This Side of Paradise F. Scott Fitzgerald (mini ebook reader .txt) đ
- Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald
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Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensation. A certain Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom-trotter, had failed to get her yearly invitation to the Harvardâ ââ Princeton game.
Jesse Ferrenby had brought her to a smaller game a few weeks before, and had pressed Burne into serviceâ âto the ruination of the latterâs misogyny.
âAre you coming to the Harvard game?â Burne had asked indiscreetly, merely to make conversation.
âIf you ask me,â cried Phyllis quickly.
âOf course I do,â said Burne feebly. He was unversed in the arts of Phyllis, and was sure that this was merely a vapid form of kidding. Before an hour had passed he knew that he was indeed involved. Phyllis had pinned him down and served him up, informed him the train she was arriving by, and depressed him thoroughly. Aside from loathing Phyllis, he had particularly wanted to stag that game and entertain some Harvard friends.
âSheâll see,â he informed a delegation who arrived in his room to josh him. âThis will be the last game she ever persuades any young innocent to take her to!â
âBut, Burneâ âwhy did you invite her if you didnât want her?â
âBurne, you know youâre secretly mad about herâ âthatâs the real trouble.â
âWhat can you do, Burne? What can you do against Phyllis?â
But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which consisted largely of the phrase: âSheâll see, sheâll see!â
The blithesome Phyllis bore her twenty-five summers gayly from the train, but on the platform a ghastly sight met her eyes. There were Burne and Fred Sloane arrayed to the last dot like the lurid figures on college posters. They had bought flaring suits with huge peg-top trousers and gigantic padded shoulders. On their heads were rakish college hats, pinned up in front and sporting bright orange-and-black bands, while from their celluloid collars blossomed flaming orange ties. They wore black armbands with orange âPâs,â and carried canes flying Princeton pennants, the effect completed by socks and peeping handkerchiefs in the same color motifs. On a clanking chain they led a large, angry tomcat, painted to represent a tiger.
A good half of the station crowd was already staring at them, torn between horrified pity and riotous mirth, and as Phyllis, with her svelte jaw dropping, approached, the pair bent over and emitted a college cheer in loud, far-carrying voices, thoughtfully adding the name âPhyllisâ to the end. She was vociferously greeted and escorted enthusiastically across the campus, followed by half a hundred village urchinsâ âto the stifled laughter of hundreds of alumni and visitors, half of whom had no idea that this was a practical joke, but thought that Burne and Fred were two varsity sports showing their girl a collegiate time.
Phyllisâs feelings as she was paraded by the Harvard and Princeton stands, where sat dozens of her former devotees, can be imagined. She tried to walk a little ahead, she tried to walk a little behindâ âbut they stayed close, that there should be no doubt whom she was with, talking in loud voices of their friends on the football team, until she could almost hear her acquaintances whispering:
âPhyllis Styles must be awfully hard up to have to come with those two.â
That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. From that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to orient with progress.â ââ âŠ
So the weeks passed and March came and the clay feet that Amory looked for failed to appear. About a hundred juniors and seniors resigned from their clubs in a final fury of righteousness, and the clubs in helplessness turned upon Burne their finest weapon: ridicule. Everyone who knew him liked himâ âbut what he stood for (and he began to stand for more all the time) came under the lash of many tongues, until a frailer man than he would have been snowed under.
âDonât you mind losing prestige?â asked Amory one night. They had taken to exchanging calls several times a week.
âOf course I donât. Whatâs prestige, at best?â
âSome people say that youâre just a rather original politician.â
He roared with laughter.
âThatâs what Fred Sloane told me today. I suppose I have it coming.â
One afternoon they dipped into a subject that had interested Amory for a long timeâ âthe matter of the bearing of physical attributes on a manâs makeup. Burne had gone into the biology of this, and then:
âOf course health countsâ âa healthy man has twice the chance of being good,â he said.
âI donât agree with youâ âI donât believe in âmuscular Christianity.âââ
âI doâ âI believe Christ had great physical vigor.â
âOh, no,â Amory protested. âHe worked too hard for that. I imagine that when he died he was a broken-down manâ âand the great saints havenât been strong.â
âHalf of them have.â
âWell, even granting that, I donât think health has anything to do with goodness; of course, itâs valuable to a great saint to be able to stand enormous strains, but this fad of popular preachers rising on their toes in simulated virility, bellowing that calisthenics will save the worldâ âno, Burne, I canât go that.â
âWell, letâs waive itâ âwe wonât get anywhere, and besides I havenât quite made up my mind about it myself. Now, hereâs something I do knowâ âpersonal appearance has a lot to do with it.â
âColoring?â Amory asked eagerly.
âYes.â
âThatâs what Tom and I figured,â Amory agreed. âWe took the yearbooks for the last ten years and looked at the pictures of the senior council. I know you donât think much of that august body, but it does represent success here in a general way. Well, I suppose only about thirty-five percent of every class here are blonds, are really lightâ âyet two-thirds of every senior council are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of them, mind you; that means that out of every fifteen light-haired men in
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