This Side of Paradise F. Scott Fitzgerald (mini ebook reader .txt) đ
- Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald
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Impatiently. Wellâ âwhat is it?
Mrs. ConnageSo I ask you to please mind me in several things Iâve put down in my notebook. The first one is: donât disappear with young men. There may be a time when itâs valuable, but at present I want you on the dance floor where I can find you. There are certain men I want to have you meet and I donât like finding you in some corner of the conservatory exchanging silliness with anyoneâ âor listening to it.
RosalindSarcastically. Yes, listening to it is better.
Mrs. ConnageAnd donât waste a lot of time with the college setâ âlittle boys nineteen and twenty years old. I donât mind a prom or a football game, but staying away from advantageous parties to eat in little cafĂ©s downtown with Tom, Dick, and Harryâ â
RosalindOffering her code, which is, in its way, quite as high as her motherâs. Mother, itâs doneâ âyou canât run everything now the way you did in the early nineties.
Mrs. ConnagePaying no attention. There are several bachelor friends of your fatherâs that I want you to meet tonightâ âyoungish men.
RosalindNodding wisely. About forty-five?
Mrs. ConnageSharply. Why not?
RosalindOh, quite all rightâ âthey know life and are so adorably tired looking shakes her head.â âbut they will dance.
Mrs. ConnageI havenât met Mr. Blaineâ âbut I donât think youâll care for him. He doesnât sound like a moneymaker.
RosalindMother, I never think about money.
Mrs. ConnageYou never keep it long enough to think about it.
RosalindSighs. Yes, I suppose some day Iâll marry a ton of itâ âout of sheer boredom.
Mrs. ConnageReferring to notebook. I had a wire from Hartford. Dawson Ryder is coming up. Now thereâs a young man I like, and heâs floating in money. It seems to me that since you seem tired of Howard Gillespie you might give Mr. Ryder some encouragement. This is the third time heâs been up in a month.
RosalindHow did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie?
Mrs. ConnageThe poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes.
RosalindThat was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. Theyâre all wrong.
Mrs. ConnageHer say said. At any rate, make us proud of you tonight.
RosalindDonât you think Iâm beautiful?
Mrs. ConnageYou know you are.
From downstairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of a drum. Mrs. Connage turns quickly to her daughter.
Mrs. ConnageCome!
RosalindOne minute!
Her mother leaves. Rosalind goes to the glass where she gazes at herself with great satisfaction. She kisses her hand and touches her mirrored mouth with it. Then she turns out the lights and leaves the room. Silence for a moment. A few chords from the piano, the discreet patter of faint drums, the rustle of new silk, all blend on the staircase outside and drift in through the partly opened door. Bundled figures pass in the lighted hall. The laughter heard below becomes doubled and multiplied. Then someone comes in, closes the door, and switches on the lights. It is Cecelia. She goes to the chiffonier, looks in the drawers, hesitatesâ âthen to the desk whence she takes the cigarette-case and extracts one. She lights it and then, puffing and blowing, walks toward the mirror.
CeceliaIn tremendously sophisticated accents. Oh, yes, coming out is such a farce nowadays, you know. One really plays around so much before one is seventeen, that itâs positively anticlimax. Shaking hands with a visionary middle-aged nobleman. Yes, your graceâ âI bâlieve Iâve heard my sister speak of you. Have a puffâ âtheyâre very good. Theyâreâ âtheyâre Coronas. You donât smoke? What a pity! The king doesnât allow it, I suppose. Yes, Iâll dance.
So she dances around the room to a tune from downstairs, her arms outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand.
Several Hours Later
The corner of a den downstairs, filled by a very comfortable leather lounge. A small light is on each side above, and in the middle, over the couch hangs a painting of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period 1860. Outside the music is heard in a foxtrot.
Rosalind is seated on the lounge and on her left is Howard Gillespie, a vapid youth of about twenty-four. He is obviously very unhappy, and she is quite bored.
GillespieFeebly. What do you mean Iâve changed. I feel the same toward you.
RosalindBut you donât look the same to me.
GillespieThree weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I was so blasĂ©, so indifferentâ âI still am.
RosalindBut not about me. I used to like you because you had brown eyes and thin legs.
GillespieHelplessly. Theyâre still thin and brown. Youâre a vampire, thatâs all.
RosalindThe only thing I know about vamping is whatâs on the piano score. What confuses men is that Iâm perfectly natural. I used to think you were never jealous. Now you follow me with your eyes wherever I go.
GillespieI love you.
RosalindColdly. I know it.
GillespieAnd you havenât kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that after a girl was kissed she wasâ âwasâ âwon.
RosalindThose days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me.
GillespieAre you serious?
RosalindAbout as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now thereâs a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged heâd kissed a girl, everyone knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same everyone knows itâs because he canât kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays.
GillespieThen why do you play with men?
RosalindLeaning forward confidentially. For that first moment, when heâs interested. There is a momentâ âOh, just before the
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