Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) (14 page)

In the volume for 1912 Amory was shocked to discover the decrease in the number of bond holdings and the great drop in the income. In the case of Beatrice’s money this was not so pronounced, but it was obvious that his father had devoted the previous year to several unfortunate gambles in oil. Very little of the oil had been burned, but Stephen Blaine had been rather badly singed. The next year and the next and the next showed similar decreases, and Beatrice had for the first time begun using her own money for keeping up the house. Yet her doctor’s bill for 1913 had been over nine thousand dollars.

About the exact state of things Mr. Barton was quite vague and confused. There had been recent investments, the outcome of which was for the present problematical, and he had an idea there were further speculations and exchanges concerning which he had not been consulted.

It was not for several months that Beatrice wrote Amory the full situation. The entire residue of the Blaine and O’Hara fortunes consisted of the place at Lake Geneva and approximately a half million dollars, invested now in fairly conservative six-per-cent holdings. In fact, Beatrice wrote that she was putting the money into railroad and street-car bonds as fast as she could conveniently transfer it.

  “I am quite sure,” she wrote to Amory, “that if there is one

  thing we can be positive of, it is that people will not stay in

  one place.  This Ford person has certainly made the most of that

  idea.  So I am instructing Mr. Barton to specialize on such things

  as Northern Pacific and these Rapid Transit Companies, as they

  call the street-cars.  I shall never forgive myself for not buying

  Bethlehem Steel.  I’ve heard the most fascinating stories.  You

  must go into finance, Amory.  I’m sure you would revel in it.

  You start as a messenger or a teller, I believe, and from that you

  go up — almost indefinitely.  I’m sure if I were a man I’d love the

  handling of money; it has become quite a senile passion with me.

  Before I get any farther I want to discuss something.  A Mrs. Bispam,

  an overcordial little lady whom I met at a tea the other day,

  told me that her son, he is at Yale, wrote her that all the

  boys there wore their summer underwear all during the winter,

  and also went about with their heads wet and in low shoes on the

  coldest days.  Now, Amory, I don’t know whether that is a fad at

  Princeton too, but I don’t want you to be so foolish.  It not only

  inclines a young man to pneumonia and infantile paralysis, but to

  all forms of lung trouble, to which you are particularly

  inclined.  You cannot experiment with your health.  I have found

  that out.  I will not make myself ridiculous as some mothers no

  doubt do, by insisting that you wear overshoes, though I remember

  one Christmas you wore them around constantly without a single

  buckle latched, making such a curious swishing sound, and you

  refused to buckle them because it was not the thing to do.  The

  very next Christmas you would not wear even rubbers, though I

  begged you.  You are nearly twenty years old now, dear, and I

  can’t be with you constantly to find whether you are doing the

  sensible thing.

  “This has been a very
practical
letter.  I warned you in my last

  that the lack of money to do the things one wants to makes one

  quite prosy and domestic, but there is still plenty for

  everything if we are not too extravagant.  Take care of yourself,

  my dear boy, and do try to write at least
once
a week, because I

  imagine all sorts of horrible things if I don’t hear from you.

          Affectionately,            MOTHER.”

FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM “PERSONAGE”

Monsignor Darcy invited Amory up to the Stuart palace on the Hudson for a week at Christmas, and they had enormous conversations around the open fire. Monsignor was growing a trifle stouter and his personality had expanded even with that, and Amory felt both rest and security in sinking into a squat, cushioned chair and joining him in the middle-aged sanity of a cigar.

“I’ve felt like leaving college, Monsignor.”

“Why?”

“All my career’s gone up in smoke; you think it’s petty and all that, but — “

“Not at all petty. I think it’s most important. I want to hear the whole thing. Everything you’ve been doing since I saw you last.”

Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his egotistic highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had left his voice.

“What would you do if you left college?” asked Monsignor.

“Don’t know. I’d like to travel, but of course this tiresome war prevents that. Anyways, mother would hate not having me graduate. I’m just at sea. Kerry Holiday wants me to go over with him and join the Lafayette Esquadrille.”

“You know you wouldn’t like to go.”

“Sometimes I would — to-night I’d go in a second.”

“Well, you’d have to be very much more tired of life than I think you are. I know you.”

“I’m afraid you do,” agreed Amory reluctantly. “It just seemed an easy way out of everything — when I think of another useless, draggy year.”

“Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I’m not worried about you; you seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally.”

“No,” Amory objected. “I’ve lost half my personality in a year.”

“Not a bit of it!” scoffed Monsignor. “You’ve lost a great amount of vanity and that’s all.”

“Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I’d gone through another fifth form at St. Regis’s.”

“No.” Monsignor shook his head. “That was a misfortune; this has been a good thing. Whatever worth while comes to you, won’t be through the channels you were searching last year.”

“What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?”

“Perhaps in itself... but you’re developing. This has given you time to think and you’re casting off a lot of your old luggage about success and the superman and all. People like us can’t adopt whole theories, as you did. If we can do the next thing, and have an hour a day to think in, we can accomplish marvels, but as far as any high-handed scheme of blind dominance is concerned — we’d just make asses of ourselves.”

“But, Monsignor, I can’t do the next thing.”

“Amory, between you and me, I have only just learned to do it myself. I can do the one hundred things beyond the next thing, but I stub my toe on that, just as you stubbed your toe on mathematics this fall.”

“Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of thing I should do.”

“We have to do it because we’re not personalities, but personages.”

“That’s a good line — what do you mean?”

“A personality is what you thought you were, what this Kerry and Sloane you tell me of evidently are. Personality is a physical matter almost entirely; it lowers the people it acts on — I’ve seen it vanish in a long sickness. But while a personality is active, it overrides ‘the next thing.’ Now a personage, on the other hand, gathers. He is never thought of apart from what he’s done. He’s a bar on which a thousand things have been hung — glittering things sometimes, as ours are; but he uses those things with a cold mentality back of them.”

“And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off when I needed them.” Amory continued the simile eagerly.

“Yes, that’s it; when you feel that your garnered prestige and talents and all that are hung out, you need never bother about anybody; you can cope with them without difficulty.”

“But, on the other hand, if I haven’t my possessions, I’m helpless!”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s certainly an idea.”

“Now you’ve a clean start — a start Kerry or Sloane can constitutionally never have. You brushed three or four ornaments down, and, in a fit of pique, knocked off the rest of them. The thing now is to collect some new ones, and the farther you look ahead in the collecting the better. But remember, do the next thing!”

“How clear you can make things!”

So they talked, often about themselves, sometimes of philosophy and religion, and life as respectively a game or a mystery. The priest seemed to guess Amory’s thoughts before they were clear in his own head, so closely related were their minds in form and groove.

“Why do I make lists?” Amory asked him one night. “Lists of all sorts of things?”

“Because you’re a mediaevalist,” Monsignor answered. “We both are. It’s the passion for classifying and finding a type.”

“It’s a desire to get something definite.”

“It’s the nucleus of scholastic philosophy.”

“I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up here. It was a pose, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest pose of all. Pose — “

“Yes?”

“But do the next thing.”

After Amory returned to college he received several letters from Monsignor which gave him more egotistic food for consumption.

  I am afraid that I gave you too much assurance of your inevitable

  safety, and you must remember that I did that through faith in

  your springs of effort; not in the silly conviction that you will

  arrive without struggle.  Some nuances of character you will have

  to take for granted in yourself, though you must be careful in

  confessing them to others.  You are unsentimental, almost incapable

  of affection, astute without being cunning and vain without being

  proud.

  Don’t let yourself feel worthless; often through life you will

  really be at your worst when you seem to think best of yourself;

  and don’t worry about losing your “personality,” as you persist

  in calling it; at fifteen you had the radiance of early morning,

  at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of

  the moon, and when you are my age you will give out, as I do,

  the genial golden warmth of 4 P.M.

  If you write me letters, please let them be natural ones.  Your

  last, that dissertation on architecture, was perfectly awful —

  so “highbrow” that I picture you living in an intellectual and

  emotional vacuum; and beware of trying to classify people too

  definitely into types; you will find that all through their youth

  they will persist annoyingly in jumping from class to class, and

  by pasting a supercilious label on every one you meet you are

  merely packing a Jack-in-the-box that will spring up and leer at

  you when you begin to come into really antagonistic contact with

  the world.  An idealization of some such a man as Leonardo da

  Vinci would be a more valuable beacon to you at present.

  You are bound to go up and down, just as I did in my youth, but

  do keep your clarity of mind, and if fools or sages dare to

  criticise don’t blame yourself too much.

  You say that convention is all that really keeps you straight in

  this “woman proposition”; but it’s more than that, Amory; it’s

  the fear that what you begin you can’t stop; you would run amuck,

  and I know whereof I speak; it’s that half-miraculous sixth sense

  by which you detect evil, it’s the half-realized fear of God in

  your heart.

  Whatever your metier proves to be — religion, architecture,

  literature — I’m sure you would be much safer anchored to the

  Church, but I won’t risk my influence by arguing with you even

  though I am secretly sure that the “black chasm of Romanism”

  yawns beneath you.  Do write me soon.

    With affectionate regards,          THAYER DARCY.

Even Amory’s reading paled during this period; he delved further into the misty side streets of literature: Huysmans, Walter Pater, Theophile Gautier, and the racier sections of Rabelais, Boccaccio, Petronius, and Suetonius. One week, through general curiosity, he inspected the private libraries of his classmates and found Sloane’s as typical as any: sets of Kipling, O. Henry, John Fox, Jr., and Richard Harding Davis; “What Every Middle-Aged Woman Ought to Know,” “The Spell of the Yukon”; a “gift” copy of James Whitcomb Riley, an assortment of battered, annotated schoolbooks, and, finally, to his surprise, one of his own late discoveries, the collected poems of Rupert Brooke.

Together with Tom D’Invilliers, he sought among the lights of Princeton for some one who might found the Great American Poetic Tradition.

The undergraduate body itself was rather more interesting that year than had been the entirely Philistine Princeton of two years before. Things had livened surprisingly, though at the sacrifice of much of the spontaneous charm of freshman year. In the old Princeton they would never have discovered Tanaduke Wylie. Tanaduke was a sophomore, with tremendous ears and a way of saying, “The earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations!” that made them vaguely wonder why it did not sound quite clear, but never question that it was the utterance of a supersoul. At least so Tom and Amory took him. They told him in all earnestness that he had a mind like Shelley’s, and featured his ultrafree free verse and prose poetry in the Nassau Literary Magazine. But Tanaduke’s genius absorbed the many colors of the age, and he took to the Bohemian life, to their great disappointment. He talked of Greenwich Village now instead of “noon-swirled moons,” and met winter muses, unacademic, and cloistered by Forty-second Street and Broadway, instead of the Shelleyan dream-children with whom he had regaled their expectant appreciation. So they surrendered Tanaduke to the futurists, deciding that he and his flaming ties would do better there. Tom gave him the final advice that he should stop writing for two years and read the complete works of Alexander Pope four times, but on Amory’s suggestion that Pope for Tanaduke was like foot-ease for stomach trouble, they withdrew in laughter, and called it a coin’s toss whether this genius was too big or too petty for them.