This Side of Paradise F. Scott Fitzgerald (mini ebook reader .txt) đ
- Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald
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The End of Summer
âNo wind is stirring in the grass; not one wind stirsâ ââ ⊠the water in the hidden pools, as glass, fronts the full moon and so inters the golden token in its icy mass,â chanted Eleanor to the trees that skeletoned the body of the night. âIsnât it ghostly here? If you can hold your horseâs feet up, letâs cut through the woods and find the hidden pools.â
âItâs after one, and youâll get the devil,â he objected, âand I donât know enough about horses to put one away in the pitch dark.â
âShut up, you old fool,â she whispered irrelevantly, and, leaning over, she patted him lazily with her riding-crop. âYou can leave your old plug in our stable and Iâll send him over tomorrow.â
âBut my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old plug at seven oâclock.â
âDonât be a spoilsportâ âremember, you have a tendency toward wavering that prevents you from being the entire light of my life.â
Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, grasped her hand.
âSay I amâ âquick, or Iâll pull you over and make you ride behind me.â
She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly.
âOh, do!â âor rather, donât! Why are all the exciting things so uncomfortable, like fighting and exploring and skiing in Canada? By the way, weâre going to ride up Harperâs Hill. I think that comes in our programme about five oâclock.â
âYou little devil,â Amory growled. âYouâre going to make me stay up all night and sleep in the train like an immigrant all day tomorrow, going back to New York.â
âHush! someoneâs coming along the roadâ âletâs go! Whoo-ee-oop!â And with a shout that probably gave the belated traveller a series of shivers, she turned her horse into the woods and Amory followed slowly, as he had followed her all day for three weeks.
The summer was over, but he had spent the days in watching Eleanor, a graceful, facile Manfred, build herself intellectual and imaginative pyramids while she revelled in the artificialities of the temperamental teens and they wrote poetry at the dinner-table.
When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he pondered oâer her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death:
âThrough Time Iâll save my love!â he saidâ ââ ⊠yet Beauty vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was deadâ ââ âŠ
âEver his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair:
âWhoâd learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his sonnet thereââ ââ ⊠So all my words, however true, might sing you to a thousandth June, and no one ever know that you were Beauty for an afternoon.
So he wrote one day, when he pondered how coldly we thought of the âDark Lady of the Sonnets,â and how little we remembered her as the great man wanted her remembered. For what Shakespeare must have desired, to have been able to write with such divine despair, was that the lady should liveâ ââ ⊠and now we have no real interest in her.â ââ ⊠The irony of it is that if he had cared more for the poem than for the lady the sonnet would be only obvious, imitative rhetoric and no one would ever have read it after twenty years.â ââ âŠ
This was the last night Amory ever saw Eleanor. He was leaving in the morning and they had agreed to take a long farewell trot by the cold moonlight. She wanted to talk, she saidâ âperhaps the last time in her life that she could be rational (she meant pose with comfort). So they had turned into the woods and rode for half an hour with scarcely a word, except when she whispered âDamn!â at a bothersome branchâ âwhispered it as no other girl was ever able to whisper it. Then they started up Harperâs Hill, walking their tired horses.
âGood Lord! Itâs quiet here!â whispered Eleanor; âmuch more lonesome than the woods.â
âI hate woods,â Amory said, shuddering. âAny kind of foliage or underbrush at night. Out here itâs so broad and easy on the spirit.â
âThe long slope of a long hill.â
âAnd the cold moon rolling moonlight down it.â
âAnd thee and me, last and most important.â
It was quiet that nightâ âthe straight road they followed up to the edge of the cliff knew few footsteps at any time. Only an occasional negro cabin, silver-gray in the rock-ribbed moonlight, broke the long line of bare ground; behind lay the black edge of the woods like a dark frosting on white cake, and ahead the sharp, high horizon. It was much colderâ âso cold that it settled on them and drove all the warm nights from their minds.
âThe end of summer,â said Eleanor softly. âListen to the beat of our horsesâ hoofsâ ââtump-tump-tump-a-tump.â Have you ever been feverish and had all noises divide into âtump-tump-tumpâ until you could swear eternity was divisible into so many tumps? Thatâs the way I feelâ âold horses go tump-tump.â ââ ⊠I guess thatâs the only thing that separates horses and clocks from us. Human beings canât go âtump-tump-tumpâ without going crazy.â
The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and shivered.
âAre you very cold?â asked Amory.
âNo, Iâm thinking about myselfâ âmy black old inside self, the real one, with the fundamental honesty that keeps me from being absolutely wicked by making me realize my own sins.â
They were riding up close by the cliff and Amory gazed over. Where the fall met the ground a hundred feet below, a black stream made a sharp line, broken by tiny glints in the swift water.
âRotten, rotten old world,â broke out Eleanor suddenly, âand the wretchedest thing of all is meâ âoh, why am I a girl? Why am I not a stupidâ â? Look at you; youâre stupider than I am, not much, but some, and you can lope about and get bored and then lope somewhere else, and you can play around with girls without being involved in meshes of sentiment, and you can do anything and
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