The Beautiful and the Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald (summer beach reads .txt) đ
- Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald
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Richard Caramel listened. At first he had remained standing, but as his auntâs discourse waxed in contentâit stands here pruned by half, of all side references to the youth of Gloriaâs soul and to Mrs. Gilbertâs own mental distressesâhe drew a chair up and attended rigorously as she floated, between tears and plaintive helplessness, down the long story of Gloriaâs life. When she came to the tale of this last year, a tale of the ends of cigarettes left all over New York in little trays marked âMidnight Frolicâ and âJustine Johnsonâs Little Club,â he began nodding his head slowly, then faster and faster, until, as she finished on a staccato note, it was bobbing briskly up and down, absurdly like a dollâs wired head, expressingâalmost anything.
In a sense Gloriaâs past was an old story to him. He had followed it with the eyes of a journalist, for he was going to write a book about her some day. But his interests, just at present, were family interests. He wanted to know, in particular, who was this Joseph Bloeckman that he had seen her with several times; and those two girls she was with constantly, âthisâ Rachael Jerryl and âthisâ Miss Kaneâsurely Miss Kane wasnât exactly the sort one would associate with Gloria!
But the moment had passed. Mrs. Gilbert having climbed the hill of exposition was about to glide swiftly down the ski-jump of collapse. Her eyes were like a blue sky seen through two round, red window-casements. The flesh about her mouth was trembling.
And at the moment the door opened, admitting into the room Gloria and the two young ladies lately mentioned.
TWO YOUNG WOMENâWell!â
âHow do you do, Mrs. Gilbert!â
Miss Kane and Miss Jerryl are presented to Mr. Richard Caramel. âThis is Dickâ (laughter).
âIâve heard so much about you,â says Miss Kane between a giggle and a shout.
âHow do you do,â says Miss Jerryl shyly.
Richard Caramel tries to move about as if his figure were better. He is torn between his innate cordiality and the fact that he considers these girls rather commonânot at all the Farmover type.
Gloria has disappeared into the bedroom.
âDo sit down,â beams Mrs. Gilbert, who is by now quite herself. âTake off your things.â Dick is afraid she will make some remark about the age of his soul, but he forgets his qualms in completing a conscientious, novelistâs examination of the two young women.
Muriel Kane had originated in a rising family of East Orange. She was short rather than small, and hovered audaciously between plumpness and width. Her hair was black and elaborately arranged. This, in conjunction with her handsome, rather bovine eyes, and her overred lips, combined to make her resemble Theda Bara, the prominent motion picture actress. People told her constantly that she was a âvampire,â and she believed them. She suspected hopefully that they were afraid of her, and she did her utmost under all circumstances to give the impression of danger. An imaginative man could see the red flag that she constantly carried, waving it wildly, beseechinglyâand, alas, to little spectacular avail. She was also tremendously timely: she knew the latest songs, all the latest songsâwhen one of them was played on the phonograph she would rise to her feet and rock her shoulders back and forth and snap her fingers, and if there was no music she would accompany herself by humming.
Her conversation was also timely: âI donât care,â she would say, âI should worry and lose my figureââand again: âI canât make my feet behave when I hear that tune. Oh, baby!â
Her finger-nails were too long and ornate, polished to a pink and unnatural fever. Her clothes were too tight, too stylish, too vivid, her eyes too roguish, her smile too coy. She was almost pitifully overemphasized from head to foot.
The other girl was obviously a more subtle personality. She was an exquisitely dressed Jewess with dark hair and a lovely milky pallor. She seemed shy and vague, and these two qualities accentuated a rather delicate charm that floated about her. Her family were âEpiscopalians,â owned three smart womenâs shops along Fifth Avenue, and lived in a magnificent apartment on Riverside Drive. It seemed to Dick, after a few moments, that she was attempting to imitate Gloriaâhe wondered that people invariably chose inimitable people to imitate.
âWe had the most hectic time!â Muriel was exclaiming enthusiastically. âThere was a crazy woman behind us on the bus. She was absitively, posolutely nutty! She kept talking to herself about something sheâd like to do to somebody or something. I was petrified, but Gloria simply wouldnât get off.â
Mrs. Gilbert opened her mouth, properly awed.
âReally?â
âOh, she was crazy. But we should worry, she didnât hurt us. Ugly! Gracious! The man across from us said her face ought to be on a night-nurse in a home for the blind, and we all howled, naturally, so the man tried to pick us up.â
Presently Gloria emerged from her bedroom and in unison every eye turned on her. The two girls receded into a shadowy background, unperceived, unmissed.
âWeâve been talking about you,â said Dick quickly, ââyour mother and I.â
âWell,â said Gloria.
A pauseâMuriel turned to Dick.
âYouâre a great writer, arenât you?â
âIâm a writer,â he confessed sheepishly.
âI always say,â said Muriel earnestly, âthat if I ever had time to write down all my experiences itâd make a wonderful book.â
Rachael giggled sympathetically; Richard Caramelâs bow was almost stately. Muriel continued:
âBut I donât see how you can sit down and do it. And poetry! Lordy, I canât make two lines rhyme. Well, I should worry!â
Richard Caramel with difficulty restrained a shout of laughter. Gloria was chewing an amazing gum-drop and staring moodily out the window. Mrs. Gilbert cleared her throat and beamed.
âBut you see,â she said in a sort of universal exposition, âyouâre not an ancient soulâlike Richard.â
The Ancient Soul breathed a gasp of reliefâit was out at last.
Then as if she had been considering it for five minutes, Gloria made a sudden announcement:
âIâm going to give a party.â
âOh, can I come?â cried Muriel with facetious daring.
âA dinner. Seven people: Muriel and Rachael and I, and you, Dick, and Anthony, and that man named NobleâI liked himâand Bloeckman.â
Muriel and Rachael went into soft and purring ecstasies of enthusiasm. Mrs. Gilbert blinked and beamed. With an air of casualness Dick broke in with a question:
âWho is this fellow Bloeckman, Gloria?â
Scenting a faint hostility, Gloria turned to him.
âJoseph Bloeckman? Heâs the moving picture man. Vice-president of âFilms Par Excellence.â He and father do a lot of business.â
âOh!â
âWell, will you all come?â
They would all come. A date was arranged within the week. Dick rose, adjusted hat, coat, and muffler, and gave out a general smile.
âBy-by,â said Muriel, waving her hand gaily, âcall me up some time.â
Richard Caramel blushed for her.
DEPLORABLE END OF THE CHEVALIER OâKEEFE
It was Monday and Anthony took Geraldine Burke to luncheon at the Beaux Artsâafterward they went up to his apartment and he wheeled out the little rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting vermouth, gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant.
Geraldine Burke, usher at Keithâs, had been an amusement of several months. She demanded so little that he liked her, for since a lamentable affair with a dïżœbutante the preceding summer, when he had discovered that after half a dozen kisses a proposal was expected, he had been wary of girls of his own class. It was only too easy to turn a critical eye on their imperfections: some physical harshness or a general lack of personal delicacyâbut a girl who was usher at Keithâs was approached with a different attitude. One could tolerate qualities in an intimate valet that would be unforgivable in a mere acquaintance on oneâs social level.
Geraldine, curled up at the foot of the lounge, considered him with narrow slanting eyes.
âYou drink all the time, donât you?â she said suddenly.
âWhy, I suppose so,â replied Anthony in some surprise. âDonât you?â
âNope. I go on parties sometimesâyou 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 youâd ruin your health.â
Anthony was somewhat touched.
âWhy, arenât you sweet to worry about me!â
âWell, I do.â
âI donât drink so very much,â he declared. âLast month I didnât touch a drop for three weeks. And I only get really tight about once a week.â
âBut you have something to drink every day and youâre only twenty-five. Havenât you any ambition? Think what youâll be at forty?â
âI sincerely trust that I wonât live that long.â
She clicked her tongue with her teeth.
âYou cra-azy!â she said as he mixed another cocktailâand then: âAre you any relation to Adam Patch?â
âYes, heâs my grandfather.â
âReally?â She was obviously thrilled.
âAbsolutely.â
âThatâs funny. My daddy used to work for him.â
âHeâs a queer old man.â
âIs he nice?â she demanded.
âWell, in private life heâs seldom unnecessarily disagreeable.â
âTell us about him.â
âWhy,â Anthony considered ââheâs all shrunken up and heâs got the remains of some gray hair that always looks as though the wind were in it. Heâs very moral.â
âHeâs done a lot of good,â said Geraldine with intense gravity.
âRot!â scoffed Anthony. âHeâs a pious assâa chickenbrain.â
Her mind left the subject and flitted on.
âWhy donât you live with him?â
âWhy donât I board in a Methodist parsonage?â
âYou cra-azy!â
Again she made a little clicking sound to express disapproval. Anthony thought how moral was this little waif at heartâhow completely moral she would still be after the inevitable wave came that would wash her off the sands of respectability.
âDo you hate him?â
âI wonder. I never liked him. You never like people who do things for you.â
âDoes he hate you?â
âMy dear Geraldine,â protested Anthony, frowning humorously, âdo have another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the room sniffing. Heâs a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I probably wouldnât be telling you this if I hadnât had a few drinks, but I donât suppose it matters.â
Geraldine was persistently interested. She held her glass, untasted, between finger and thumb and regarded him with eyes in which there was a touch of awe.
âHow do you mean a hypocrite?â
âWell,â said Anthony impatiently, âmaybe heâs not. But he doesnât like the things that I like, and so, as far as Iâm concerned, heâs uninteresting.â
âHm.â Her curiosity seemed, at length, satisfied. She sank back into the sofa and sipped her cocktail.
âYouâre a funny one,â she commented thoughtfully. âDoes everybody want to marry you because your grandfather is rich?â
âThey donâtâbut I shouldnât blame them if they did. Still, you see, I never intend to marry.â
She scorned this.
âYouâll fall in love someday. Oh, you willâI know.â She nodded wisely.
âItâd be idiotic to be overconfident. Thatâs what ruined the Chevalier OâKeefe.â
âWho was he?â
âA creature of my splendid mind. Heâs my one creation, the Chevalier.â
âCra-a-azy!â she
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