TENDER IS THE NIGHT (The Original 1934 Edition). Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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was playing with an ancient tennis ball, and he bounced it carefully on the floor several times before he answered with a soupçon of acidity:
“You’re a little idiot, Geraldine.”
She smiled provokingly.
“Oh, I am, am I? Want to bet?”
“That’d be silly too.”
“Oh, it would, would it? Well, I’ll just bet you’ll marry somebody inside of a year.”
Anthony bounced the tennis ball very hard. This was one of his handsome days, she thought; a sort of intensity had displaced the melancholy in his dark eyes.
“Geraldine,” he said, at length, “in the first place I have no one I want to marry; in the second place I haven’t enough money to support two people; in the third place I am entirely opposed to marriage for people of my type; in the fourth place I have a strong distaste for even the abstract consideration of it.”
But Geraldine only narrowed her eyes knowingly, made her clicking sound, and said she must be going. It was late.
“Call me up soon,” she reminded him as he kissed her goodbye, “you haven’t for three weeks, you know.”
“I will,” he promised fervently.
He shut the door and coming back into the room stood for a moment lost in thought with the tennis ball still clasped in his hand. There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was a self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully—assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless.
He thought with emotion—aloud, ejaculative, for he was hurt and confused.
“No idea of getting married, by God!”
Of a sudden he hurled the tennis ball violently across the room, where it barely missed the lamp, and, rebounding here and there for a moment, lay still upon the floor.
Signlight and Moonlight.
For her dinner Gloria had taken a table in the Cascades at the Biltmore, and when the men met in the hall outside a little after eight, “that person Bloeckman” was the target of six masculine eyes. He was a stoutening, ruddy Jew of about thirty-five, with an expressive face under smooth sandy hair—and, no doubt, in most business gatherings his personality would have been considered ingratiating. He sauntered up to the three younger men, who stood in a group smoking as they waited for their hostess, and introduced himself with a little too evident assurance—nevertheless it is to be doubted whether he received the intended impression of faint and ironic chill: there was no hint of understanding in his manner.
“You related to Adam J. Patch?” he inquired of Anthony, emitting two slender strings of smoke from nostrils overwide.
Anthony admitted it with the ghost of a smile.
“He’s a fine man,” pronounced Bloeckman profoundly. “He’s a fine example of an American.”
“Yes,” agreed Anthony, “he certainly is.”
—I detest these underdone men, he thought coldly. Boiled looking! Ought to be shoved back in the oven; just one more minute would do it.
Bloeckman squinted at his watch.
“Time these girls were showing up…”
—Anthony waited breathlessly; it came—
“… but then,” with a widening smile, “you know how women are.”
The three young men nodded; Bloeckman looked casually about him, his eyes resting critically on the ceiling and then passing lower. His expression combined that of a Middle Western farmer appraising his wheat crop and that of an actor wondering whether he is observed—the public manner of all good Americans. As he finished his survey he turned back quickly to the reticent trio, determined to strike to their very heart and core.
“You college men? … Harvard, eh. I see the Princeton boys beat you fellows in hockey.”
Unfortunate man. He had drawn another blank. They had been three years out and heeded only the big football games. Whether, after the failure of this sally, Mr. Bloeckman would have perceived himself to be in a cynical atmosphere is problematical, for—
Gloria arrived. Muriel arrived. Rachael arrived. After a hurried “Hello, people!” uttered by Gloria and echoed by the other two, the three swept by into the dressing room.
A moment later Muriel appeared in a state of elaborate undress and crept toward them. She was in her element: her ebony hair was slicked straight back on her head; her eyes were artificially darkened; she reeked of insistent perfume. She was got up to the best of her ability as a siren, more popularly a “vamp”—a picker up and thrower away of men, an unscrupulous and fundamentally unmoved toyer with affections. Something in the exhaustiveness of her attempt fascinated Maury at first sight—a woman with wide hips affecting a panther-like litheness! As they waited the extra three minutes for Gloria, and, by polite assumption, for Rachael, he was unable to take his eyes from her. She would turn her head away, lowering her eyelashes and biting her nether lip in an amazing exhibition of coyness. She would rest her hands on her hips and sway from side to side in tune to the music, saying:
“Did you ever hear such perfect ragtime? I just can’t make my shoulders behave when I hear that.”
Mr. Bloeckman clapped his hands gallantly.
“You ought to be on the stage.”
“I’d like to be!” cried Muriel; “will you back me?”
“I sure will.”
With becoming modesty Muriel ceased her motions and turned to Maury, asking what he had “seen” this year. He interpreted this as referring to the dramatic world, and they had a gay and exhilarating exchange of titles, after this manner:
Muriel: Have you seen “Peg o’ My Heart”?
Maury: No, I haven’t.
Muriel: (Eagerly) It’s wonderful! You want to see it.
Maury: Have you seen “Omar, the Tentmaker”?
Muriel: No, but I hear it’s wonderful. I’m very anxious to see it. Have you seen “Fair and Warmer”?
Maury: (Hopefully) Yes.
Muriel: I don’t think it’s very good. It’s trashy.
Maury: (Faintly) Yes, that’s true.
Muriel: But I went to “Within the Law” last night and I thought it was fine. Have you seen “The Little Cafe”? …
This continued until they ran out of plays. Dick, meanwhile, turned to Mr. Bloeckman, determined to extract what gold he could from this unpromising load.
“I hear all the new novels are sold to the moving pictures as soon as they come out.”
“That’s true. Of course the main thing in a moving picture is a strong story.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“So many novels are all full of talk and psychology. Of course those aren’t as valuable to us. It’s impossible to make much of that interesting on the screen.”
“You want plots first,” said Richard brilliantly.
“Of course. Plots first—” He paused, shifted his gaze. His pause spread, included the others with all the authority of a warning finger. Gloria followed by Rachael was coming out of the dressing room.