This Side of Paradise (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  They jolted to a stop, and Amory peered up, startled. A woman was standing beside the road, talking to Alec at the wheel. Afterward he remembered the harpy effect that her old kimono gave her, and the cracked hollowness of her voice as she spoke:

  “You Princeton boys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s one of you killed here, and two others about dead.”

  “My God!”

  “Look!” She pointed and they gazed in horror. Under the full light of a roadside arc-light lay a form, face downward in a widening circle of blood.

  They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that head—that hair—that hair... and then they turned the form over.

  “It’s Dick—Dick Humbird!”

  “Oh, Christ!”

  “Feel his heart!”

  Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking triumph:

  “He’s quite dead, all right. The car turned over. Two of the men that weren’t hurt just carried the others in, but this one’s no use.”

  Amory rushed into the house and the rest followed with a limp mass that they laid on the sofa in the shoddy little front parlor. Sloane, with his shoulder punctured, was on another lounge. He was half delirious, and kept calling something about a chemistry lecture at 8:10.

  “I don’t know what happened,” said Ferrenby in a strained voice. “Dick was driving and he wouldn’t give up the wheel; we told him he’d been drinking too much—then there was this damn curve—oh, my God! ...” He threw himself face downward on the floor and broke into dry sobs.

  The doctor had arrived, and Amory went over to the couch, where some one handed him a sheet to put over the body. With a sudden hardness, he raised one of the hands and let it fall back inertly. The brow was cold but the face not expressionless. He looked at the shoe-laces—Dick had tied them that morning. He had tied them—and now he was this heavy white mass. All that remained of the charm and personality of the Dick Humbird he had known—oh, it was all so horrible and unaristocratic and close to the earth. All tragedy has that strain of the grotesque and squalid—so useless, futile ... the way animals die.... Amory was reminded of a cat that had lain horribly mangled in some alley of his childhood.

  “Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby.”

  Amory stepped outside the door and shivered slightly at the late night wind—a wind that stirred a broken fender on the mass of bent metal to a plaintive, tinny sound.

  Crescendo!

  Next day, by a merciful chance, passed in a whirl. When Amory was by himself his thoughts zigzagged inevitably to the picture of that red mouth yawning incongruously in the white face, but with a determined effort he piled present excitement upon the memory of it and shut it coldly away from his mind.

  Isabelle and her mother drove into town at four, and they rode up smiling Prospect Avenue, through the gay crowd, to have tea at Cottage. The clubs had their annual dinners that night, so at seven he loaned her to a freshman and arranged to meet her in the gymnasium at eleven, when the upper classmen were admitted to the freshman dance. She was all he had expected, and he was happy and eager to make that night the centre of every dream. At nine the upper classes stood in front of the clubs as the freshman torchlight parade rioted past, and Amory wondered if the dress-suited groups against the dark, stately backgrounds and under the flare of the torches made the night as brilliant to the staring, cheering freshmen as it had been to him the year before.

  The next day was another whirl. They lunched in a gay party of six in a private dining-room at the club, while Isabelle and Amory looked at each other tenderly over the fried chicken and knew that their love was to be eternal. They danced away the prom until five, and the stags cut in on Isabelle with joyous abandon, which grew more and more enthusiastic as the hour grew late, and their wines, stored in overcoat pockets in the coat room, made old weariness wait until another day. The stag line is a most homogeneous mass of men. It fairly sways with a single soul. A dark-haired beauty dances by and there is a half-gasping sound as the ripple surges forward and some one sleeker than the rest darts out and cuts in. Then when the six-foot girl (brought by Kaye in your class, and to whom he has been trying to introduce you all evening) gallops by, the line surges back and the groups face about and become intent on far corners of the hall, for Kaye, anxious and perspiring, appears elbowing through the crowd in search of familiar faces.

  “I say, old man, I’ve got an awfully nice——”

  “Sorry, Kaye, but I’m set for this one. I’ve got to cut in on a fella.”

  “Well, the next one?”

  “What—ah—er—I swear I’ve got to go cut in—look me up when she’s got a dance free.”

  It delighted Amory when Isabelle suggested that they leave for a while and drive around in her car. For a delicious hour that passed too soon they glided the silent roads about Princeton and talked from the surface of their hearts in shy excitement. Amory felt strangely ingenuous and made no attempt to kiss her.

  Next day they rode up through the Jersey country, had luncheon in New York, and in the afternoon went to see a problem play at which Isabelle wept all through the second act, rather to Amory’s embarrassment—though it filled him with tenderness to watch her. He was tempted to lean over and kiss away her tears, and she slipped her hand into his under cover of darkness to be pressed softly.

  Then at six they arrived at the Borgés’ summer place on Long Island, and Amory rushed up-stairs to change into a dinner coat. As he put in his studs he realized that he was enjoying life as he would probably never enjoy it again. Everything was hallowed by the haze of his own youth. He had arrived, abreast of the best in his generation at Princeton. He was in love and his love was returned. Turning on all the lights, he looked at himself in the mirror, trying to find in his own face the qualities that made him see clearer than the great crowd of people, that made him decide firmly, and able to influence and follow his own will. There was little in his life now that he would have changed.... Oxford might have been a bigger field.

  Silently he admired himself. How conveniently well he looked, and how well a dinner coat became him. He stepped into the hall and then waited at the top of the stairs, for he heard footsteps coming. It was Isabelle, and from the top of her shining hair to her little golden slippers she had never seemed so beautiful.

  “Isabelle!” he cried, half involuntarily, and held out his arms. As in the story-books, she ran into them, and on that half-minute, as their lips first touched, rested the high point of vanity, the crest of his young egotism.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Egotist Considers

  “Ouch! Let me go!”

  He dropped his arms to his sides.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Your shirt stud—it hurt me—look!” She was looking down at her neck, where a little blue spot about the size of a pea marred its pallor.

  “Oh, Isabelle,” he reproached himself; “I’m a goopher. Really, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have held you so close.”

  She looked up impatiently.

  “Oh, Amory, of course you couldn’t help it, and it didn’t hurt much; but what are we going to do about it?”

  “Do about it?” he asked. “Oh—that spot; it’ll disappear in a second.”

  “It isn’t,” she said, after a moment of concentrated gazing, “it’s still there—and it looks like Old Nick—oh, Amory, what’ll we do! It’s just the height of your shoulder.”

  “Massage it,” he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination to laugh.

  She rubbed it delicately with the tips of her fingers, and then a tear gathered in the corner of her eye, and slid down her cheek.

  “Oh, Amory,” she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic face, “I’ll just make my whole neck flame if I rub it. What’ll I do?”

  A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn’t resist repeating it aloud.

  “All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand.�
��

  She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like ice.

  “You’re not very sympathetic.”

  Amory mistook her meaning.

  “Isabelle, darling, I think it’ll——”

  “Don’t touch me!” she cried. “Haven’t I enough on my mind and you stand there and laugh!”

  Then he slipped again.

  “Well, it is funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day about a sense of humor being——”

  She was looking at him with something that was not a smile, rather the faint, mirthless echo of a smile, in the corners of her mouth.

  “Oh, shut up!” she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway toward her room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion.

  “Damn!”

  When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that endured through dinner.

  “Isabelle,” he began rather testily, as they arranged themselves in the car, bound for a dance at the Greenwich Country Club, “you’re angry, and I’ll be, too, in a minute. Let’s kiss and make up.”

  Isabelle considered glumly.

  “I hate to be laughed at,” she said finally.

  “I won’t laugh any more. I’m not laughing now, am I?”

  “You did.”

  “Oh, don’t be so darned feminine.”

  Her lips curled slightly.

  “I’ll be anything I want.”

  Amory kept his temper with difficulty. He became aware that he had not an ounce of real affection for Isabelle, but her coldness piqued him. He wanted to kiss her, kiss her a lot, because then he knew he could leave in the morning and not care. On the contrary, if he didn’t kiss her, it would worry him.... It would interfere vaguely with his idea of himself as a conqueror. It wasn’t dignified to come off second best, pleading, with a doughty warrior like Isabelle.

  Perhaps she suspected this. At any rate, Amory watched the night that should have been the consummation of romance glide by with great moths overhead and the heavy fragrance of roadside gardens, but without those broken words, those little sighs....

  Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil’s food in the pantry, and Amory announced a decision.

  “I’m leaving early in the morning.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” he countered.

  “There’s no need.”

  “However, I’m going.”

  “Well, if you insist on being ridiculous——”

  “Oh, don’t put it that way,” he objected.

  “—just because I won’t let you kiss me. Do you think——”

  “Now, Isabelle,” he interrupted, “you know it’s not that—even suppose it is. We’ve reached the stage where we either ought to kiss—or—or—nothing. It isn’t as if you were refusing on moral grounds.”

  She hesitated.

  “I really don’t know what to think about you,” she began, in a feeble, perverse attempt at conciliation. “You’re so funny.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I thought you had a lot of self-confidence and all that; remember you told me the other day that you could do anything you wanted, or get anything you wanted?”

  Amory flushed. He had told her a lot of things.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you didn’t seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you’re just plain conceited.”

  “No, I’m not,” he hesitated. “At Princeton——”

  “Oh, you and Princeton! You’d think that was the world, the way you talk! Perhaps you can write better than anybody else on your old Princetonian; maybe the freshmen do think you’re important——”

  “You don’t understand——”

  “Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “I do, because you’re always talking about yourself and I used to like it; now I don’t.”

  “Have I to-night?”

  “That’s just the point,” insisted Isabelle. “You got all upset tonight. You just sat and watched my eyes. Besides, I have to think all the time I’m talking to you—you’re so critical.”

  “I make you think, do I?” Amory repeated with a touch of vanity.

  “You’re a nervous strain”—this emphatically—“and when you analyze every little emotion and instinct I just don’t have ’em.”

  “I know.” Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly.

  “Let’s go.” She stood up.

  He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs.

  “What train can I get?”

  “There’s one about 9:11 if you really must go.”

  “Yes, I’ve got to go, really. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room he thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent in her face. He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared—how much of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity—whether he was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for romance.

  When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of consciousness. The early wind stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was idly puzzled not to be in his room at Princeton with his school football picture over the bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite. Then the grandfather’s clock in the hall outside struck eight, and the memory of the night before came to him. He was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get out of the house before he saw Isabelle. What had seemed a melancholy happening, now seemed a tiresome anticlimax. He was dressed at half past, so he sat down by the window ; felt that the sinews of his heart were twisted somewhat more than he had thought. What an ironic mockery the morning seemed!—bright and sunny, and full of the smell of the garden; hearing Mrs. Borgé’s voice in the sun-parlor below, he wondered where was Isabelle.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir.”

  He returned to his contemplation of the outdoors, and began repeating over and over, mechanically, a verse from Browning, which he had once quoted to Isabelle in a letter:

  “Each life unfulfilled, you see,

  It hangs still, patchy and scrappy;

  We have not sighed deep, laughed free,

  Starved, feasted, despaired-been happy.”

  But his life would not be unfulfilled. He took a sombre satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she had been nothing except what he had read into her; that this was her high point, that no one else would ever make her think. Yet that was what she had objected to in him; and Amory was suddenly tired of thinking, thinking!

  “Damn her!” he said bitterly, “she’s spoiled my year!”

  The Superman Grows Careless

  On a dusty day in September Amory arrived in Princeton and joined the sweltering crowd of conditioned men who thronged the streets. It seemed a stupid way to commence his upper-class years, to spend four hours a morning in the stuffy room of a tutoring school, imbibing the infinite boredom of conic sections. Mr. Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the class and smoked innumerable Pall Malls as he drew diagrams and worked equations from six in the morning until midnight.

  “Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point be?”

  Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material and tries to concentrate.

  “Oh—ah—I’m damned if I know, Mr. Rooney.”

  “Oh, why of course, of course you can’t use that formula. That’s what I wanted you to say.”

  “Why, sure, of course.”

  “Do you see why?”

  “You bet—I suppose so.”

  “If you don’t see, tell me. I’m here to show you.”

  “Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don’t mind, I wish you’d go over that again.”

  “Gladly. Now here’s ‘A’ ...”

  The room was a study in stupidity—two huge stands for paper, Mr. Rooney in his shirt-sleeves in front of them, an
d slouched around on chairs, a dozen men: Fred Sloane, the pitcher, who absolutely had to get eligible; “Slim” Langueduc, who would beat Yale this fall, if only he could master a poor fifty per cent; McDowell, gay young sophomore, who thought it was quite a sporting thing to be tutoring here with all these prominent athletes.

  “Those poor birds who haven’t a cent to tutor, and have to study during the term are the ones I pity,” he announced to Amory one day, with a flaccid camaraderie in the droop of the cigarette from his pale lips. “I should think it would be such a bore, there’s so much else to do in New York during the term. I suppose they don’t know what they miss, anyhow.” There was such an air of “you and I” about Mr. McDowell that Amory very nearly pushed him out of the open window when he said this.... Next February his mother would wonder why he didn’t make a club and increase his allowance... simple little nut....

  Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that filled the room would come the inevitable helpless cry:

  “I don’t get it! Repeat that, Mr. Rooney!” Most of them were so stupid or careless that they wouldn’t admit when they didn’t understand, and Amory was of the latter. He found it impossible to study conic sections; something in their calm and tantalizing respectability breathing defiantly through Mr. Rooney’s fetid parlors distorted their equations into insoluble anagrams. He made a last night’s effort with the proverbial wet towel, and then blissfully took the exam, wondering unhappily why all the color and ambition of the spring before had faded out. Somehow, with the defection of Isabelle the idea of undergraduate success had loosed its grasp on his imagination, and he contemplated a possible failure to pass off his condition with equanimity, even though it would arbitrarily mean his removal from the Princetonian board and the slaughter of his chances for the Senior Council.

  There was always his luck.

  He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered from the room.