Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  “Everything I have.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Just your good looks--and the head waiter at dinner last night had that.”

  They talked for two days and decided nothing. Sometimes she would pull him close and reach up to his lips that she loved so well, but her arms seemed to close around straw.

  “I’ll go away and give you a chance to think it over,” he said despairingly. “I can’t see any way of living without you, but I suppose you can’t marry a man you don’t trust or believe in. My uncle wanted me to go to London on some business--”

  The night he left, it was sad on the dim pier. All that kept her from breaking was that it was not an image of strength that was leaving her; she would be just as strong without him. Yet as the murky lights fell on the fine structure of his brow and chin, as she saw the faces turn toward him, the eyes that followed him, an awful emptiness seized her and she wanted to say: “Never mind, dear; we’ll try it together.”

  But try what? It was human to risk the toss between failure and success, but to risk the desperate gamble between adequacy and disaster--

  “Oh, Dick, be good and be strong and come back to me. Change, change, Dick--change!”

  “Good-by, Julia--good-by.”

  She last saw him on the deck, his profile cut sharp as a cameo against a match as he lit a cigarette.

  IV

  It was Phil Hoffman who was to be with her at the beginning and the end. It was he who broke the news as gently as it could be broken. He reached her apartment at half-past eight and carefully threw away the morning paper outside. Dick Ragland had disappeared at sea.

  After her first wild burst of grief, he became purposely a little cruel.

  “He knew himself. His will had given out; he didn’t want life any more. And, Julia, just to show you how little you can possibly blame yourself, I’ll tell you this: He’d hardly gone to his office for four months--since you went to California. He wasn’t fired because of his uncle; the business he went to London on was of no importance at all. After his first enthusiasm was gone he’d given up.”

  She looked at him sharply. “He didn’t drink, did he? He wasn’t drinking?”

  For a fraction of a second Phil hesitated. “No, he didn’t drink; he kept his promise--he held on to that.”

  “That was it,” she said. “He kept his promise and he killed himself doing it.”

  Phil waited uncomfortably.

  “He did what he said he would and broke his heart doing it,” she went on chokingly. “Oh, isn’t life cruel sometimes--so cruel, never to let anybody off. He was so brave--he died doing what he said he’d do.”

  Phil was glad he had thrown away the newspaper that hinted of Dick’s gay evening in the bar--one of many gay evenings that Phil had known of in the past few months. He was relieved that was over, because Dick’s weakness had threatened the happiness of the girl he loved; but he was terribly sorry for him--even understanding how it was necessary for him to turn his maladjustment to life toward one mischief or another--but he was wise enough to leave Julia with the dream that she had saved out of wreckage.

  There was a bad moment a year later, just before their marriage, when she said:

  “You’ll understand the feeling I have and always will have about Dick, won’t you, Phil? It wasn’t just his good looks. I believed in him--and I was right in a way. He broke rather than bent; he was a ruined man, but not a bad man. In my heart I knew when I first looked at him.”

  Phil winced, but he said nothing. Perhaps there was more behind it than they knew. Better let it all alone in the depths of her heart and the depths of the sea.

  A NIGHT AT THE FAIR

  The Saturday Evening Post (July 21, 1928)

  The two cities were separated only by a thin well-bridged river; their tails curling over the banks met and mingled, and at the juncture, under the jealous eye of each, lay, every fall, the State Fair. Because of this advantageous position, and because of the agricultural eminence of the state, the fair was one of the most magnificent in America. There were immense exhibits of grain, livestock and farming machinery; there were horse races and automobile races and, lately, aeroplanes that really left the ground; there was a tumultuous Midway with Coney Island thrillers to whirl you through space, and a whining, tinkling hoochie-coochie show. As a compromise between the serious and the trivial, a grand exhibition of fireworks, culminating in a representation of the Battle of Gettysburg, took place in the Grand Concourse every night.

  At the late afternoon of a hot September day two boys of fifteen, somewhat replete with food and pop, and fatigued by eight hours of constant motion, issued from the Penny Arcade. The one with dark, handsome, eager eyes was, according to the cosmic inscription in his last year’s Ancient History, “Basil Duke Lee, Holly Avenue, St. Paul, Minnesota, United States, North America, Western Hemisphere, the World, the Universe.” Though slightly shorter than his companion, he appeared taller, for he projected, so to speak, from short trousers, while Riply Buckner, Jr., had graduated into long ones the week before. This event, so simple and natural, was having a disrupting influence on the intimate friendship between them that had endured for several years.

  During that time Basil, the imaginative member of the firm, had been the dominating partner, and the displacement effected by two feet of blue serge filled him with puzzled dismay--in fact, Riply Buckner had become noticeably indifferent to the pleasure of Basil’s company in public. His own assumption of long trousers had seemed to promise a liberation from the restraints and inferiorities of boyhood, and the companionship of one who was, in token of his short pants, still a boy was an unwelcome reminder of how recent was his own metamorphosis. He scarcely admitted this to himself, but a certain shortness of temper with Basil, a certain tendency to belittle him with superior laughter, had been in evidence all afternoon. Basil felt the new difference keenly. In August a family conference had decided that even though he was going East to school, he was too small for long trousers. He had countered by growing an inch and a half in a fortnight, which added to his reputation for unreliability, but led him to hope that his mother might be persuaded, after all.

  Coming out of the stuffy tent into the glow of sunset, the two boys hesitated, glancing up and down the crowded highway with expressions compounded of a certain ennui and a certain inarticulate yearning. They were unwilling to go home before it became necessary, yet they knew they had temporarily glutted their appetite for sights; they wanted a change in the tone, the motif, of the day. Near them was the parking space, as yet a modest yard; and as they lingered indecisively, their eyes were caught and held by a small car, red in color and slung at that proximity to the ground which indicated both speed of motion and speed of life. It was a Blatz Wildcat, and for the next five years it represented the ambition of several million American boys. Occupying it, in the posture of aloof exhaustion exacted by the sloping seat, was a blonde, gay, baby-faced girl.

  The two boys stared. She bent upon them a single cool glance and then returned to her avocation of reclining in a Blatz Wildcat and looking haughtily at the sky. The two boys exchanged a glance, but made no move to go. They watched the girl--when they felt that their stares were noticeable they dropped their eyes and gazed at the car.

  After several minutes a young man with a very pink face and pink hair, wearing a yellow suit and hat and drawing on yellow gloves, appeared and got into the car. There was a series of frightful explosions; then, with a measured tup-tup-tup from the open cut-out, insolent, percussive and thrilling as a drum, the car and the girl and the young man whom they had recognized as Speed Paxton slid smoothly away.

  Basil and Riply turned and strolled back thoughtfully toward the Midway. They knew that Speed Paxton was dimly terrible--the wild and pampered son of a local brewer--but they envied him--to ride off into the sunset in such a chariot, into the very hush and mystery of night, beside him the mystery of that baby-faced girl. It was probably this envy that made them begin to shout wh
en they perceived a tall youth of their own age issuing from a shooting gallery.

  “Oh, El! Hey, El! Wait a minute!”

  Elwood Leaming turned around and waited. He was the dissipated one among the nice boys of the town--he had drunk beer, he had learned from chauffeurs, he was already thin from too many cigarettes. As they greeted him eagerly, the hard, wise expression of a man of the world met them in his half-closed eyes.

  “Hello, Rip. Put it there, Rip. Hello, Basil, old boy. Put it there.”

  “What you doing, El?” Riply asked.

  “Nothing. What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Elwood Leaming narrowed his eyes still further, seemed to give thought, and then made a decisive clicking sound with his teeth.

  “Well, what do you say we pick something up?” he suggested. “I saw some pretty good stuff around here this afternoon.”

  Riply and Basil drew tense, secret breaths. A year before they had been shocked because Elwood went to the burlesque shows at the Star--now here he was holding the door open to his own speedy life.

  The responsibility of his new maturity impelled Riply to appear most eager. “All right with me,” he said heartily.

  He looked at Basil.

  “All right with me,” mumbled Basil.

  Riply laughed, more from nervousness than from derision. “Maybe you better grow up first, Basil.” He looked at Elwood, seeking approval. “You better stick around till you get to be a man.”

  “Oh, dry up!” retorted Basil. “How long have you had yours? Just a week!”

  But he realized that there was a gap separating him from these two, and it was with a sense of tagging them that he walked along beside.

  Glancing from right to left with the expression of a keen and experienced frontiersman, Elwood Leaming led the way. Several pairs of strolling girls met his mature glance and smiled encouragingly, but he found them unsatisfactory--too fat, too plain or too hard. All at once their eyes fell upon two who sauntered along a little ahead of them, and they increased their pace, Elwood with confidence, Riply with its nervous counterfeit and Basil suddenly in the grip of wild excitement.

  They were abreast of them. Basil’s heart was in his throat. He looked away as he heard Elwood’s voice.

  “Hello, girls! How are you this evening?”

  Would they call for the police? Would his mother and Riply’s suddenly turn the corner?

  “Hello, yourself, kiddo!”

  “Where you going, girls?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Well, let’s all go together.”

  Then all of them were standing in a group and Basil was relieved to find that they were only girls his own age, after all. They were pretty, with clear skins and red lips and maturely piled up hair. One he immediately liked better than the other--her voice was quieter and she was shy. Basil was glad when Elwood walked on with the bolder one, leaving him and Riply to follow with the other, behind.

  The first lights of the evening were springing into pale existence; the afternoon crowd had thinned a little, and the lanes, empty of people, were heavy with the rich various smells of pop corn and peanuts, molasses and dust and cooking Wienerwurst and a not-unpleasant overtone of animals and hay. The Ferris wheel, pricked out now in lights, revolved leisurely through the dusk; a few empty cars of the roller coaster rattled overhead. The heat had blown off and there was the crisp stimulating excitement of Northern autumn in the air.

  They walked. Basil felt that there was some way of talking to this girl, but he could manage nothing in the key of Elwood Leaming’s intense and confidential manner to the girl ahead--as if he had inadvertently discovered a kinship of tastes and of hearts. So to save the progression from absolute silence--for Riply’s contribution amounted only to an occasional burst of silly laughter--Basil pretended an interest in the sights they passed and kept up a sort of comment thereon.

  “There’s the six-legged calf. Have you seen it?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “There’s where the man rides the motorcycle around. Did you go there?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Look! They’re beginning to fill the balloon. I wonder what time they start the fireworks.”

  “Have you been to the fireworks?”

  “No, I’m going tomorrow night. Have you?”

  “Yes, I been every night. My brother works there. He’s one of them that helps set them off.”

  “Oh!”

  He wondered if her brother cared that she had been picked up by strangers. He wondered even more if she felt as silly as he. It must be getting late, and he had promised to be home by half-past seven on pain of not being allowed out tomorrow night. He walked up beside Elwood.

  “Hey, El,” he asked, “where we going?”

  Elwood turned to him and winked. “We’re going around the Old Mill.”

  “Oh!”

  Basil dropped back again--became aware that in his temporary absence Riply and the girl had linked arms. A twinge of jealousy went through him and he inspected the girl again and with more appreciation, finding her prettier than he had thought. Her eyes, dark and intimate, seemed to have wakened at the growing brilliance of the illumination overhead; there was the promise of excitement in them now, like the promise of the cooling night.

  He considered taking her other arm, but it was too late; she and Riply were laughing together at something--rather, at nothing. She had asked him what he laughed at all the time and he had laughed again for an answer. Then they both laughed hilariously and sporadically together.

  Basil looked disgustedly at Riply. “I never heard such a silly laugh in my life,” he said indignantly.

  “Didn’t you?” chuckled Riply Buckner. “Didn’t you, little boy?”

  He bent double with laughter and the girl joined in. The words “little boy” had fallen on Basil like a jet of cold water. In his excitement he had forgotten something, as a cripple might forget his limp only to discover it when he began to run.

  “You think you’re so big!” he exclaimed. “Where’d you get the pants? Where’d you get the pants?” He tried to work this up with gusto and was about to add: “They’re your father’s pants,” when he remembered that Riply’s father, like his own, was dead.

  The couple ahead reached the entrance to the Old Mill and waited for them. It was an off hour, and half a dozen scows bumped in the wooden offing, swayed by the mild tide of the artificial river. Elwood and his girl got into the front seat and he promptly put his arm around her. Basil helped the other girl into the rear seat, but, dispirited, he offered no resistance when Riply wedged in and sat down between.

  They floated off, immediately entering upon a long echoing darkness. Somewhere far ahead a group in another boat were singing, their voices now remote and romantic, now nearer and yet more mysterious, as the canal doubled back and the boats passed close to each other with an invisible veil between.

  The three boys yelled and called, Basil attempting by his vociferousness and variety to outdo Riply in the girl’s eyes, but after a few moments there was no sound except his own voice and the continual bump-bump of the boat against the wooden sides, and he knew without looking that Riply had put his arm about the girl’s shoulder.

  They slid into a red glow--a stage set of hell, with grinning demons and lurid paper fires--he made out that Elwood and his girl sat cheek to cheek--then again into the darkness, with the gently lapping water and the passing of the singing boat now near, now far away. For a while Basil pretended that he was interested in this other boat, calling to them, commenting on their proximity. Then he discovered that the scow could be rocked and took to this poor amusement until Elwood Leaming turned around indignantly and cried:

  “Hey! What are you trying to do?”

  They came out finally to the entrance and the two couples broke apart. Basil jumped miserably ashore.

  “Give us some more tickets,” Riply cried. “We want to go around again.”


  “Not me,” said Basil with elaborate indifference. “I have to go home.”

  Riply began to laugh in derision and triumph. The girl laughed too.

  “Well, so long, little boy,” Riply cried hilariously.

  “Oh, shut up! So long, Elwood.”

  “So long, Basil.”

  The boat was already starting off; arms settled again about the girls’ shoulders.

  “So long, little boy!”

  “So long, you big cow!” Basil cried. “Where’d you get the pants? Where’d you get the pants?”

  But the boat had already disappeared into the dark mouth of the tunnel, leaving the echo of Riply’s taunting laughter behind.

  It is an ancient tradition that all boys are obsessed with the idea of being grown. This is because they occasionally give voice to their impatience with the restraints of youth, while those great stretches of time when they are more than content to be boys find expression in action and not in words. Sometimes Basil wanted to be just a little bit older, but no more. The question of long pants had not seemed vital to him--he wanted them, but as a costume they had no such romantic significance as, for example, a football suit or an officer’s uniform, or even the silk hat and opera cape in which gentlemen burglars were wont to prowl the streets of New York by night.

  But when he awoke next morning they were the most important necessity in his life. Without them he was cut off from his contemporaries, laughed at by a boy whom he had hitherto led. The actual fact that last night some chickens had preferred Riply to himself was of no importance in itself, but he was fiercely competitive and he resented being required to fight with one hand tied behind his back. He felt that parallel situations would occur at school, and that was unbearable. He approached his mother at breakfast in a state of wild excitement.

  “Why, Basil,” she protested in surprise, “I thought when we talked it over you didn’t especially care.”