Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) (65 page)

PARAMORE: You’ve forgotten Fred Paramore? We were both in old Unc
Robert’s history class.

MAURY: No, I haven’t, Unc — I mean Fred. Fred was — I mean Unc was a great old fellow, wasn’t he?

PARAMORE: (Nodding his head humorously several times) Great old character. Great old character.

MAURY: (After a short pause) Yes — he was. Where’s Anthony?

PARAMORE: The Japanese servant told me he was at some inn. Having dinner, I suppose.

MAURY: (Looking at his watch) Gone long?

PARAMORE: I guess so. The Japanese told me they’d be back shortly.

MAURY: Suppose we have a drink.

PARAMORE: No, thanks. I don’t use it. (He smiles.)

MAURY: Mind if I do? (Yawning as he helps himself from a bottle) What have you been doing since you left college?

PARAMORE: Oh, many things. I’ve led a very active life. Knocked about here and there. (His tone implies anything front lion-stalking to organized crime.)

MAURY: Oh, been over to Europe?

PARAMORE: No, I haven’t — unfortunately.

MAURY: I guess we’ll all go over before long.

PARAMORE: Do you really think so?

MAURY: Sure! Country’s been fed on sensationalism for more than two years. Everybody getting restless. Want to have some fun.

PARAMORE: Then you don’t believe any ideals are at stake?

MAURY: Nothing of much importance. People want excitement every so often.

PARAMORE: (Intently) It’s very interesting to hear you say that. Now I was talking to a man who’d been over there —  —

(During the ensuing testament, left to be filled in by the reader with such phrases as “Saw with his own eyes,” “Splendid spirit of France,” and “Salvation of civilization,” MAURY sits with lowered eyelids, dispassionately bored.)

MAURY: (At the first available opportunity) By the way, do you happen to know that there’s a German agent in this very house?

PARAMORE: (Smiling cautiously) Are you serious?

MAURY: Absolutely. Feel it my duty to warn you.

PARAMORE: (Convinced) A governess?

MAURY: (In a whisper, indicating the kitchen with his thumb) Tana! That’s not his real name. I understand he constantly gets mail addressed to Lieutenant Emile Tannenbaum.

PARAMORE: (Laughing with hearty tolerance) You were kidding me.

MAURY: I may be accusing him falsely. But, you haven’t told me what you’ve been doing.

PARAMORE: For one thing — writing.

MAURY: Fiction?

PARAMORE: No. Non-fiction.

MAURY: What’s that? A sort of literature that’s half fiction and half fact?

PARAMORE: Oh, I’ve confined myself to fact. I’ve been doing a good deal of social-service work.

MAURY: Oh!

(An immediate glow of suspicion leaps into his eyes. It is as though PARAMORE had announced himself as an amateur pickpocket.)

PARAMORE: At present I’m doing service work in Stamford. Only last week some one told me that Anthony Patch lived so near.

(They are interrupted by a clamor outside, unmistakable as that of two sexes in conversation and laughter. Then there enter the room in a body ANTHONY, GLORIA, RICHARD CARAMEL, MURIEL KANE, RACHAEL BARNES and RODMAN BARNES, her husband. They surge about MAURY, illogically replying “Fine!” to his general “Hello.” … ANTHONY, meanwhile, approaches his other guest.)

ANTHONY: Well, I’ll be darned. How are you? Mighty glad to see you.

PARAMORE: It’s good to see you, Anthony. I’m stationed in Stamford, so I thought I’d run over. (Roguishly) We have to work to beat the devil most of the time, so we’re entitled to a few hours’ vacation.

(In an agony of concentration ANTHONY tries to recall the name. After a struggle of parturition his memory gives up the fragment “Fred,” around which he hastily builds the sentence “Glad you did, Fred!” Meanwhile the slight hush prefatory to an introduction has fallen upon the company. MAURY, who could help, prefers to look on in malicious enjoyment.)

ANTHONY: (In desperation) Ladies and gentlemen, this is — this is Fred.

MURIEL: (With obliging levity) Hello, Fred!

(RICHARD CARAMEL and PARAMORE greet each other intimately by their first names, the latter recollecting that DICK was one of the men in his class who had never before troubled to speak to him. DICK fatuously imagines that PARAMORE is some one he has previously met in ANTHONY’S house.

The three young women go up-stairs.)

MAURY: (In an undertone to DICK) Haven’t seen Muriel since Anthony’s wedding.

DICK: She’s now in her prime. Her latest is “I’ll say so!”

(ANTHONY struggles for a while with PARAMORE and at length attempts to make the conversation general by asking every one to have a drink.)

MAURY: I’ve done pretty well on this bottle. I’ve gone from “Proof” down to “Distillery.” (He indicates the words on the label.)

ANTHONY: (To PARAMORE) Never can tell when these two will turn up. Said good-by to them one afternoon at five and darned if they didn’t appear about two in the morning. A big hired touring-car from New York drove up to the door and out they stepped, drunk as lords, of course.

(In an ecstasy of consideration PARAMORE regards the cover of a book which he holds in his hand. MAURY and DICK exchange a glance.)

DICK: (Innocently, to PARAMORE) You work here in town?

PARAMORE: No, I’m in the Laird Street Settlement in Stamford. (To
ANTHONY) You have no idea of the amount of poverty in these small
Connecticut towns. Italians and other immigrants. Catholics mostly, you
know, so it’s very hard to reach them.

ANTHONY: (Politely) Lot of crime?

PARAMORE: Not so much crime as ignorance and dirt.

MAURY: That’s my theory: immediate electrocution of all ignorant and dirty people. I’m all for the criminals — give color to life. Trouble is if you started to punish ignorance you’d have to begin in the first families, then you could take up the moving picture people, and finally Congress and the clergy.

PARAMORE: (Smiling uneasily) I was speaking of the more fundamental ignorance — of even our language.

MAURY: (Thoughtfully) I suppose it is rather hard. Can’t even keep up with the new poetry.

PARAMORE: It’s only when the settlement work has gone on for months that one realizes how bad things are. As our secretary said to me, your finger-nails never seem dirty until you wash your hands. Of course we’re already attracting much attention.

MAURY: (Rudely) As your secretary might say, if you stuff paper into a grate it’ll burn brightly for a moment.

(At this point GLORIA, freshly tinted and lustful of admiration and entertainment, rejoins the party, followed by her two friends. For several moments the conversation becomes entirely fragmentary. GLORIA calls ANTHONY aside.)

GLORIA: Please don’t drink much, Anthony.

ANTHONY: Why?

GLORIA: Because you’re so simple when you’re drunk.

ANTHONY: Good Lord! What’s the matter now?

GLORIA: (After a pause during which her eyes gaze coolly into his) Several things. In the first place, why do you insist on paying for everything? Both those men have more money than you!

ANTHONY: Why, Gloria! They’re my guests!

GLORIA: That’s no reason why you should pay for a bottle of champagne Rachael Barnes smashed. Dick tried to fix that second taxi bill, and you wouldn’t let him.

ANTHONY: Why, Gloria —

GLORIA: When we have to keep selling bonds to even pay our bills, it’s time to cut down on excess generosities. Moreover, I wouldn’t be quite so attentive to Rachael Barnes. Her husband doesn’t like it any more than I do!

ANTHONY: Why, Gloria —

GLORIA: (Mimicking him sharply) “Why, Gloria!” But that’s happened a little too often this summer — with every pretty woman you meet. It’s grown to be a sort of habit, and I’m not going to stand it! If you can play around, I can, too. (Then, as an afterthought) By the way, this Fred person isn’t a second Joe Hull, is he?

ANTHONY: Heavens, no! He probably came up to get me to wheedle some money out of grandfather for his flock.

(GLORIA turns away from a very depressed ANTHONY and returns to her guests.

By nine o’clock these can be divided into two classes — those who have been drinking consistently and those who have taken little or nothing. In the second group are the BARNESES, MURIEL, and FREDERICK E. PARAMORE.)

MURIEL: I wish I could write. I get these ideas but I never seem to be able to put them in words.

DICK: As Goliath said, he understood how David felt, but he couldn’t express himself. The remark was immediately adopted for a motto by the Philistines.

MURIEL: I don’t get you. I must be getting stupid in my old age.

GLORIA: (Weaving unsteadily among the company like an exhilarated angel) If any one’s hungry there’s some French pastry on the dining room table.

MAURY: Can’t tolerate those Victorian designs it comes in.

MURIEL: (Violently amused) I’ll say you’re tight, Maury.

(Her bosom is still a pavement that she offers to the hoofs of many passing stallions, hoping that their iron shoes may strike even a spark of romance in the darkness …

Messrs. BARNES and PARAMORE have been engaged in conversation upon some wholesome subject, a subject so wholesome that MR. BARNES has been trying for several moments to creep into the more tainted air around the central lounge. Whether PARAMORE is lingering in the gray house out of politeness or curiosity, or in order at some future time to make a sociological report on the decadence of American life, is problematical.)

MAURY: Fred, I imagined you were very broad-minded.

PARAMORE: I am.

MURIEL: Me, too. I believe one religion’s as good as another and everything.

PARAMORE: There’s some good in all religions.

MURIEL: I’m a Catholic but, as I always say, I’m not working at it.

PARAMORE: (With a tremendous burst of tolerance) The Catholic religion is a very — a very powerful religion.

MAURY: Well, such a broad-minded man should consider the raised plane of sensation and the stimulated optimism contained in this cocktail.

PARAMORE: (Taking the drink, rather defiantly) Thanks, I’ll try — one.

MAURY: One? Outrageous! Here we have a class of ‘nineteen ten reunion, and you refuse to be even a little pickled. Come on!

“Here’s a health to King Charles, Here’s a health to King Charles, Bring the bowl that you boast —  — “

(PARAMORE joins in with a hearty voice.)

MAURY: Fill the cup, Frederick. You know everything’s subordinated to nature’s purposes with us, and her purpose with you is to make you a rip-roaring tippler.

PARAMORE: If a fellow can drink like a gentleman —

MAURY: What is a gentleman, anyway?

ANTHONY: A man who never has pins under his coat lapel.

MAURY: Nonsense! A man’s social rank is determined by the amount of bread he eats in a sandwich.

DICK: He’s a man who prefers the first edition of a book to the last edition of a newspaper.

RACHAEL: A man who never gives an impersonation of a dope-fiend.

MAURY: An American who can fool an English butler into thinking he’s one.

MURIEL: A man who comes from a good family and went to Yale or Harvard or Princeton, and has money and dances well, and all that.

MAURY: At last — the perfect definition! Cardinal Newman’s is now a back number.

PARAMORE: I think we ought to look on the question more broad-mindedly. Was it Abraham Lincoln who said that a gentleman is one who never inflicts pain?

MAURY: It’s attributed, I believe, to General Ludendorff.

PARAMORE: Surely you’re joking.

MAURY: Have another drink.

PARAMORE: I oughtn’t to. (Lowering his voice for MAURY’S ear alone) What if I were to tell you this is the third drink I’ve ever taken in my life?

(DICK starts the phonograph, which provokes MURIEL to rise and sway from side to side, her elbows against her ribs, her forearms perpendicular to her body and out like fins.)

MURIEL: Oh, let’s take up the rugs and dance!

(This suggestion is received by ANTHONY and GLORIA with interior groans and sickly smiles of acquiescence.)

MURIEL: Come on, you lazy-bones. Get up and move the furniture back.

DICK: Wait till I finish my drink.

MAURY: (Intent on his purpose toward PARAMORE) I’ll tell you what.
Let’s each fill one glass, drink it off and then we’ll dance.

(A wave of protest which breaks against the rock of MAURY’S insistence.)

MURIEL: My head is simply going round now.

RACHAEL: (In an undertone to ANTHONY) Did Gloria tell you to stay away from me?

ANTHONY: (Confused) Why, certainly not. Of course not.

(RACHAEL smiles at him inscrutably. Two years have given her a sort of hard, well-groomed beauty.)

MAURY: (Holding up his glass) Here’s to the defeat of democracy and the fall of Christianity.

MURIEL: Now really!

(She flashes a mock-reproachful glance at MAURY and then drinks.

They all drink, with varying degrees of difficulty.)

MURIEL: Clear the floor!

(It seems inevitable that this process is to be gone through, so ANTHONY and GLORIA join in the great moving of tables, piling of chairs, rolling of carpets, and breaking of lamps. When the furniture has been stacked in ugly masses at the sides, there appears a space about eight feet square.)

MURIEL: Oh, let’s have music!

MAURY: Tana will render the love song of an eye, ear, nose, and throat specialist.

(Amid some confusion due to the fact that TANA has retired for the night, preparations are made for the performance. The pajamaed Japanese, flute in hand, is wrapped in a comforter and placed in a chair atop one of the tables, where he makes a ludicrous and grotesque spectacle. PARAMORE is perceptibly drunk and so enraptured with the notion that he increases the effect by simulating funny-paper staggers and even venturing on an occasional hiccough.)

PARAMORE: (To GLORIA) Want to dance with me?

GLORIA: No, sir! Want to do the swan dance. Can you do it?

PARAMORE: Sure. Do them all.

GLORIA: All right. You start from that side of the room and I’ll start from this.

MURIEL: Let’s go!

(Then Bedlam creeps screaming out of the bottles: TANA plunges into the recondite mazes of the train song, the plaintive “tootle toot-toot” blending its melancholy cadences with the “Poor Butter-fly (tink-atink), by the blossoms wait-ing” of the phonograph. MURIEL is too weak with laughter to do more than cling desperately to BARNES, who, dancing with the ominous rigidity of an army officer, tramps without humor around the small space. ANTHONY is trying to hear RACHAEL’S whisper — without attracting GLORIA’s attention….