started. You'd never worked before,” said Mr. Barlow coolly.
“But it took about ten thousand dollars to educate me where I could write your darned stuff for you. Anyway, as far as length of service goes, you've got stenographers here you've paid fifteen a week for five years.”
“I'm not going to argue with you, sir,” said Mr. Barlow rising.
“Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I'm quitting.”
They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and then Amory turned and left the office.
Four days after that he returned at last to the apartment. Tom was engaged on a book review for The New Democracy on the staff of which he was employed. They regarded each other for a moment in silence.
“Well?”
“Well?”
Amory laughed.
He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders.
“Look here!”
Tom emitted a low whistle.
“What hit you?”
Amory laughed again.
“Oh, a lot of people. I got beaten up. Fact.” He slowly replaced his shirt. “It was bound to come sooner or later and I wouldn't have missed it for anything.”
“Who was it?”
“Well, there were some waiters and a couple of sailors and a few stray pedestrians77, I guess. It's the strangest feeling. You ought to get beaten up just for the experience of it. You fall down after a while and everybody sort of slashes78 in at you before you hit the ground—then they kick you.”
Tom lighted a cigarette.
“I spent a day chasing you all over town, Amory. But you always kept a little ahead of me. I'd say you've been on some party.”
Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette.
“You sober now?” asked Tom quizzically.
“Pretty sober. Why?”
“Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home and live, so he—”
A spasm of pain shook Amory.
“Too bad.”
“Yes, it is too bad. We'll have to get some one else if we're going to stay here. The rent's going up.”
“Sure. Get anybody. I'll leave it to you, Tom.”
Amory walked into his bedroom. The first thing that met his glance was a photograph of Rosalind that he had intended to have framed, propped79 up against a mirror on his dresser. He looked at it unmoved. After the vivid mental pictures of her that were his portion at present, the portrait was curiously80 unreal. He went back into the study.
“Got a cardboard box?”
“No,” answered Tom, puzzled. “Why should I have? Oh, yes—there may be one in Alec's room.”
Eventually Amory found what he was looking for and, returning to his dresser, opened a drawer full of letters, notes, part of a chain, two little handkerchiefs, and some snap-shots. As he transferred them carefully to the box his mind wandered to some place in a book where the hero, after preserving for a year a cake of his lost love's soap, finally washed his hands with it. He laughed and began to hum “After you've gone” ... ceased abruptly81...
The string broke twice, and then he managed to secure it, dropped the package into the bottom of his trunk, and having slammed the lid returned to the study.
“Going out?” Tom's voice held an undertone of anxiety.
“Uh-huh.”
“Where?”
“Couldn't say, old keed.”
“Let's have dinner together.”
“Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I'd eat with him.”
“Oh.”
“By-by.”
Amory crossed the street and had a high-ball; then he walked to Washington Square and found a top seat on a bus. He disembarked at Forty-third Street and strolled to the Biltmore bar.
“Hi, Amory!”
“What'll you have?”
“Yo-ho! Waiter!”
TEMPERATURE NORMAL
The advent82 of prohibition83 with the “thirsty-first” put a sudden stop to the submerging of Amory's sorrows, and when he awoke one morning to find that the old bar-to-bar days were over, he had neither remorse84 for the past three weeks nor regret that their repetition was impossible. He had taken the most violent, if the weakest, method to shield himself from the stabs of memory, and while it was not a course he would have prescribed for others, he found in the end that it had done its business: he was over the first flush of pain.
Don't misunderstand! Amory had loved Rosalind as he would never love another living person. She had taken the first flush of his youth and brought from his unplumbed depths tenderness that had surprised him, gentleness and unselfishness that he had never given to another creature. He had later love-affairs, but of a different sort: in those he went back to that, perhaps, more typical frame of mind, in which the girl became the mirror of a mood in him. Rosalind had drawn85 out what was more than passionate86 admiration87; he had a deep, undying affection for Rosalind.
But there had been, near the end, so much dramatic tragedy, culminating in the arabesque88 nightmare of his three weeks' spree, that he was emotionally worn out. The people and surroundings that he remembered as being cool or delicately artificial, seemed to promise him a refuge. He wrote a cynical89 story which featured his father's funeral and despatched it to a magazine, receiving in return a check for sixty dollars and a request for more of the same tone. This tickled90 his vanity, but inspired him to no further effort.
He read enormously. He was puzzled and depressed by “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”; intensely interested by “Joan and Peter” and “The Undying Fire,” and rather surprised by his discovery through a critic named Mencken of several excellent American novels: “Vandover and the Brute,” “The Damnation of Theron Ware,” and “Jennie Gerhardt.” Mackenzie, Chesterton, Galsworthy, Bennett, had sunk in his appreciation91 from sagacious, life-saturated geniuses to merely diverting contemporaries. Shaw's aloof92 clarity and brilliant consistency93 and the gloriously intoxicated94 efforts of H. G. Wells to fit the key of romantic symmetry into the elusive95 lock of truth, alone won his rapt attention.
He wanted to see Monsignor Darcy, to whom he had written when he landed, but he had not heard from him; besides he knew that a visit to Monsignor would entail96 the story of Rosalind, and the thought of repeating it turned him cold with horror.
In his search for cool people he remembered Mrs. Lawrence, a very intelligent, very dignified37 lady, a convert to the church, and a great devotee of Monsignor's.
He called her on the 'phone one day. Yes, she remembered him perfectly97; no, Monsignor wasn't in town, was in Boston she thought; he'd promised to come to dinner when he returned. Couldn't Amory take luncheon with her?
“I thought I'd better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence,” he said rather ambiguously when he arrived.
“Monsignor was here just last week,” said Mrs. Lawrence regretfully. “He was very anxious to see you, but he'd left your address at home.”
“Why?”
“About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity.”
“So?”
“He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was greatly distressed101 because the receiving committee, when they rode in an automobile102, would put their arms around the President.”
“I don't blame him.”
“Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in the army? You look a great deal older.”
“That's from another, more disastrous103 battle,” he answered, smiling in spite of himself. “But the army—let me see—well, I discovered that physical courage depends to a great extent on the physical shape a man is in. I found that I was as brave as the next man—it used to worry me before.”
“What else?”
“Well, the idea that men can stand anything if they get used to it, and the fact that I got a high mark in the psychological examination.”
Mrs. Lawrence laughed. Amory was finding it a great relief to be in this cool house on Riverside Drive, away from more condensed New York and the sense of people expelling great quantities of breath into a little space. Mrs. Lawrence reminded him vaguely104 of Beatrice, not in temperament48, but in her perfect grace and dignity. The house, its furnishings, the manner in which dinner was served, were in immense contrast to what he had met in the great places on Long Island, where the servants were so obtrusive105 that they had positively106 to be bumped out of the way, or even in the houses of more conservative “union Club” families. He wondered if this air of symmetrical restraint, this grace, which he felt was continental107, was distilled108 through Mrs. Lawrence's New England ancestry109 or acquired in long residence in Italy and Spain.
Two glasses of sauterne at luncheon loosened his tongue, and he talked, with what he felt was something of his old charm, of religion and literature and the menacing phenomena110 of the social order. Mrs. Lawrence was ostensibly pleased with him, and her interest was especially in his mind; he wanted people to like his mind again—after a while it might be such a nice place in which to live.
“Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you're his reincarnation, that your faith will eventually clarify.”
“Perhaps,” he assented111. “I'm rather pagan at present. It's just that religion doesn't seem to have the slightest bearing on life at my age.”
When he left her house he walked down Riverside Drive with a feeling of satisfaction. It was amusing to discuss again such subjects as this young poet, Stephen Vincent Benet, or the Irish Republic. Between the rancid accusations112 of Edward Carson and Justice Cohalan he had completely tired of the Irish question; yet there had been a time when his own Celtic traits were pillars of his personal philosophy.
There seemed suddenly to be much left in life, if only this revival113 of old interests did not mean that he was backing away from it again—backing away from life itself.
RESTLESSNESS
“I'm tres old and tres bored, Tom,” said Amory one day, stretching himself at ease in the comfortable window-seat. He always felt most natural in a recumbent position.
“You used to be entertaining before you started to write,” he continued. “Now you save any idea that you think would do to print.”
Existence had settled back to an ambitionless normality. They had decided that with economy they could still afford the apartment, which Tom, with the domesticity of an elderly cat, had grown fond of. The old English hunting prints on the wall were Tom's, and the large tapestry114 by courtesy, a relic115 of decadent116 days in college, and the great profusion117 of orphaned118 candlesticks and the carved Louis XV chair in which no one could sit more than a minute without acute spinal119 disorders—Tom claimed that this was because one was sitting in the lap of Montespan's wraith—at any rate, it was Tom's furniture that decided them to stay.
They went out very little: to an occasional play, or to dinner at the Ritz or the Princeton Club. With prohibition the great rendezvous120 had received their death wounds; no longer could one wander to the Biltmore bar at twelve or five and find congenial spirits, and both Tom and Amory had outgrown121 the passion for dancing with mid-Western or New Jersey122 debbies at the Club-de-Vingt (surnamed the “Club de Gink”) or the Plaza123 Rose Room—besides even that required several cocktails124 “to come down to the intellectual level of the women present,” as Amory had once put it to a horrified125 matron.
Amory had lately received several alarming letters from Mr. Barton—the Lake Geneva house was too large to be easily rented; the best rent obtainable at present would serve this year to little more than pay for the taxes and necessary improvements; in fact, the lawyer suggested that the whole property was simply a white elephant on Amory's hands. Nevertheless, even though it might not yield a cent for the next three years, Amory decided with a vague sentimentality that for the present, at any rate, he would not sell the house.
This particular day on which he announced his ennui127 to Tom had been quite typical. He had risen at noon, lunched with Mrs. Lawrence, and then ridden abstractedly homeward atop one of his beloved buses.
“Why shouldn't you be bored,” yawned Tom. “Isn't that the conventional frame of mind for the young man of your age and condition?”
“Yes,” said Amory speculatively128, “but I'm more than bored; I am restless.”
“Love and war did for you.”
“Well,” Amory considered, “I'm not sure that the war itself had any great effect on either you or me—but it certainly ruined the old backgrounds, sort of killed individualism out of our generation.”
Tom looked up in surprise.
“Yes it did,” insisted Amory. “I'm not sure it didn't kill it out of the whole world. Oh, Lord, what a pleasure it used to be to dream I might be a really great dictator or writer or religious or political leader—and now even a Leonardo da Vinci or Lorenzo de Medici couldn't be a real old-fashioned bolt in the world. Life is too huge and complex. The world is so overgrown that it can't lift its own fingers, and I was planning to be such an important finger—”
“I don't agree with you,” Tom interrupted. “There never were men placed in such egotistic positions since—oh, since the French Revolution.”
Amory disagreed violently.
“You're mistaking this period when every nut is an individualist for a period of individualism. Wilson has only been powerful when he has represented; he's had to compromise over and over again. Just as soon as Trotsky and Lenin take a definite, consistent stand they'll become merely two-minute figures like Kerensky. Even Foch hasn't half the significance of Stonewall Jackson. War used to be the most individualistic pursuit of man, and yet the popular heroes of the war had neither authority nor responsibility: Guynemer and Sergeant129 York. How could a schoolboy make a hero of Pershing? A big man has no time really to do anything but just sit and be big.”
“Then you don't think there will be any more permanent world heroes?”
“Yes—in history—not in life. Carlyle would have difficulty getting material for a new chapter on 'The Hero as a Big Man.'”
“Go on. I'm a good listener to-day.”
“People try so hard to believe in leaders now, pitifully hard. But we no sooner get a popular reformer or politician or soldier or writer or philosopher—a Roosevelt, a Tolstoi, a Wood, a Shaw, a Nietzsche, than the cross-currents of criticism wash him away. My Lord, no man can stand prominence130 these days. It's the surest path to obscurity. People get sick of hearing the same name over and over.”
“Then you blame it on the press?”
“Absolutely. Look at you; you're on The New Democracy, considered the most brilliant weekly in the country, read by the men who do things and all that. What's your business? Why, to be as clever, as interesting, and as brilliantly cynical as possible about every man, doctrine131, book, or policy that is assigned you to deal with. The more strong lights, the more spiritual scandal you can throw on the matter, the more money they pay you, the more the people buy the issue. You, Tom d'Invilliers, a blighted132 Shelley, changing, shifting, clever, unscrupulous, represent the critical consciousness of the race—Oh, don't protest, I know the stuff. I used to write book reviews in college; I considered it rare sport to refer to the latest honest, conscientious133 effort to propound134 a theory or a remedy as a 'welcome addition to our light summer reading.' Come on now, admit it.”
Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly135.
“We want to believe. Young students try to believe in older authors, constituents136 try to believe in their Congressmen, countries try to believe in their statesmen, but they can't. Too many voices, too much scattered137, illogical, ill-considered criticism. It's worse in the case of newspapers. Any rich, unprogressive old party with that particularly grasping, acquisitive form of mentality126 known as financial genius can own a paper that is the intellectual meat and drink of thousands of tired, hurried men, men too involved in the business of modern living to swallow anything but predigested food. For two cents the voter buys his politics, prejudices, and philosophy. A year later there is a new political ring or a change in the paper's ownership, consequence: more confusion, more contradiction, a sudden inrush of new ideas, their tempering, their distillation138, the reaction against them—”
He paused only to get his breath.
“And that is why I have sworn not to put pen to paper until my ideas either clarify or depart entirely; I have quite enough sins on my soul without putting dangerous, shallow epigrams into people's heads; I might cause a poor, inoffensive capitalist to have a vulgar liaison139 with a bomb, or get some innocent little Bolshevik tangled140 up with a machine-gun bullet—”
Tom was growing restless under this lampooning141 of his connection with The New Democracy.
“What's all this got to do with your being bored?”
Amory considered that it had much to do with it.
“How'll I fit in?” he demanded. “What am I for? To propagate the race? According to the American novels we are led to believe that the 'healthy American boy' from nineteen to twenty-five is an entirely sexless animal. As a matter of fact, the healthier he is the less that's true. The only alternative to letting it get you is some violent interest. Well, the war is over; I believe too much in the responsibilities of authorship to write just now; and business, well, business speaks for itself. It has no connection with anything in the world that I've ever been interested in, except a slim, utilitarian142 connection with economics. What I'd see of it, lost in a clerkship, for the next and best ten years of my life would have the intellectual content of an industrial movie.”
“Try fiction,” suggested Tom.
“Trouble is I get distracted when I start to write stories—get afraid I'm doing it instead of living—get thinking maybe life is waiting for me in the Japanese gardens at the Ritz or at Atlantic City or on the lower East Side.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I haven't the vital urge. I wanted to be a regular human being but the girl couldn't see it that way.”
“You'll find another.”
“God! Banish143 the thought. Why don't you tell me that 'if the girl had been worth having she'd have waited for you'? No, sir, the girl really worth having won't wait for anybody. If I thought there'd be another I'd lose my remaining faith in human nature. Maybe I'll play—but Rosalind was the only girl in the wide world that could have held me.”
“Well,” yawned Tom, “I've played confidant a good hour by the clock. Still, I'm glad to see you're beginning to have violent views again on something.”
“I am,” agreed Amory reluctantly. “Yet when I see a happy family it makes me sick at my stomach—”
There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, wreathed in smoke, indulged in the slaughter146 of American literature. Words failed him.
“Fifty thousand dollars a year,” he would cry. “My God! Look at them, look at them—Edna Ferber, Gouverneur Morris, Fanny Hurst, Mary Roberts Rinehart—not producing among 'em one story or novel that will last ten years. This man Cobb—I don't tink he's either clever or amusing—and what's more, I don't think very many people do, except the editors. He's just groggy147 with advertising. And—oh Harold Bell Wright oh Zane Grey—”
“They try.”
“No, they don't even try. Some of them can write, but they won't sit down and do one honest novel. Most of them can't write, I'll admit. I believe Rupert Hughes tries to give a real, comprehensive picture of American life, but his style and perspective are barbarous. Ernest Poole and Dorothy Canfield try but they're hindered by their absolute lack of any sense of humor; but at least they crowd their work instead of spreading it thin. Every author ought to write every book as if he were going to be beheaded the day he finished it.”
“Don't slow me up! Now there's a few of 'em that seem to have some cultural background, some intelligence and a good deal of literary felicity but they just simply won't write honestly; they'd all claim there was no public for good stuff. Then why the devil is it that Wells, Conrad, Galsworthy, Shaw, Bennett, and the rest depend on America for over half their sales?”
“How does little Tommy like the poets?”
Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely beside the chair and emitted faint grunts149.
“Let's hear it,” said Amory eagerly.
“I've only got the last few lines done.”
“That's very modern. Let's hear 'em, if they're funny.”
Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud, pausing at intervals152 so that Amory could see that it was free verse:
“So
Walter Arensberg,
Alfred Kreymborg,
Carl Sandburg,
Louis Untermeyer,
Eunice Tietjens,
Clara Shanafelt,
James Oppenheim,
Maxwell Bodenheim,
Richard Glaenzer,
Conrad Aiken,
I place your names here
So that you may live
If only as names,
In the Juvenalia
Of my collected editions.”
Amory roared.
Amory did not entirely agree with Tom's sweeping damnation of American novelists and poets. He enjoyed both Vachel Lindsay and Booth Tarkington, and admired the conscientious, if slender, artistry of Edgar Lee Masters.
“What I hate is this idiotic155 drivel about 'I am God—I am man—I ride the winds—I look through the smoke—I am the life sense.'”
“It's ghastly!”
“And I wish American novelists would give up trying to make business romantically interesting. Nobody wants to read about it, unless it's crooked156 business. If it was an entertaining subject they'd buy the life of James J. Hill and not one of these long office tragedies that harp157 along on the significance of smoke—”
“And gloom,” said Tom. “That's another favorite, though I'll admit the Russians have the monopoly. Our specialty158 is stories about little girls who break their spines159 and get adopted by grouchy160 old men because they smile so much. You'd think we were a race of cheerful cripples and that the common end of the Russian peasant was suicide—”
“Six o'clock,” said Amory, glancing at his wrist-watch. “I'll buy you a grea' big dinner on the strength of the Juvenalia of your collected editions.”
LOOKING BACKWARD
July sweltered out with a last hot week, and Amory in another surge of unrest realized that it was just five months since he and Rosalind had met. Yet it was already hard for him to visualize161 the heart-whole boy who had stepped off the transport, passionately162 desiring the adventure of life. One night while the heat, overpowering and enervating163, poured into the windows of his room he struggled for several hours in a vague effort to immortalize the poignancy164 of that time.
The February streets, wind-washed by night, blow full of strange
half-intermittent damps, bearing on wasted walks in shining sight
wet snow plashed into gleams under the lamps, like golden oil
Strange damps—full of the eyes of many men, crowded with life
borne in upon a lull.... Oh, I was young, for I could turn
again to you, most finite and most beautiful, and taste the stuff
of half-remembered dreams, sweet and new on your mouth.
... There was a tanging in the midnight air—silence was dead and
sound not yet awoken—Life cracked like ice!—one brilliant note
and there, radiant and pale, you stood... and spring had broken.
(The icicles were short upon the roofs and the changeling city
swooned.)
Our thoughts were frosty mist along the eaves; our two ghosts
followed after things she loved, leaving the great husk.
ANOTHER ENDING
In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had evidently just stumbled on his address:
MY DEAR BOY:—
Your last letter was quite enough to make me worry about you. It was not a bit like yourself. Reading between the lines I should imagine that your engagement to this girl is making you rather unhappy, and I see you have lost all the feeling of romance that you had before the war. You make a great mistake if you think you can be romantic without religion. Sometimes I think that with both of us the secret of success, when we find it, is the mystical element in us: something flows into us that enlarges our personalities168, and when it ebbs169 out our personalities shrink; I should call your last two letters rather shrivelled. Beware of losing yourself in the personality of another being, man or woman.
His Eminence170 Cardinal171 O'Neill and the Bishop172 of Boston are staying with me at present, so it is hard for me to get a moment to write, but I wish you would come up here later if only for a week-end. I go to Washington this week.
What I shall do in the future is hanging in the balance. Absolutely between ourselves I should not be surprised to see the red hat of a cardinal descend173 upon my unworthy head within the next eight months. In any event, I should like to have a house in New York or Washington where you could drop in for week-ends.
Amory, I'm very glad we're both alive; this war could easily have been the end of a brilliant family. But in regard to matrimony, you are now at the most dangerous period of your life. You might marry in haste and repent174 at leisure, but I think you won't. From what you write me about the present calamitous175 state of your finances, what you want is naturally impossible. However, if I judge you by the means I usually choose, I should say that there will be something of an emotional crisis within the next year.
Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you.
With greatest affection,
THAYER DARCY.
Within a week after the receipt of this letter their little household fell precipitously to pieces. The immediate176 cause was the serious and probably chronic illness of Tom's mother. So they stored the furniture, gave instructions to sublet177 and shook hands gloomily in the Pennsylvania Station. Amory and Tom seemed always to be saying good-by.
Feeling very much alone, Amory yielded to an impulse and set off southward, intending to join Monsignor in Washington. They missed connections by two hours, and, deciding to spend a few days with an ancient, remembered uncle, Amory journeyed up through the luxuriant fields of Maryland into Ramilly County. But instead of two days his stay lasted from mid-August nearly through September, for in Maryland he met Eleanor.
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1
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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ponderously
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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18
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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19
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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20
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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21
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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23
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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24
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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25
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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26
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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27
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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28
succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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29
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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30
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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31
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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32
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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33
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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34
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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35
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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36
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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37
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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38
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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39
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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40
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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41
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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42
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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43
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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44
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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45
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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46
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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47
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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48
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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49
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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50
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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51
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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52
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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53
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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54
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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55
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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56
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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57
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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58
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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59
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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60
dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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62
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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63
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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64
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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65
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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66
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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67
butting
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| 用头撞人（犯规动作） | |
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68
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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69
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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70
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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71
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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72
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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73
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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74
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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75
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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76
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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77
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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78
slashes
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| n.（用刀等）砍( slash的名词复数 )；（长而窄的）伤口；斜杠；撒尿v.挥砍( slash的第三人称单数 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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79
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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81
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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82
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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83
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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84
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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85
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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86
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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87
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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88
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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89
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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90
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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91
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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92
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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93
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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94
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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95
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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97
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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98
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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99
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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100
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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101
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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102
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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103
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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104
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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105
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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107
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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108
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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109
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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110
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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111
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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113
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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114
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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115
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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116
decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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117
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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118
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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119
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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120
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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121
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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122
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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123
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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124
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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125
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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126
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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127
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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128
speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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129
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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130
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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131
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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132
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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133
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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134
propound
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| v.提出 | |
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135
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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136
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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138
distillation
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| n.蒸馏，蒸馏法 | |
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139
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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140
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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lampooning
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| v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的现在分词 ) | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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143
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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145
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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146
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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groggy
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| adj.体弱的；不稳的 | |
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148
entente
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| n.协定；有协定关系的各国 | |
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149
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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150
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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151
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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152
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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153
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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154
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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155
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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156
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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157
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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158
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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159
spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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160
grouchy
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| adj.好抱怨的；愠怒的 | |
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161
visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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162
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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163
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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164
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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165
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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166
mazed
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| 迷惘的，困惑的 | |
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167
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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168
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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169
ebbs
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| 退潮( ebb的名词复数 )； 落潮； 衰退 | |
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170
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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171
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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172
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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173
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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174
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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175
calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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176
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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177
sublet
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| v.转租；分租 | |
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