TENDER IS THE NIGHT (The Original 1934 Edition). Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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“No.” She shook her head. “We’ll have a dinner, eight people, very formal and everything, and afterwards we’ll play cards.”
She was already speculating on whom to invite. Charley of course, being an artist, probably saw interesting people every day.
“We could have the Willoughbys,” she suggested doubtfully. “She’s on the stage or something—and he writes movies.”
“No—that’s not it,” objected Michael. “He probably meets that crowd at lunch and dinner every day until he’s sick of them. Besides, except for the Willoughbys, who else like that do we know? I’ve got a better idea. Let’s collect a few people who’ve drifted down here from home. They’ve all followed Charley’s career and they’d probably enjoy seeing him again. I’d like them to find out how natural and unspoiled he is after all.”
After some discussion they agreed on this plan and within an hour Marion had her first guest on the telephone:
“It’s to meet Charley Hart’s fiancee,” she explained. “Charley Hart, the artist. You see, he’s one of our oldest friends.”
As she began her preparations her enthusiasm grew. She rented a serving-maid to assure an impeccable service and persuaded the neighborhood florist to come in person and arrange the flowers. All the “people from home” had accepted eagerly and the number of guests had swollen to ten.
“What’ll we talk about, Michael?” she demanded nervously on the eve of the party. “Suppose everything goes wrong and everybody gets mad and goes home?”
He laughed.
“Nothing will. You see, these people all know each other—”
The phone on the table asserted itself and Michael picked up the receiver.
“Hello … why, hello, Charley.”
Marion sat up alertly in her chair.
“Is that so? Well, I’m very sorry. I’m very, very sorry … I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Can’t he come?” broke out Marion.
“Sh!” Then into the phone, “Well, it certainly is too bad, Charley. No, it’s no trouble for us at all. We’re just sorry you’re ill.”
With a dismal gesture Michael replaced the receiver.
“The Lawrence girl had to go home last night and Charley’s sick in bed with grip.”
“Do you mean he can’t come?”
“He can’t come.”
Marion’s face contracted suddenly and her eyes filled with tears.
“He says he’s had the doctor all day,” explained Michael dejectedly. “He’s got fever and they didn’t even want him to go to the telephone.”
“I don’t care,” sobbed Marion. “I think it’s terrible. After we’ve invited all these people to meet him.”
“People can’t help being sick.”
“Yes they can,” she wailed illogically, “they can help it some way. And if the Lawrence girl was going to leave last night why didn’t he let us know then?”
“He said she left unexpectedly. Up to yesterday afternoon they both intended to come.”
“I don’t think he c-cares a bit. I’ll bet he’s glad he’s sick. If he’d cared he’d have brought her to see us long ago.”
She stood up suddenly.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” she assured him vehemently, “I’m just going to telephone everybody and call the whole thing off.”
“Why, Marion—”
But in spite of his half-hearted protests she picked up the phone book and began looking for the first number.
They bought theater tickets next day hoping to fill the hollowness which would invest the evening. Marion had wept when the unintercepted florist arrived at five with boxes of flowers and she felt that she must get out of the house to avoid the ghosts who would presently people it. In silence they ate an elaborate dinner composed of all the things that she had bought for the party.
“It’s only eight,” said Michael afterwards, “I think it’d be sort of nice if we dropped in on Charley for a minute, don’t you?”
“Why, no,” Marion answered, startled, “I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Why not? If he’s seriously sick I’d like to see how well he’s being taken care of.”
She saw that he had made up his mind, so she fought down her instinct against the idea and they taxied to a tall pile of studio apartments on Madison Avenue.
“You go on in,” urged Marion nervously, “I’d rather wait out here.”
“Please come in.”
“Why? He’ll be in bed and he doesn’t want any women around.”
“But he’d like to see you—it’d cheer him up. And he’d know that we understood about to-night. He sounded awfully depressed over the phone.”
He urged her from the cab.
“Let’s only stay a minute,” she whispered tensely as they went up in the elevator. “The show starts at half past eight.”
“Apartment on the right,” said the elevator man.
They rang the bell and waited. The door opened and they walked directly into Charley Hart’s great studio room.
It was crowded with people; from end to end ran a long lamp-lit dinner table strewn with ferns and young roses, from which a gay murmur of laughter and conversation arose into the faintly smoky air. Twenty women in evening dress sat on one side in a row chatting across the flowers at twenty men, with an elation born of the sparkling Burgundy which dripped from many bottles into thin chilled glass. Up on the high narrow balcony which encircled the room a string quartet was playing something by Stravinski in a key that was pitched just below the women’s voices and filled the air like an audible wine.
The door had been opened by one of the waiters, who stepped back deferentially from what he thought were two belated guests—and immediately a handsome man at the head of the table started to his feet, napkin in hand, and stood motionless, staring toward the newcomers. The conversation faded into half silence and all eyes followed Charley Hart’s to the couple at the door. Then, as if the spell was broken, conversation resumed, gathering momentum word by word—the moment was over.
“Let’s get out!” Marion’s low, terrified whisper came to Michael out of a void and for a minute he thought he was possessed by an illusion, that there was no one but Charley in the room after all. Then his eyes cleared and he saw that there were many people here—he had never seen so many! The music swelled suddenly into the tumult of a great brass band and a wind from the loud horns seemed to blow against them; without turning he and Marion each made one blind step backward into the hall, pulling the door to after them.
“Marion—I”
She had run toward the elevator, stood with one finger pressed hard against the bell which rang through the hall like a last high note from the music inside. The door of the apartment opened suddenly and Charley Hart came out into the hall.
“Michael!” he cried, “Michael and Marion, I want to explain! Come inside. I want to explain, I tell you.”
He talked excitedly—his face was flushed and his mouth formed a word or two that did not materialize into sound.
“Hurry up, Michael,” came Marion’s voice tensely from the elevator.
“Let