The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby, Tender Is the Night, This Side of Paradise, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, The Beautiful and Damned, The Love of the Last Tycoon and many more stories…. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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“My dear man, I have no illusions about you.”
“I mean your illusions about yourself.”
She looked up in surprise.
“About myself! What on earth have I got to do with whatever stray felonies you’ve committed?”
“That remains to be seen.”
She reached over and patted his hand.
“Dear Mr. Curtis Carlyle,” she said softly, “are you in love with me?”
“As if it mattered.”
“But it does—because I think I’m in love with you.”
He looked at her ironically.
“Thus swelling your January total to half a dozen,” he suggested. “Suppose I call your bluff and ask you to come to India with me?”
“Shall I?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“We can get married in Callao.”
“What sort of life can you offer me? I don’t mean that unkindly, but seriously; what would become of me if the people who want that twenty-thousand-dollar reward ever catch up with you?”
“I thought you weren’t afraid.”
“I never am—but I won’t throw my life away just to show one man I’m not.”
“I wish you’d been poor. Just a little poor girl dreaming over a fence in a warm cow country.”
“Wouldn’t it have been nice?”
“I’d have enjoyed astonishing you—watching your eyes open on things. If you only wanted things! Don’t you see?”
“I know—like girls who stare into the windows of jewelry-stores.”
“Yes—and want the big oblong watch that’s platinum and has diamonds all round the edge. Only you’d decide it was too expensive and choose one of white gold for a hundred dollar. Then I’d say: ‘Expensive? I should say not!’ And we’d go into the store and pretty soon the platinum one would be gleaming on your wrist.”
“That sounds so nice and vulgar—and fun, doesn’t it?” murmured Ardita.
“Doesn’t it? Can’t you see us travelling round and spending money right and left, and being worshipped by bell-boys and waiters? Oh, blessed are the simple rich for they inherit the earth!”
“I honestly wish we were that way.”
“I love you, Ardita,” he said gently.
Her face lost its childish look for moment and became oddly grave.
“I love to be with you,” she said, “more than with any man I’ve ever met. And I like your looks and your dark old hair, and the way you go over the side of the rail when we come ashore. In fact, Curtis Carlyle, I like all the things you do when you’re perfectly natural. I think you’ve got nerve and you know how I feel about that. Sometimes when you’re around I’ve been tempted to kiss you suddenly and tell you that you were just an idealistic boy with a lot of caste nonsense in his head.
Perhaps if I were just a little bit older and a little more bored I’d go with you. As it is, I think I’ll go back and marry—that other man.”
Over across the silver lake the figures of the negroes writhed and squirmed in the moonlight like acrobats who, having been too long inactive, must go through their tacks from sheer surplus energy. In single file they marched, weaving in concentric circles, now with their heads thrown back, now bent over their instruments like piping fauns. And from trombone and saxaphone ceaselessly whined a blended melody, sometimes riotous and jubilant, sometimes haunting and plaintive as a death-dance from the Congo’s heart.
“Let’s dance,” cried Ardita. “I can’t sit still with that perfect jazz going on.”
Taking her hand he led her out into a broad stretch of hard sandy soil that the moon flooded with great splendor. They floated out like drifting moths under the rich hazy light, and as the fantastic symphony wept and exulted and wavered and despaired Ardita’s last sense of reality dropped away, and she abandoned her imagination to the dreamy summer scents of tropical flowers and the infinite starry spaces overhead, feeling that if she opened her eyes it would be to find herself dancing with a ghost in a land created by her own fancy.
“This is what I should call an exclusive private dance,” he whispered.
“I feel quite mad—but delightfully mad!”
“We’re enchanted. The shades of unnumbered generations of cannibals are watching us from high up on the side of the cliff there.”
“And I’ll bet the cannibal women are saying that we dance too close, and that it was immodest of me to come without my nose-ring.”
They both laughed softly—and then their laughter died as over across the lake they heard the trombones stop in the middle of a bar, and the saxaphones give a startled moan and fade out.
“What’s the matter?” called Carlyle.
After a moment’s silence they made out the dark figure of a man rounding the silver lake at a run. As he came closer they saw it was Babe in a state of unusual excitement. He drew up before them and gasped out his news in a breath.
“Ship stan’in’ off sho’ ‘bout half a mile suh. Mose, he uz on watch, he say look’s if she’s done ancho’d.”
“A ship—what kind of a ship?” demanded Carlyle anxiously.
Dismay was in his voice, and Ardita’s heart gave a sudden wrench as she saw his whole face suddenly droop.
“He say he don’t know, suh.”
“Are they landing a boat?”
“No, suh.”
“We’ll go up,” said Carlyle.
They ascended the hill in silence, Ardita’s hand still resting in Carlyle’s as it had when they finished dancing. She felt it clinch nervously from time to time as though he were unaware of the contact, but though he hurt her she made no attempt to remove it. It seemed an hour’s climb before they reached the top and crept cautiously across the silhouetted plateau to the edge of the cliff. After one short look Carlyle involuntarily gave a little cry. It was a revenue boat with six-inch guns mounted fore and aft.
“They know!” he said with a short intake of breath. “They know! They picked up the trail somewhere.”
“Are you sure they know about the channel? They may be only standing by to take a look at the island in the morning. From where they are they couldn’t see the opening in the cliff.”
“They could with field-glasses,” he said hopelessly. He looked at his wrist-watch. “It’s nearly two now. They won’t do anything until dawn, that’s certain. Of course there’s always the faint possibility that they’re waiting for some other ship to join; or for a coaler.”
“I suppose we may as well stay right here.”
The hour passed and they lay there side by side, very silently, their chins in their hands like dreaming children. In back of them squatted the negroes, patient, resigned, acquiescent, announcing now and then with sonorous snores that not even the presence of danger could subdue their unconquerable African craving for sleep.
Just before five o’clock Babe approached Carlyle. There were half a dozen rifles aboard the Narcissus he said. Had it been decided to offer no resistance?
A pretty good fight might be made, he thought, if they worked out some plan.
Carlyle laughed and shook his head.
“That