Читать книгу The Beautiful and Damned / Прекрасные и обреченные. Уровень 4 - Френсис Скотт Фицджеральд, Френсис Фицджеральд - Страница 5

His apartment was kept clean by an English servant with the appropriate name of Bounds. From eight until eleven in the morning he was entirely Anthony’s. He arrived with the mail and cooked breakfast. At nine-thirty he pulled the edge of Anthony’s blanket; then he served breakfast on a card-table in the front room, made the bed and, after asking with some hostility if there was anything else, went away.

In the mornings, at least once a week, Anthony went to see his broker. His income was slightly under seven thousand a year, he inherited money from his mother. His grandfather judged that this sum was sufficient for young Anthony’s needs. Every Christmas he sent him a five-hundred-dollar bond, which Anthony usually sold.

Anthony always enjoyed the visits to his broker. The big trust company building linked him to the great fortunes. From the hurried men he derived the sense of safety.

Some golden day, of course, Anthony would have many millions. Let’s go back to the conversation with his grandfather immediately upon his return from Rome.

He had hoped to find his grandfather dead, but had learned by telephoning that Adam Patch was comparatively well again – the next day he had concealed his disappointment and gone out to Tarrytown.

Anthony was late and the venerable philanthropist was awaiting him in a parlor, where he was glancing through the morning papers for the second time. His secretary ushered Anthony into the room.

They shook hands gravely.

“I’m glad to hear you’re better,” Anthony said.

The senior Patch pulled out his watch.

“Train late?” he asked mildly. And then after a long sigh, “Sit down.”

Anthony felt that he was expected to outline his intentions. He wished that the secretary would have tact enough to leave the room.

“Now you ought to do something,” said his grandfather softly, “accomplish something.”

Anthony made a suggestion:

“I thought – it seemed to me that perhaps I’m best qualified to write – “

Adam Patch winced, visualizing a family poet with a long hair and three mistresses.

“ – history,” finished Anthony.

“History? History of what? The Civil War? The Revolution?”

“Why – no, sir. A history of the Middle Ages.”

“Middle Ages? Why not your own country? Something you know about?”

“Well, you see I’ve lived so much abroad – “

“Why you should write about the Middle Ages, I don’t know. Dark Ages, we call them. Nobody knows what happened, and nobody cares, except that they’re over now. Do you think you’ll be able to do any work in New York – or do you really intend to work at all?”

This last with soft, almost imperceptible, cynicism.

“Why, yes, I do, sir.”

The conversation came toward a rather abrupt conclusion, when Anthony rose, looked at his watch, and remarked that he had an engagement with his broker that afternoon. He had intended to stay a few days with his grandfather, but he was tired and irritated. He will come again in a few days.