Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Hannaford shut the door and they stared at each other. Her face was young, frightened. In a moment in which neither of them spoke, it was decided that they would have some of this out now. Almost thankfully he felt the warm sap of emotion flow out of his heart and course through his body.

  ‘Helen!’

  She murmured ‘What?’ in an awed voice.

  ‘I feel terribly about this.’ His voice was shaking.

  Suddenly she began to cry; painful, audible sobs shook her. ‘Have you got a handkerchief?’ she said.

  He gave her a handkerchief. At that moment there were steps outside. George opened the door halfway just in time to keep Schroeder from entering on the spectacle of her tears.

  ‘Nobody’s in,’ he said facetiously. For a moment longer he kept his shoulder against the door. Then he let it open slowly.

  Outside in his limousine, he wondered how soon Jules would be ready to go fishing.

  II

  From the age of twelve Kay Tompkins had worn men like rings on every finger. Her face was round, young, pretty and strong; a strength accentuated by the responsive play of brows and lashes around her clear, glossy, hazel eyes. She was the daughter of a senator from a Western state and she hunted unsuccessfully for glamour through a small Western city until she was seventeen, when she ran away from home and went on the stage. She was one of those people who are famous far beyond their actual achievement.

  There was that excitement about her that seemed to reflect the excitement of the world. While she was playing small parts in Ziegfeld shows she attended proms at Yale, and during a temporary venture into pictures she met George Hannaford, already a star of the new ‘natural’ type then just coming into vogue. In him she found what she had been seeking.

  She was at present in what is known as a dangerous state. For six months she had been helpless and dependent entirely upon George, and now that her son was the property of a strict and possessive English nurse, Kay, free again, suddenly felt the need of proving herself attractive. She wanted things to be as they had been before the baby was thought of. Also she felt that lately George had taken her too much for granted; she had a strong instinct that he was interested in Helen Avery.

  When George Hannaford came home that night he had minimized to himself their quarrel of the previous evening and was honestly surprised at her perfunctory greeting.

  ‘What’s the matter, Kay?’ he asked after a minute. ‘Is this going to be another night like last night?’

  ‘Do you know we’re going out tonight?’ she said, avoiding an answer.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Katherine Davis’. I didn’t know whether you’d want to go--’

  ‘I’d like to go.’

  ‘I didn’t know whether you’d want to go. Arthur Busch said he’d stop for me.’

  They dined in silence. Without any secret thoughts to dip into like a child into a jam jar, George felt restless, and at the same time was aware that the atmosphere was full of jealousy, suspicion and anger. Until recently they had preserved between them something precious that made their house one of the pleasantest in Hollywood to enter. Now suddenly it might be any house; he felt common and he felt unstable. He had come near to making something bright and precious into something cheap and unkind. With a sudden surge of emotion, he crossed the room and was about to put his arm around her when the doorbell rang. A moment later Dolores announced Mr Arthur Busch.

  Busch was an ugly, popular little man, a continuity writer and lately a director. A few years ago they had been hero and heroine to him, and even now, when he was a person of some consequence in the picture world, he accepted with equanimity Kay’s use of him for such purposes as tonight’s. He had been in love with her for years, but, because his love seemed hopeless, it had never caused him much distress.

  They went on to the party. It was a housewarming, with Hawaiian musicians in attendance, and the guests were largely of the old crowd. People who had been in the early Griffith pictures, even though they were scarcely thirty, were considered to be of the old crowd; they were different from those coming along now, and they were conscious of it. They had a dignity and straightforwardness about them from the fact that they had worked in pictures before pictures were bathed in a golden haze of success. They were still rather humble before their amazing triumph, and thus, unlike the new generation, who took it all for granted, they were constantly in touch with reality. Half a dozen or so of the women were especially aware of being unique. No one had come along to fill their places; here and there a pretty face had caught the public imagination for a year, but those of the old crowd were already legends, ageless and disembodied. With all this, they were still young enough to believe that they would go forever.

  George and Kay were greeted affectionately: people moved over and made place for them. The Hawaiians performed and the Duncan sisters sang at the piano. From the moment George saw who was here he guessed that Helen Avery would be here, too, and the fact annoyed him. It was not appropriate that she should be part of this gathering through which he and Kay had moved familiarly and tranquilly for years.

  He saw her first when someone opened the swinging door to the kitchen, and when, a little later, she came out and their eyes met, he knew absolutely that he didn’t love her. He went up to speak to her, and at her first words he saw something had happened to her, too, that had dissipated the mood of the afternoon. She had got a big part.

  ‘And I’m in a daze!’ she cried happily. ‘I didn’t think there was a chance and I’ve thought of nothing else since I read the book a year ago.’

  ‘It’s wonderful. I’m awfully glad.’

  He had the feeling, though, that he should look at her with a certain regret; one couldn’t jump from such a scene as this afternoon to a plane of casual friendly interest. Suddenly she began to laugh.

  ‘Oh, we’re such actors, George--you and I.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do. You did this afternoon. It was a pity we didn’t have a camera.’

  Short of declaring then and there that he loved her, there was absolutely nothing more to say. He grinned acquiescently. A group formed around them and absorbed them, and George, feeling that the evening had settled something, began to think about going home. An excited and sentimental elderly lady--someone’s mother--came up and began telling him how much she believed in him, and he was polite and charming to her, as only he could be, for half an hour. Then he went to Kay, who had been sitting with Arthur Busch all evening, and suggested that they go.

  She looked up unwillingly. She had had several highballs and the fact was mildly apparent. She did not want to go, but she got up after a mild argument and George went upstairs for his coat. When he came down Katherine Davis told him that Kay had already gone out to the car.

  The crowd had increased; to avoid a general good-night he went out through the sun-parlour door to the lawn; less than twenty feet away from him he saw the figures of Kay and Arthur Busch against a bright street lamp; they were standing close together and staring into each other’s eyes. He saw that they were holding hands.

  After the first start of surprise George instinctively turned about, retraced his steps, hurried through the room he had just left, and came noisily out the front door. But Kay and Arthur Busch were still standing close together, and it was lingeringly and with abstracted eyes that they turned around finally and saw him. Then both of them seemed to make an effort; they drew apart as if it was a physical ordeal. George said good-bye to Arthur Busch with special cordiality, and in a moment he and Kay were driving homeward through the clear California night.

  He said nothing, Kay said nothing. He was incredulous. He suspected that Kay had kissed a man here and there, but he had never seen it happen or given it any thought. This was different; there had been an element of tenderness in it and there was something veiled and remote in Kay’s eyes that he had
never seen there before.

  Without having spoken, they entered the house; Kay stopped by the library door and looked in.

  ‘There’s someone there,’ she said, and she added without interest: ‘I’m going upstairs. Good night.’

  As she ran up the stairs the person in the library stepped out into the hall.

  ‘Mr Hannaford--’

  He was a pale and hard young man; his face was vaguely familiar, but George didn’t remember where he had seen it before.

  ‘Mr Hannaford?’ said the young man. ‘I recognize you from your pictures.’ He looked at George, obviously a little awed.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, will you come in here?’

  ‘What is it? I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘My name is Donovan. I’m Margaret Donovan’s brother.’ His face toughened a little.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’

  Donovan made a motion towards the door. ‘Come in here.’ His voice was confident now, almost threatening.

  George hesitated, then he walked into the library. Donovan followed and stood across the table from him, his legs apart, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Hannaford,’ he said, in the tone of a man trying to whip himself up to anger, ‘Margaret wants fifty thousand dollars.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’ exclaimed George incredulously.

  ‘Margaret wants fifty thousand dollars,’ repeated Donovan.

  ‘You’re Margaret Donovan’s brother?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ But he saw the resemblance now. ‘Does Margaret know you’re here?’

  ‘She sent me here. She’ll hand over those two letters for fifty thousand, and no questions asked.’

  ‘What letters?’ George chuckled irresistibly. ‘This is some joke of Schroeder’s, isn’t it?’

  ‘This ain’t a joke, Hannaford. I mean the letters you signed your name to this afternoon.’

  III

  An hour later George went upstairs in a daze. The clumsiness of the affair was at once outrageous and astounding. That a friend of seven years should suddenly request his signature on papers that were not what they were purported to be made all his surroundings seem diaphanous and insecure. Even now the design engrossed him more than a defence against it, and he tried to re-create the steps by which Margaret had arrived at this act of recklessness or despair.

  She had served as a script girl in various studios and for various directors for ten years; earning first twenty, now a hundred dollars a week. She was lovely-looking and she was intelligent; at any moment in those years she might have asked for a screen test, but some quality of initiative or ambition had been lacking. Not a few times had her opinion made or broken incipient careers. Still she waited at directors’ elbows, increasingly aware that the years were slipping away.

  That she had picked George as a victim amazed him most of all. Once, during the year before his marriage, there had been a momentary warmth; he had taken her to a Mayfair ball, and he remembered that he had kissed her going home that night in the car. The flirtation trailed along hesitatingly for a week. Before it could develop into anything serious he had gone East and met Kay.

  Young Donovan had shown him a carbon of the letters he had signed.

  They were written on the typewriter that he kept in his bungalow at the studio, and they were carefully and convincingly worded. They purported to be love letters, asserting that he was Margaret Donovan’s lover, that he wanted to marry her, and that for that reason he was about to arrange a divorce. It was incredible. Someone must have seen him sign them that morning; someone must have heard her say: ‘Your initials are like Mr Harris’s.’

  George was tired. He was training for a screen football game to be played next week, with the Southern California varsity as extras, and he was used to regular hours. In the middle of a confused and despairing sequence of thought about Margaret Donovan and Kay, he suddenly yawned. Mechanically he went upstairs, undressed and got into bed.

  Just before dawn Kay came to him in the garden. There was a river that flowed past it now, and boats faintly lit with green and yellow lights moved slowly, remotely by. A gentle starlight fell like rain upon the dark, sleeping face of the world, upon the black mysterious bosoms of the trees, the tranquil gleaming water and the farther shore.

  The grass was damp, and Kay came to him on hurried feet; her thin slippers were drenched with dew. She stood upon his shoes, nestling close to him, and held up her face as one shows a book open at a page.

  ‘Think how you love me,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember.’

  ‘You’ll always be like this to me.’

  ‘Oh no; but promise me you’ll remember.’ Her tears were falling. ‘I’ll be different, but somewhere lost inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.’

  The scene dissolved slowly but George struggled into consciousness. He sat up in bed; it was morning. In the yard outside he heard the nurse instructing his son in the niceties of behaviour for two-month-old babies. From the yard next door a small boy shouted mysteriously: ‘Who let that barrier through on me?’

  Still in his pyjamas, George went to the phone and called his lawyers. Then he rang for his man, and while he was being shaved a certain order evolved from the chaos of the night before. First, he must deal with Margaret Donovan; second, he must keep the matter from Kay, who in her present state might believe anything; and third, he must fix things up with Kay. The last seemed the most important of all.

  As he finished dressing he heard the phone ring downstairs and, with an instinct of danger, picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello . . . Oh, yes.’ Looking up, he saw that both his doors were closed. ‘Good morning, Helen . . . It’s all right, Dolores. I’m taking it up here.’ He waited till he heard the receiver click downstairs.

  ‘How are you this morning, Helen?’

  ‘George, I called up about last night. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

  ‘Sorry? Why are you sorry?’

  ‘For treating you like that. I don’t know what was in me, George. I didn’t sleep all night thinking how terrible I’d been.’

  A new disorder established itself in George’s already littered mind.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. To his despair he heard his own voice run on: ‘For a minute I didn’t understand, Helen. Then I thought it was better so.’

  ‘Oh, George,’ came her voice after a moment, very low.

  Another silence. He began to put in a cuff button.

  ‘I had to call up,’ she said after a moment. ‘I couldn’t leave things like that.’

  The cuff button dropped to the floor; he stooped to pick it up, and then said ‘Helen!’ urgently into the mouthpiece to cover the fact that he had momentarily been away.

  ‘What, George?’

  At this moment the hall door opened and Kay, radiating a faint distaste, came into the room. She hesitated.

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He stared into the mouthpiece for a moment.

  ‘Well, good-bye,’ he muttered abruptly and hung up the receiver. He turned to Kay: ‘Good morning.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she said distantly.

  ‘You didn’t disturb me.’ He hesitated. ‘That was Helen Avery.’

  ‘It doesn’t concern me who it was. I came to ask you if we’re going to the Coconut Grove tonight.’

  ‘Sit down, Kay.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘Sit down a minute,’ he said impatiently. She sat down. ‘How long are you going to keep this up?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m not keeping up anything. We’re simply through, George, and you know it as well as I do.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ he said. ‘Why, a week ago--’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ve been getting nearer to this for months, and now it’s over.’


  ‘You mean you don’t love me?’ He was not particularly alarmed. They had been through scenes like this before.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’ll always love you in a way.’ Suddenly she began to sob. ‘Oh, it’s all so sad. He’s cared for me so long.’

  George stared at her. Face to face with what was apparently a real emotion, he had no words of any kind. She was not angry, not threatening or pretending, not thinking about him at all, but concerned entirely with her emotions towards another man.

  ‘What is it?’ he cried. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re in love with this man?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly.

  He took a step towards her, then went to the bed and lay down on it, staring in misery at the ceiling. After a while a maid knocked to say that Mr Busch and Mr Castle, George’s lawyer, were below. The fact carried no meaning to him. Kay went into her room and he got up and followed her.

  ‘Let’s send word we’re out,’ he said. ‘We can go away somewhere and talk this over.’

  ‘I don’t want to go away.’

  She was already away, growing more mysterious and remote with every minute. The things on her dressing-table were the property of a stranger.

  He began to speak in a dry, hurried voice. ‘If you’re still thinking about Helen Avery, it’s nonsense. I’ve never given a damn for anybody but you.’

  They went downstairs and into the living-room. It was nearly noon--another bright emotionless California day. George saw that Arthur Busch’s ugly face in the sunshine was wan and white; he took a step towards George and then stopped, as if he were waiting for something--a challenge, a reproach, a blow.

  In a flash the scene that would presently take place ran itself off in George’s mind. He saw himself moving through the scene, saw his part, an infinite choice of parts, but in every one of them Kay would be against him and with Arthur Busch. And suddenly he rejected them all.

  ‘I hope you’ll excuse me,’ he said quickly to Mr Castle. ‘I called you up because a script girl named Margaret Donovan wants fifty thousand dollars for some letters she claims I wrote her. Of course the whole thing is--’ He broke off. It didn’t matter. ‘I’ll come to see you tomorrow.’ He walked up to Kay and Arthur, so that only they could hear.