This Side of Paradise F. Scott Fitzgerald (mini ebook reader .txt) 📖

this background did Amory drift into adolescence.

Preparatory to the Great Adventure

The train slowed up with midsummer languor at Lake Geneva, and Amory caught sight of his mother waiting in her electric on the gravelled station drive. It was an ancient electric, one of the early types, and painted gray. The sight of her sitting there, slenderly erect, and of her face, where beauty and dignity combined, melting to a dreamy recollected smile, filled him with a sudden great pride of her. As they kissed coolly and he stepped into the electric, he felt a quick fear lest he had lost the requisite charm to measure up to her.

“Dear boy⁠—you’re so tall⁠ ⁠… look behind and see if there’s anything coming⁠ ⁠…”

She looked left and right, she slipped cautiously into a speed of two miles an hour, beseeching Amory to act as sentinel; and at one busy crossing she made him get out and run ahead to signal her forward like a traffic policeman. Beatrice was what might be termed a careful driver.

“You are tall⁠—but you’re still very handsome⁠—you’ve skipped the awkward age, or is that sixteen; perhaps it’s fourteen or fifteen; I can never remember; but you’ve skipped it.”

“Don’t embarrass me,” murmured Amory.

“But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a set⁠—don’t they? Is your underwear purple, too?”

Amory grunted impolitely.

“You must go to Brooks’ and get some really nice suits. Oh, we’ll have a talk tonight or perhaps tomorrow night. I want to tell you about your heart⁠—you’ve probably been neglecting your heart⁠—and you don’t know.”

Amory thought how superficial was the recent overlay of his own generation. Aside from a minute shyness, he felt that the old cynical kinship with his mother had not been one bit broken. Yet for the first few days he wandered about the gardens and along the shore in a state of superloneliness, finding a lethargic content in smoking “Bull” at the garage with one of the chauffeurs.

The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and new summer houses and many fountains and white benches that came suddenly into sight from foliage-hung hiding-places; there was a great and constantly increasing family of white cats that prowled the many flowerbeds and were silhouetted suddenly at night against the darkening trees. It was on one of the shadowy paths that Beatrice at last captured Amory, after Mr. Blaine had, as usual, retired for the evening to his private library. After reproving him for avoiding her, she took him for a long tête-à-tête in the moonlight. He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, that was mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of a fortunate woman of thirty.

“Amory, dear,” she crooned softly, “I had such a strange, weird time after I left you.”

“Did you, Beatrice?”

“When I had my last breakdown”⁠—she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant feat.

“The doctors told me”⁠—her voice sang on a confidential note⁠—“that if any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would have been physically shattered, my dear, and in his grave⁠—long in his grave.”

Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker.

“Yes,” continued Beatrice tragically, “I had dreams⁠—wonderful visions.” She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. “I saw bronze rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air, particolored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and the flare of barbaric trumpets⁠—what?”

Amory had snickered.

“What, Amory?”

“I said go on, Beatrice.”

“That was all⁠—it merely recurred and recurred⁠—gardens that flaunted coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons⁠—”

“Are you quite well now, Beatrice?”

“Quite well⁠—as well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory. I know that can’t express it to you, Amory, but⁠—I am not understood.”

Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his head gently against her shoulder.

“Poor Beatrice⁠—poor Beatrice.”

“Tell me about you, Amory. Did you have two horrible years?”

Amory considered lying, and then decided against it.

“No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself to the bourgeoisie. I became conventional.” He surprised himself by saying that, and he pictured how Froggy would have gaped.

“Beatrice,” he said suddenly, “I want to go away to school. Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away to school.”

Beatrice showed some alarm.

“But you’re only fifteen.”

“Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I want to, Beatrice.”

On Beatrice’s suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying:

“Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, you can go to school.”

“Yes?”

“To St. Regis’s in Connecticut.”

Amory felt a quick excitement.

“It’s being arranged,” continued Beatrice. “It’s better that you should go away. I’d have preferred you to have gone to Eton, and then to Christ Church, Oxford, but it seems impracticable now⁠—and for the present we’ll let the university question take care of itself.”

“What are you going to do, Beatrice?”

“Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away my years in this country. Not for a second do I regret being American⁠—indeed, I think that a regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel sure we are the great coming nation⁠—yet”⁠—and she sighed⁠—“I feel my life should have drowsed away close to an older, mellower civilization, a land of greens and autumnal browns⁠—”

Amory did not answer, so his mother continued:

“My regret is that you haven’t been abroad, but still, as you are a man, it’s better that you should grow up here under the snarling eagle⁠—is that the right term?”

Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the Japanese invasion.

“When do I go to school?”

“Next month. You’ll have to start East a little early to take your examinations. After that you’ll have a free week, so I want you to go up the Hudson and pay a visit.”

“To who?”

“To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see you.