Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald - F. Scott Fitzgerald - Страница 74

The corner of a den down-stairs, filled by a very comfortable leather lounge. A small light is on each side above, and in the middle, over the couch hangs a painting of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period 1860. Outside the music is heard in a fox-trot.

Rosalind is seated on the lounge and on her left is Howard Gillespie, a vapid youth of about twenty-four. He is obviously very unhappy, and she is quite bored.

Gillespie: (Feebly) What do you mean I’ve changed. I feel the same toward you.

Rosalind: But you don’t look the same to me.

Gillespie: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I was so blasé, so indifferent—I still am.

Rosalind: But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown eyes and thin legs.

Gillespie: (Helplessly) They’re still thin and brown. You’re a vampire, that’s all.

Rosalind: The only thing I know about vamping is what’s on the piano score. What confuses men is that I’m perfectly natural. I used to think you were never jealous. Now you follow me with your eyes wherever I go.

Gillespie: I love you.

Rosalind: (Coldly) I know it.

Gillespie: And you haven’t kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that after a girl was kissed she was—was—won.

Rosalind: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me.

Gillespie: Are you serious?

Rosalind: About as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now there’s a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he’d kissed a girl, every one knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same every one knows it’s because he can’t kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays.

Gillespie: Then why do you play with men?

Rosalind: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment, when he’s interested. There is a moment—Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word—something that makes it worth while.

Gillespie: And then?

Rosalind: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty soon he thinks of nothing but being alone with you—he sulks, he won’t fight, he doesn’t want to play—Victory!

(Enter Dawson Ryder, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.)

Ryder: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind.

Rosalind: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven’t got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie.

(They shake hands and Gillespie leaves, tremendously downcast.)

Ryder: Your party is certainly a success.

Rosalind: Is it—I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary—Do you mind sitting out a minute?

Ryder: Mind—I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing” idea. See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow.

Rosalind: Dawson!

Ryder: What?

Rosalind: I wonder if you know you love me.

Ryder: (Startled) What—Oh—you know you’re remarkable!

Rosalind: Because you know I’m an awful proposition. Any one who marries me will have his hands full. I’m mean—mighty mean.

Ryder: Oh, I wouldn’t say that.

Rosalind: Oh, yes, I am—especially to the people nearest to me. (She rises.) Come, let’s go. I’ve changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother is probably having a fit.

(Exeunt. Enter Alec and Cecelia.)

Cecelia: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission.

Alec: (Gloomily) I’ll go if you want me to.

Cecelia: Good heavens, no—with whom would I begin the next dance? (Sighs.) There’s no color in a dance since the French officers went back.

Alec: (Thoughtfully) I don’t want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind.

Cecelia: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want.

Alec: I did, but since seeing these girls—I don’t know. I’m awfully attached to Amory. He’s sensitive and I don’t want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn’t care about him.

Cecelia: He’s very good looking.

Alec: (Still thoughtfully) She won’t marry him, but a girl doesn’t have to marry a man to break his heart.

Cecelia: What does it? I wish I knew the secret.

Alec: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It’s lucky for some that the Lord gave you a pug nose.

(Enter Mrs. Connage.)

Mrs. Connage: Where on earth is Rosalind?

Alec: (Brilliantly) Of course you’ve come to the best people to find out. She’d naturally be with us.

Mrs. Connage: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to meet her.

Alec: You might form a squad and march through the halls.

Mrs. Connage: I’m perfectly serious—for all I know she may be at the Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her début. You look left and I’ll——

Alec: (Flippantly) Hadn’t you better send the butler through the cellar?

Mrs. Connage: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don’t think she’d be there?

Cecelia: He’s only joking, mother.

Alec: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high hurdler.

Mrs. Connage: Let’s look right away.

(They go out. Rosalind comes in with Gillespie.)

Gillespie: Rosalind—Once more I ask you. Don’t you care a blessed thing about me?

(Amory walks in briskly.)

Amory: My dance.

Rosalind: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine.

Gillespie: I’ve met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren’t you?

Amory: Yes.

Gillespie: (Desperately) I’ve been there. It’s in the—the Middle West, isn’t it?

Amory: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I’d rather be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning.

Gillespie: What!

Amory: Oh, no offense.

(Gillespie bows and leaves.)

Rosalind: He’s too much people.

Amory: I was in love with a people once.

Rosalind: So?

Amory: Oh, yes—her name was Isabelle—nothing at all to her except what I read into her.

Rosalind: What happened?

Amory: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was—then she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, you know.

Rosalind: What do you mean impractical?

Amory: Oh—drive a car, but can’t change a tire.

Rosalind: What are you going to do?

Amory: Can’t say—run for President, write——

Rosalind: Greenwich Village?

Amory: Good heavens, no—I said write—not drink.

Rosalind: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely.

Amory: I feel as if I’d known you for ages.

Rosalind: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story?

Amory: No—I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you were one of my—my—(Changing his tone.) Suppose—we fell in love.

Rosalind: I’ve suggested pretending.

Amory: If we did it would be very big.

Rosalind: Why?

Amory: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.

Rosalind: (Turning her lips up) Pretend.

(Very deliberately they kiss.)

Amory: I can’t say sweet things. But you are beautiful.

Rosalind: Not that.

Amory: What then?

Rosalind: (Sadly) Oh, nothing—only I want sentiment, real sentiment—and I never find it.

Amory: I never find anything else in the world—and I loathe it.

Rosalind: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic taste.

(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the room. Rosalind rises.)

Rosalind: Listen! they’re playing “Kiss Me Again.”

(He looks at her.)

Amory: Well?

Rosalind: Well?

Amory: (Softly—the battle lost) I love you.

Rosalind: I love you—now.

(They kiss.)

Amory: Oh, God, what have I done?

Rosalind: Nothing. Oh, don’t talk. Kiss me again.

Amory: I don’t know why or how, but I love you—from the moment I saw you.

Rosalind: Me too—I—I—oh, to-night’s to-night.

(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: “Oh, excuse me,” and goes.)

Rosalind: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don’t let me go—I don’t care who knows what I do.

Amory: Say it!

Rosalind: I love you—now. (They part.) Oh—I am very youthful, thank God—and rather beautiful, thank God—and happy, thank God, thank God—(She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, adds) Poor Amory!

(He kisses her again.)