Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  This incident, with variations, ran like a lugubrious fugue through the first year of marriage; always it left Anthony baffled, irritated, and depressed. But another rough brushing of temperaments, a question of laundry-bags, he found even more annoying as it ended inevitably in a decisive defeat for him.

  One afternoon in Coronado, where they made the longest stay of their trip, more than three weeks, Gloria was arraying herself brilliantly for tea. Anthony, who had been down-stairs listening to the latest rumor bulletins of war in Europe, entered the room, kissed the back of her powdered neck, and went to his dresser. After a great pulling out and pushing in of drawers, evidently unsatisfactory, he turned around to the Unfinished Masterpiece.

  “Got any handkerchiefs, Gloria?” he asked. Gloria shook her golden head.

  “Not a one. I’m using one of yours.”

  “The last one, I deduce.” He laughed dryly.

  “Is it?” She applied an emphatic though very delicate contour to her lips.

  “Isn’t the laundry back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Anthony hesitated — then, with sudden discernment, opened the closet door. His suspicions were verified. On the hook provided hung the blue bag furnished by the hotel. This was full of his clothes — he had put them there himself. The floor beneath it was littered with an astonishing mass of finery — lingerie, stockings, dresses, nightgowns, and pajamas — most of it scarcely worn but all of it coming indubitably under the general heading of Gloria’s laundry.

  He stood holding the closet door open.

  “Why, Gloria!”

  “What?”

  The lip line was being erased and corrected according to some mysterious perspective; not a finger trembled as she manipulated the lip-stick, not a glance wavered in his direction. It was a triumph of concentration.

  “Haven’t you ever sent out the laundry?”

  “Is it there?”

  “It most certainly is.”

  “Well, I guess I haven’t, then.”

  “Gloria,” began Anthony, sitting down on the bed and trying to catch her mirrored eyes, “you’re a nice fellow, you are! I’ve sent it out every time it’s been sent since we left New York, and over a week ago you promised you’d do it for a change. All you’d have to do would be to cram your own junk into that bag and ring for the chambermaid.”

  “Oh, why fuss about the laundry?” exclaimed Gloria petulantly, “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I haven’t fussed about it. I’d just as soon divide the bother with you, but when we run out of handkerchiefs it’s darn near time something’s done.”

  Anthony considered that he was being extraordinarily logical. But Gloria, unimpressed, put away her cosmetics and casually offered him her back.

  “Hook me up,” she suggested; “Anthony, dearest, I forgot all about it. I meant to, honestly, and I will to-day. Don’t be cross with your sweetheart.”

  What could Anthony do then but draw her down upon his knee and kiss a shade of color from her lips.

  “But I don’t mind,” she murmured with a smile, radiant and magnanimous.

  “You can kiss all the paint off my lips any time you want.”

  They went down to tea. They bought some handkerchiefs in a notion store near by. All was forgotten.

  But two days later Anthony looked in the closet and saw the bag still hung limp upon its hook and that the gay and vivid pile on the floor had increased surprisingly in height.

  “Gloria!” he cried.

  “Oh — “ Her voice was full of real distress. Despairingly Anthony went to the phone and called the chambermaid.

  “It seems to me,” he said impatiently, “that you expect me to be some sort of French valet to you.”

  Gloria laughed, so infectiously that Anthony was unwise enough to smile. Unfortunate man! In some intangible manner his smile made her mistress of the situation — with an air of injured righteousness she went emphatically to the closet and began pushing her laundry violently into the bag. Anthony watched her — ashamed of himself.

  “There!” she said, implying that her fingers had been worked to the bone by a brutal taskmaster.

  He considered, nevertheless, that he had given her an object-lesson and that the matter was closed, but on the contrary it was merely beginning. Laundry pile followed laundry pile — at long intervals; dearth of handkerchief followed dearth of handkerchief — at short ones; not to mention dearth of sock, of shirt, of everything. And Anthony found at length that either he must send it out himself or go through the increasingly unpleasant ordeal of a verbal battle with Gloria.

  GLORIA AND GENERAL LEE

  On their way East they stopped two days in Washington, strolling about with some hostility in its atmosphere of harsh repellent light, of distance without freedom, of pomp without splendor — it seemed a pasty-pale and self-conscious city. The second day they made an ill-advised trip to General Lee’s old home at Arlington.

  The bus which bore them was crowded with hot, unprosperous people, and Anthony, intimate to Gloria, felt a storm brewing. It broke at the Zoo, where the party stopped for ten minutes. The Zoo, it seemed, smelt of monkeys. Anthony laughed; Gloria called down the curse of Heaven upon monkeys, including in her malevolence all the passengers of the bus and their perspiring offspring who had hied themselves monkey-ward.

  Eventually the bus moved on to Arlington. There it met other busses and immediately a swarm of women and children were leaving a trail of peanut-shells through the halls of General Lee and crowding at length into the room where he was married. On the wall of this room a pleasing sign announced in large red letters “Ladies’ Toilet.” At this final blow Gloria broke down.

  “I think it’s perfectly terrible!” she said furiously, “the idea of letting these people come here! And of encouraging them by making these houses show-places.”

  “Well,” objected Anthony, “if they weren’t kept up they’d go to pieces.”

  “What if they did!” she exclaimed as they sought the wide pillared porch. “Do you think they’ve left a breath of 1860 here? This has become a thing of 1914.”

  “Don’t you want to preserve old things?”

  “But you can’t, Anthony. Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay. And just as any period decays in our minds, the things of that period should decay too, and in that way they’re preserved for a while in the few hearts like mine that react to them. That graveyard at Tarrytown, for instance. The asses who give money to preserve things have spoiled that too. Sleepy Hollow’s gone; Washington Irving’s dead and his books are rotting in our estimation year by year — then let the graveyard rot too, as it should, as all things should. Trying to preserve a century by keeping its relics up to date is like keeping a dying man alive by stimulants.”

  “So you think that just as a time goes to pieces its houses ought to go too?”

  “Of course! Would you value your Keats letter if the signature was traced over to make it last longer? It’s just because I love the past that I want this house to look back on its glamourous moment of youth and beauty, and I want its stairs to creak as if to the footsteps of women with hoop skirts and men in boots and spurs. But they’ve made it into a blondined, rouged-up old woman of sixty. It hasn’t any right to look so prosperous. It might care enough for Lee to drop a brick now and then. How many of these — these animals” — she waved her hand around — “get anything from this, for all the histories and guide-books and restorations in existence? How many of them who think that, at best, appreciation is talking in undertones and walking on tiptoes would even come here if it was any trouble? I want it to smell of magnolias instead of peanuts and I want my shoes to crunch on the same gravel that Lee’s boots crunched on. There’s no beauty without poignancy and there’s no poignancy without the feeling that it’s going, men, names, books, houses — bound for dust — mortal — “

  A small boy appeared beside them a
nd, swinging a handful of banana-peels, flung them valiantly in the direction of the Potomac.

  SENTIMENT

  Simultaneously with the fall of Liège, Anthony and Gloria arrived in New York. In retrospect the six weeks seemed miraculously happy. They had found to a great extent, as most young couples find in some measure, that they possessed in common many fixed ideas and curiosities and odd quirks of mind; they were essentially companionable.

  But it had been a struggle to keep many of their conversations on the level of discussions. Arguments were fatal to Gloria’s disposition. She had all her life been associated either with her mental inferiors or with men who, under the almost hostile intimidation of her beauty, had not dared to contradict her; naturally, then, it irritated her when Anthony emerged from the state in which her pronouncements were an infallible and ultimate decision.

  He failed to realize, at first, that this was the result partly of her “female” education and partly of her beauty, and he was inclined to include her with her entire sex as curiously and definitely limited. It maddened him to find she had no sense of justice. But he discovered that, when a subject did interest her, her brain tired less quickly than his. What he chiefly missed in her mind was the pedantic teleology — the sense of order and accuracy, the sense of life as a mysteriously correlated piece of patchwork, but he understood after a while that such a quality in her would have been incongruous.

  Of the things they possessed in common, greatest of all was their almost uncanny pull at each other’s hearts. The day they left the hotel in Coronado she sat down on one of the beds while they were packing, and began to weep bitterly.

  “Dearest — “ His arms were around her; he pulled her head down upon his shoulder. “What is it, my own Gloria? Tell me.”

  “We’re going away,” she sobbed. “Oh, Anthony, it’s sort of the first place we’ve lived together. Our two little beds here — side by side — they’ll be always waiting for us, and we’re never coming back to ‘em any more.”

  She was tearing at his heart as she always could. Sentiment came over him, rushed into his eyes.

  “Gloria, why, we’re going on to another room. And two other little beds.

  We’re going to be together all our lives.”

  Words flooded from her in a low husky voice.

  “But it won’t be — like our two beds — ever again. Everywhere we go and move on and change, something’s lost — something’s left behind. You can’t ever quite repeat anything, and I’ve been so yours, here — “

  He held her passionately near, discerning far beyond any criticism of her sentiment, a wise grasping of the minute, if only an indulgence of her desire to cry — Gloria the idler, caresser of her own dreams, extracting poignancy from the memorable things of life and youth.

  Later in the afternoon when he returned from the station with the tickets he found her asleep on one of the beds, her arm curled about a black object which he could not at first identify. Coming closer he found it was one of his shoes, not a particularly new one, nor clean one, but her face, tear-stained, was pressed against it, and he understood her ancient and most honorable message. There was almost ecstasy in waking her and seeing her smile at him, shy but well aware of her own nicety of imagination.

  With no appraisal of the worth or dross of these two things, it seemed to Anthony that they lay somewhere near the heart of love.

  THE GRAY HOUSE

  It is in the twenties that the actual momentum of life begins to slacken, and it is a simple soul indeed to whom as many things are significant and meaningful at thirty as at ten years before. At thirty an organ-grinder is a more or less moth-eaten man who grinds an organ — and once he was an organ-grinder! The unmistakable stigma of humanity touches all those impersonal and beautiful things that only youth ever grasps in their impersonal glory. A brilliant ball, gay with light romantic laughter, wears through its own silks and satins to show the bare framework of a man-made thing — oh, that eternal hand! — a play, most tragic and most divine, becomes merely a succession of speeches, sweated over by the eternal plagiarist in the clammy hours and acted by men subject to cramps, cowardice, and manly sentiment.

  And this time with Gloria and Anthony, this first year of marriage, and the gray house caught them in that stage when the organ-grinder was slowly undergoing his inevitable metamorphosis. She was twenty-three; he was twenty-six.

  The gray house was, at first, of sheerly pastoral intent. They lived impatiently in Anthony’s apartment for the first fortnight after the return from California, in a stifled atmosphere of open trunks, too many callers, and the eternal laundry-bags. They discussed with their friends the stupendous problem of their future. Dick and Maury would sit with them agreeing solemnly, almost thoughtfully, as Anthony ran through his list of what they “ought” to do, and where they “ought” to live.

  “I’d like to take Gloria abroad,” he complained, “except for this damn war — and next to that I’d sort of like to have a place in the country, somewhere near New York, of course, where I could write — or whatever I decide to do.”

  Gloria laughed.

  “Isn’t he cute?” she required of Maury. “‘Whatever he decides to do!’ But what am I going to do if he works? Maury, will you take me around if Anthony works?”

  “Anyway, I’m not going to work yet,” said Anthony quickly.

  It was vaguely understood between them that on some misty day he would enter a sort of glorified diplomatic service and be envied by princes and prime ministers for his beautiful wife.

  “Well,” said Gloria helplessly, “I’m sure I don’t know. We talk and talk and never get anywhere, and we ask all our friends and they just answer the way we want ‘em to. I wish somebody’d take care of us.”

  “Why don’t you go out to — out to Greenwich or something?” suggested

  Richard Caramel.

  “I’d like that,” said Gloria, brightening. “Do you think we could get a house there?”

  Dick shrugged his shoulders and Maury laughed.

  “You two amuse me,” he said. “Of all the unpractical people! As soon as a place is mentioned you expect us to pull great piles of photographs out of our pockets showing the different styles of architecture available in bungalows.”

  “That’s just what I don’t want,” wailed Gloria, “a hot stuffy bungalow, with a lot of babies next door and their father cutting the grass in his shirt sleeves — “

  “For Heaven’s sake, Gloria,” interrupted Maury, “nobody wants to lock you up in a bungalow. Who in God’s name brought bungalows into the conversation? But you’ll never get a place anywhere unless you go out and hunt for it.”

  “Go where? You say ‘go out and hunt for it,’ but where?”

  With dignity Maury waved his hand paw-like about the room.

  “Out anywhere. Out in the country. There’re lots of places.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look here!” Richard Caramel brought his yellow eye rakishly into play. “The trouble with you two is that you’re all disorganized. Do you know anything about New York State? Shut up, Anthony, I’m talking to Gloria.”

  “Well,” she admitted finally, “I’ve been to two or three house parties in Portchester and around in Connecticut — but, of course, that isn’t in New York State, is it? And neither is Morristown,” she finished with drowsy irrelevance.

  There was a shout of laughter.

  “Oh, Lord!” cried Dick, “neither is Morristown!’ No, and neither is

  Santa Barbara, Gloria. Now listen. To begin with, unless you have a

  fortune there’s no use considering any place like Newport or

  Southhampton or Tuxedo. They’re out of the question.”

  They all agreed to this solemnly.

  “And personally I hate New Jersey. Then, of course, there’s upper New

  York, above Tuxedo.”

  “Too cold,” said Gloria briefly. “I was there once in an automobile.”

  “We
ll, it seems to me there’re a lot of towns like Rye between New York and Greenwich where you could buy a little gray house of some — “

  Gloria leaped at the phrase triumphantly. For the first time since their return East she knew what she wanted.

  “Oh, yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes! that’s it: a little gray house with sort of white around and a whole lot of swamp maples just as brown and gold as an October picture in a gallery. Where can we find one?”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve mislaid my list of little gray houses with swamp maples around them — but I’ll try to find it. Meanwhile you take a piece of paper and write down the names of seven possible towns. And every day this week you take a trip to one of those towns.”

  “Oh, gosh!” protested Gloria, collapsing mentally, “why won’t you do it for us? I hate trains.”

  “Well, hire a car, and — “

  Gloria yawned.

  “I’m tired of discussing it. Seems to me all we do is talk about where to live.”

  “My exquisite wife wearies of thought,” remarked Anthony ironically. “She must have a tomato sandwich to stimulate her jaded nerves. Let’s go out to tea.”

  As the unfortunate upshot of this conversation, they took Dick’s advice literally, and two days later went out to Rye, where they wandered around with an irritated real estate agent, like bewildered babes in the wood. They were shown houses at a hundred a month which closely adjoined other houses at a hundred a month; they were shown isolated houses to which they invariably took violent dislikes, though they submitted weakly to the agent’s desire that they “look at that stove — some stove!” and to a great shaking of doorposts and tapping of walls, intended evidently to show that the house would not immediately collapse, no matter how convincingly it gave that impression. They gazed through windows into interiors furnished either “commercially” with slab-like chairs and unyielding settees, or “home-like” with the melancholy bric-à-brac of other summers — crossed tennis rackets, fit-form couches, and depressing Gibson girls. With a feeling of guilt they looked at a few really nice houses, aloof, dignified, and cool — at three hundred a month. They went away from Rye thanking the real estate agent very much indeed.