Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  But no one felt exactly like going on. The spontaneity of the proceedings had been violently disturbed. Someone made a run or two on the sliding guitar and several of the girls began whamming at the leer on the punching bags, but Ronald Harlan, followed by two other boys, got their hats and went silently out the door.

  Jim and Hugo moved among the groups as usual until a certain measure of routine activity was restored but the enthusiasm was unrecapturable and Jim, shaken and discouraged, considered discontinuing school for the day. But he dared not. If they went home in this mood they might not come back. The whole thing depended on a mood. He must recreate it, he thought frantically--now, at once!

  But try as he might, there was little response. He himself was not happy--he could communicate no gaiety to them. They watched his efforts listlessly and, he thought, a little contemptuously.

  Then the tension snapped when the door burst suddenly open, precipitating a brace of middle-aged and excited women into the room. No person over twenty-one had ever entered the Academy before--but Van Vleck had gone direct to headquarters. The women were Mrs. Clifton Garneau and Mrs. Poindexter Katzby, two of the most fashionable and, at present, two of the most flurried women in Southampton. They were in search of their daughters as, in these days, so many women continually are.

  The business was over in about three minutes.

  “And as for you!” cried Mrs. Clifton Garneau in an awful voice, “your idea is to run a bar and--and opium den for children! You ghastly, horrible, unspeakable man! I can smell morphin fumes! Don’t tell me I can’t smell morphin fumes. I can smell morphin fumes!”

  “And,” bellowed Mrs. Poindexter Katzby, “you have colored men around! You have colored girls hidden! I’m going to the police!”

  Not content with herding their own daughters from the room, they insisted on the exodus of their friends’ daughters. Jim was not a little touched when several of them--including even little Martha Katzby, before she was snatched fiercely away by her mother--came up and shook hands with him. But they were all going, haughtily, regretfully or with shame-faced mutters of apology.

  “Good-by,” he told them wistfully. “In the morning I’ll send you the money that’s due you.”

  And, after all, they were not sorry to go. Outside, the sound of their starting motors, the triumphant put-put of their cut-outs cutting the warm September air, was a jubilant sound--a sound of youth and hopes high as the sun. Down to the ocean, to roll in the waves and forget--forget him and their discomfort at his humiliation.

  They were gone--he was alone with Hugo in the room. He sat down suddenly with his face in his hands.

  “Hugo,” he said huskily. “They don’t want us up here.”

  “Don’t you care,” said a voice.

  He looked up to see Amanthis standing beside him.

  “You better go with them,” he told her. “You better not be seen here with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re in society now and I’m no better to those people than a servant. You’re in society--I fixed that up. You better go or they won’t invite you to any of their dances.”

  “They won’t anyhow, Jim,” she said gently. “They didn’t invite me to the one tomorrow night.”

  He looked up indignantly.

  “They didn’t?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll make ‘em!” he said wildly. “I’ll tell ‘em they got to. I’ll--I’ll--”

  She came close to him with shining eyes.

  “Don’t you mind, Jim,” she soothed him. “Don’t you mind. They don’t matter. We’ll have a party of our own tomorrow--just you and I.”

  “I come from right good folks,” he said, defiantly. “Pore though.”

  She laid her hand softly on his shoulder.

  “I understand. You’re better than all of them put together, Jim.”

  He got up and went to the window and stared out mournfully into the late afternoon.

  “I reckon I should have let you sleep in that hammock.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m awfully glad you didn’t.”

  He turned and faced the room, and his face was dark.

  “Sweep up and lock up, Hugo,” he said, his voice trembling. “The summer’s over and we’re going down home.”

  Autumn had come early. Jim Powell woke next morning to find his room cool, and the phenomenon of frosted breath in September absorbed him for a moment to the exclusion of the day before. Then the lines of his face drooped with unhappiness as he remembered the humiliation which had washed the cheery glitter from the summer. There was nothing left for him except to go back where he was known, where under no provocation were such things said to white people as had been said to him here.

  After breakfast a measure of his customary light-heartedness returned. He was a child of the South--brooding was alien to his nature. He could conjure up an injury only a certain number of times before it faded into the great vacancy of the past.

  But when, from force of habit, he strolled over to his defunct establishment, already as obsolete as Snorkey’s late sanitarium, melancholy again dwelt in his heart. Hugo was there, a specter of despair, deep in the lugubrious blues amidst his master’s broken hopes.

  Usually a few words from Jim were enough to raise him to an inarticulate ecstasy, but this morning there were no words to utter. For two months Hugo had lived on a pinnacle of which he had never dreamed. He had enjoyed his work simply and passionately, arriving before school hours and lingering long after Mr. Powell’s pupils had gone.

  The day dragged toward a not-too-promising night. Amanthis did not appear and Jim wondered forlornly if she had not changed her mind about dining with him that night. Perhaps it would be better if she were not seen with them. But then, he reflected dismally, no one would see them anyhow--everybody was going to the big dance at the Harlans’ house.

  When twilight threw unbearable shadows into the school hall he locked it up for the last time, took down the sign “James Powell; J. M., Dice, Brassknuckles and Guitar,” and went back to his hotel. Looking over his scrawled accounts he saw that there was another month’s rent to pay on his school and some bills for windows broken and new equipment that had hardly been used. Jim had lived in state, and he realized that financially he would have nothing to show for the summer after all.

  When he had finished he took his new dress-suit out of its box and inspected it, running his hand over the satin of the lapels and lining. This, at least, he owned and perhaps in Tarleton somebody would ask him to a party where he could wear it.

  “Shucks!” he said scoffingly. “It was just a no account old academy, anyhow. Some of those boys round the garage down home could of beat it all hollow.”

  Whistling “Jeanne of Jelly-bean Town” to a not-dispirited rhythm Jim encased himself in his first dress-suit and walked downtown.

  “Orchids,” he said to the clerk. He surveyed his purchase with some pride. He knew that no girl at the Harlan dance would wear anything lovelier than these exotic blossoms that leaned languorously backward against green ferns.

  In a taxi-cab, carefully selected to look like a private car, he drove to Amanthis’s boarding-house. She came down wearing a rose-colored evening dress into which the orchids melted like colors into a sunset.

  “I reckon we’ll go to the Casino Hotel,” he suggested, “unless you got some other place--”

  At their table, looking out over the dark ocean, his mood became a contended sadness. The windows were shut against the cool but the orchestra played “Kalula” and “South Sea Moon” and for awhile, with her young loveliness opposite him, he felt himself to be a romantic participant in the life around him. They did not dance, and he was glad--it would have reminded him of that other brighter and more radiant dance to which they could not go.

  After dinner they took a taxi and followed the sandy roads for an hour, glimpsing the now starry ocean through the casual trees.

  “I want to t
hank you,” she said, “for all you’ve done for me, Jim.”

  “That’s all right--we Powells ought to stick together.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to Tarleton tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Are you going to drive down?”

  “I got to. I got to get the car south because I couldn’t get what she was worth by sellin’ it. You don’t suppose anybody’s stole my car out of your barn?” he asked in sudden alarm.

  She repressed a smile.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry about this--about you,” he went on huskily, “and--and I would like to have gone to just one of their dances. You shouldn’t of stayed with me yesterday. Maybe it kept ‘em from asking you.”

  “Jim,” she suggested eagerly, “let’s go and stand outside and listen to their old music. We don’t care.”

  “They’ll be coming out,” he objected.

  “No, it’s too cold. Besides there’s nothing they could do to you any more than they have done.”

  She gave the chauffeur a direction and a few minutes later they stopped in front of the heavy Georgian beauty of the Madison Harlan house whence the windows cast their gaiety in bright patches on the lawn. There was laughter inside and the plaintive wind of fashionable horns, and now and again the slow, mysterious shuffle of dancing feet.

  “Let’s go up close,” whispered Amanthis in an ecstatic trance, “I want to hear.”

  They walked toward the house, keeping in the shadow of the great trees. Jim proceeded with awe--suddenly he stopped and seized Amanthis’s arm.

  “Man!” he cried in an excited whisper. “Do you know what that is?”

  “A night watchman?” Amanthis cast a startled look around.

  “It’s Rastus Muldoon’s Band from Savannah! I heard ‘em once, and I know. It’s Rastus Muldoon’s Band!”

  They moved closer till they could see first pompadours, then slicked male heads, and high coiffures and finally even bobbed hair pressed under black ties. They could distinguish chatter below the ceaseless laughter. Two figures appeared on the porch, gulped something quickly from flasks and returned inside. But the music had bewitched Jim Powell. His eyes were fixed and he moved his feet like a blind man.

  Pressed in close behind some dark bushes they listened. The number ended. A breeze from the ocean blew over them and Jim shivered slightly. Then, in a wistful whisper:

  “I’ve always wanted to lead that band. Just once.” His voice grew listless. “Come on. Let’s go. I reckon I don’t belong around here.”

  He held out his arm to her but instead of taking it she stepped suddenly out of the bushes and into a bright patch of light.

  “Come on, Jim,” she said startlingly. “Let’s go inside.”

  “What--?”

  She seized his arm and though he drew back in a sort of stupefied horror at her boldness she urged him persistently toward the great front door.

  “Watch out!” he gasped. “Somebody’s coming out of that house and see us.”

  “No, Jim,” she said firmly. “Nobody’s coming out of that house--but two people are going in.”

  “Why?” he demanded wildly, standing in full glare of the porte-cochere lamps. “Why?”

  “Why?” she mocked him. “Why, just because this dance happens to be given for me.”

  He thought she was mad.

  “Come home before they see us,” he begged her.

  The great doors swung open and a gentleman stepped out on the porch. In horror Jim recognized Mr. Madison Harlan. He made a movement as though to break away and run. But the man walked down the steps holding out both hands to Amanthis.

  “Hello at last,” he cried. “Where on earth have you two been? Cousin Amanthis--” He kissed her, and turned cordially to Jim. “And for you, Mr. Powell,” he went on, “to make up for being late you’ve got to promise that for just one number you’re going to lead that band.”

  New Jersey was warm, all except the part that was under water, and that mattered only to the fishes. All the tourists who rode through the long green miles stopped their cars in front of a spreading old-fashioned country house and looked at the red swing on the lawn and the wide, shady porch, and sighed and drove on--swerving a little to avoid a jet-black body-servant in the road. The body-servant was applying a hammer and nails to a decayed flivver which flaunted from its rear the legend, “Tarleton, Ga.”

  A girl with yellow hair and a warm color to her face was lying in the hammock looking as though she could fall asleep any moment. Near her sat a gentleman in an extraordinarily tight suit. They had come down together the day before from the fashionable resort at Southampton.

  “When you first appeared,” she was explaining, “I never thought I’d see you again so I made that up about the barber and all. As a matter of fact, I’ve been around quite a bit--with or without brassknuckles. I’m coming out this autumn.”

  “I reckon I had a lot to learn,” said Jim.

  “And you see,” went on Amanthis, looking at him rather anxiously, “I’d been invited up to Southampton to visit my cousins--and when you said you were going, I wanted to see what you’d do. I always slept at the Harlans’ but I kept a room at the boarding-house so you wouldn’t know. The reason I didn’t get there on the right train was because I had to come early and warn a lot of people to pretend not to know me.”

  Jim got up, nodding his head in comprehension.

  “I reckon I and Hugo had better be movin’ along. We got to make Baltimore by night.”

  “That’s a long way.”

  “I want to sleep south tonight,” he said simply.

  Together they walked down the path and past the idiotic statue of Diana on the lawn.

  “You see,” added Amanthis gently, “you don’t have to be rich up here in order to--to go around, any more than you do in Georgia--” She broke off abruptly, “Won’t you come back next year and start another Academy?”

  “No mamm, not me. That Mr. Harlan told me I could go on with the one I had but I told him no.”

  “Haven’t you--didn’t you make money?”

  “No mamm,” he answered. “I got enough of my own income to just get me home. I didn’t have my principal along. One time I was way ahead but I was livin’ high and there was my rent an’ apparatus and those musicians. Besides, there at the end I had to pay what they’d advanced me for their lessons.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that!” cried Amanthis indignantly.

  “They didn’t want me to, but I told ‘em they’d have to take it.”

  He didn’t consider it necessary to mention that Mr. Harlan had tried to present him with a check.

  They reached the automobile just as Hugo drove in his last nail. Jim opened a pocket of the door and took from it an unlabeled bottle containing a whitish-yellow liquid.

  “I intended to get you a present,” he told her awkwardly, “but my money got away before I could, so I thought I’d send you something from Georgia. This here’s just a personal remembrance. It won’t do for you to drink but maybe after you come out into society you might want to show some of those young fellas what good old corn tastes like.”

  She took the bottle.

  “Thank you, Jim.”

  “That’s all right.” He turned to Hugo. “I reckon we’ll go along now. Give the lady the hammer.”

  “Oh, you can have the hammer,” said Amanthis tearfully. “Oh, won’t you promise to come back?”

  “Someday--maybe.”

  He looked for a moment at her yellow hair and her blue eyes misty with sleep and tears. Then he got into his car and as his foot found the clutch his whole manner underwent a change.

  “I’ll say good-by mamm,” he announced with impressive dignity, “we’re goin’ south for the winter.”

  The gesture of his straw hat indicated Palm Beach, St. Augustine, Miami. His body-servant spun the crank, gained his seat and became part of the intense vibration into which
the automobile was thrown.

  “South for the winter,” repeated Jim, and then he added softly, “You’re the prettiest girl I ever knew. You go back up there and lie down in that hammock, and sleep--sle-eep--”

  It was almost a lullaby, as he said it. He bowed to her, magnificently, profoundly, including the whole North in the splendor of his obeisance--

  Then they were gone down the road in quite a preposterous cloud of dust. Just before they reached the first bend Amanthis saw them come to a full stop, dismount and shove the top part of the car on to the bottom pan. They took their seats again without looking around. Then the bend--and they were out of sight, leaving only a faint brown mist to show that they had passed.

  EMOTIONAL BANKRUPTCY

  Saturday Evening Post (15 August 1931)

  “There’s that nut with the spyglass again,” remarked Josephine. Lillian Hammel unhooked a lace sofa cushion from her waist and came to the window. “He’s standing back so we can’t see him. He’s looking at the room above.”

  The peeper was working from a house on the other side of narrow Sixty-eighth Street, all unconscious that his activities were a matter of knowledge and, lately, of indifference to the pupils of Miss Truby’s finishing school. They had even identified him as the undistinguished but quite proper young man who issued from the house with a brief case at eight every morning, apparently oblivious of the school across the street.

  “What a horrible person,” said Lillian.

  “They’re all the same,” Josephine said. “I’ll bet almost every man we know would do the same thing, if he had a telescope and nothing to do in the afternoon. I’ll bet Louie Randall would, anyhow.”

  “Josephine, is he actually following you to Princeton?” Lillian asked.

  “Yes, dearie.”

  “Doesn’t he think he’s got his nerve?”

  “He’ll get away with it,” Josephine assured her.

  “Won’t Paul be wild?”

  “I can’t worry about that. I only know half a dozen boys at Princeton, and with Louie I know I’ll have at least one good dancer to depend on. Paul’s too short for me, and he’s a bum dancer anyhow.”