Читать книгу The Beautiful and Damned / Прекрасные и обреченные. Уровень 4 - Френсис Скотт Фицджеральд, Френсис Фицджеральд - Страница 10

Maury Noble was purposeful. His intention, as he stated it in college was: to use three years in travel, three years in leisure – and then to become immensely rich as quickly as possible.

His three years of travel were over. Back in America, he was searching for amusement. He taught himself to drink as he taught himself Greek – like Greek it would be the gateway to new sensations, new psychical states, new reactions.

He had three rooms in a bachelor apartment on Forty-forth street, but he was there. The telephone girl[13] had a list of half a dozen people to whom he was never at home, and of the same number to whom he was always at home. Foremost on the latter list were Anthony Patch and Richard Caramel.

Maury’s mother lived in Philadelphia, and there Maury went usually for the week-ends, so one Saturday night Anthony was overjoyed to find that Mr. Noble was at home.

There he was! The room warmed Anthony. Maury filled the room, tigerlike, godlike. The winds outside were stilled.

“What keeps you here today?” Anthony asked.

“I was at a tea-party. I missed my train to Philadelphia. And you?”

“Geraldine[14]. I told you about her.”

“Oh!”

“She called me about three and stayed till five. She’s so utterly stupid.”

Maury was silent.

Anthony had known her a month. He considered her amusing and rather liked the chaste and fairylike kisses she had given him on the third night of their acquaintance, when they had driven in a taxi through the Park. She had a shadowy aunt and uncle who shared with her an apartment. She familiar and intimate and restful.

“She gets her hair over her eyes some way and then blow it out,” he informed Maury; “and she likes to say ‘You cra-a-azy!’ when some one makes a remark that she does not understand. It fascinates me.”

Maury spoke.

“Remarkable that a person can comprehend so little and yet live in such a complex civilization.”

“Our Richard could write about her.”

“Anthony, surely you don’t think she’s worth writing about.”

“As much as anybody,” he answered, yawning. “You know I was thinking today that I have a great confidence in Dick. If he sticks to people and not to ideas, I believe he’ll be a big man.”

Anthony raised himself.

“He tries to go to life. So does every author except the very worst. The incident or character may be from life, but the writer usually interprets it in terms of the last book he read. For instance, suppose he meets a captain. He already knows how to set this sea captain on paper…Whose tea was it?”

“People named Abercrombie[15].”

“Why did you stay late? Did you meet a girl?”

“Yes.”

“Did you really?” Anthony’s voice lifted in surprise.

“Yes. She seemed the youngest person there.”

“Not too young to make you miss a train.”

“Young enough. Beautiful child.”

Anthony chuckled.

“Oh, Maury, what do you mean by beautiful?”

Maury gazed helplessly into space.

“Well, I can’t describe her exactly – except to say that she was beautiful. She was tremendously alive.”

“What!”

“Mostly we talked about legs.”

“My God! Whose legs?”

“Hers. She talked a lot about hers.”

“What is she – a dancer?”

“No, she was a cousin of Dick’s.”

Anthony sat upright suddenly

“Her name is Gloria Gilbert!” he cried.

“Yes. Isn’t she remarkable?”

“I don’t know – but her father…”

“Well,” interrupted Maury, “her family may be as sad as professional mourners but I’m think that she’s a quite authentic and original character.”

“Go on, go on!” urged Anthony. “Soon as[16] Dick told me she didn’t have a brain in her head I knew she must be pretty good.”

“Did he say that?”

“Yes,” said Anthony with snorting laugh.

“Well, this girl talked about legs. She talked about skin too – her own skin. Always her own. And her tan”

“You sat enraptured by her voice?”

“No, by tan! I began thinking about tan. I began to think what color I turned about two years ago.”

Anthony was shaken with laughter.

“Oh, Maury!”

Maury sighed; rising he walked to the window and raised the shade.

“Snowing hard.”

Anthony, still laughing quietly to himself, made no answer.

“Another winter.” Maury’s voice from the window was almost a whisper. “We’re growing old, Anthony. I’m twenty-seven, by God! Three years to thirty, and then I’m a middle-aged man.”

Anthony was silent for a moment.

“You are old, Maury,” he agreed at length. “The first sign – you have spent the afternoon talking about tan and a lady’s legs.”

“Idiot!” cried Maury, “that from you! Here I sit, young Anthony, as I’ll sit for years and watch such souls as you and Dick and Gloria Gilbert go past me, dancing and singing and loving and hating one another. And I shall sit and the snow will come – and another winter and I shall be thirty and you and Dick and Gloria will eternally move and dance by me and sing.”

Maury left the window, stirred the blaze with a poker, and dropped a log upon the andirons. Then he sat back in his chair.

“After all, Anthony, it’s you who are very romantic and young. And it’s me who tries again and again to move – and I’m always me. Nothing stirs me.”