CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles 11 page

switches on the lights. It is CECELIA. She goes to the chiffonier,

looks in the drawers, hesitates--then to the desk whence she takes the

cigarette-case and extracts one. She lights it and then, puffing and

blowing, walks toward the mirror.)

CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming out

is _such_ a farce nowadays, you know. One really plays around so much

before one is seventeen, that it's positively anticlimax. (Shaking hands

with a visionary middle-aged nobleman.) Yes, your grace--I b'lieve

I've heard my sister speak of you. Have a puff--they're very good.

They're--they're Coronas. You don't smoke? What a pity! The king doesn't

allow it, I suppose. Yes, I'll dance.

(So she dances around the room to a tune from down-stairs, her arms

outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand.)

*****

SEVERAL HOURS LATER

The corner of a den down-stairs, filled by a very comfortable leather

lounge. A small light is on each side above, and in the middle, over the

couch hangs a painting of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period

1860. Outside the music is heard in a fox-trot.

ROSALIND is seated on the lounge and on her left is HOWARD GILLESPIE, a

vapid youth of about twenty-four. He is obviously very unhappy, and she

is quite bored.

GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I've changed. I feel the same

toward you.

ROSALIND: But you don't look the same to me.

GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I

was so blasй, so indifferent--I still am.

ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown

eyes and thin legs.

GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They're still thin and brown. You're a vampire,

that's all.

ROSALIND: The only thing I know about vamping is what's on the piano

score. What confuses men is that I'm perfectly natural. I used to think

you were never jealous. Now you follow me with your eyes wherever I go.

GILLESPIE: I love you.

ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it.

GILLESPIE: And you haven't kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that

after a girl was kissed she was--was--won.

ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every

time you see me.

GILLESPIE: Are you serious?

ROSALIND: About as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses: First

when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now

there's a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr.

Jones of the nineties bragged he'd kissed a girl, every one knew he was

through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same every one knows

it's because he can't kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl

can beat a man nowadays.

GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men?

ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment, when

he's interested. There is a moment--Oh, just before the first kiss, a

whispered word--something that makes it worth while.

GILLESPIE: And then?

ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty soon

he thinks of nothing but being alone with you--he sulks, he won't fight,

he doesn't want to play--Victory!

(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own,

a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.)

RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind.

ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven't got

too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie.

(They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.)

RYDER: Your party is certainly a success.

ROSALIND: Is it--I haven't seen it lately. I'm weary--Do you mind

sitting out a minute?

RYDER: Mind--I'm delighted. You know I loathe this "rushing" idea. See a

girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow.

ROSALIND: Dawson!

RYDER: What?

ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me.

RYDER: (Startled) What--Oh--you know you're remarkable!

ROSALIND: Because you know I'm an awful proposition. Any one who marries

me will have his hands full. I'm mean--mighty mean.

RYDER: Oh, I wouldn't say that.

ROSALIND: Oh, yes, I am--especially to the people nearest to me. (She

rises.) Come, let's go. I've changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother

is probably having a fit.

(Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.)

CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission.

ALEC: (Gloomily) I'll go if you want me to.

CECELIA: Good heavens, no--with whom would I begin the next dance?

(Sighs.) There's no color in a dance since the French officers went

back.

ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don't want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind.

CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want.

ALEC: I did, but since seeing these girls--I don't know. I'm awfully

attached to Amory. He's sensitive and I don't want him to break his

heart over somebody who doesn't care about him.

CECELIA: He's very good looking.

ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won't marry him, but a girl doesn't have

to marry a man to break his heart.

CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret.

ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It's lucky for some that the

Lord gave you a pug nose.

(Enter MRS. CONNAGE.)

MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind?

ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you've come to the best people to find

out. She'd naturally be with us.

MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to

meet her.

ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls.

MRS. CONNAGE: I'm perfectly serious--for all I know she may be at the

Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her debut. You

look left and I'll--

ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn't you better send the butler through the cellar?

MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don't think she'd be there?

CECELIA: He's only joking, mother.

ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high

hurdler.

MRS. CONNAGE: Let's look right away.

(They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.)

GILLESPIE: Rosalind--Once more I ask you. Don't you care a blessed thing

about me?

(AMORY walks in briskly.)

AMORY: My dance.

ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine.

GILLESPIE: I've met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren't you?

AMORY: Yes.

GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I've been there. It's in the--the Middle West,

isn't it?

AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I'd rather be

provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning.

GILLESPIE: What!

AMORY: Oh, no offense.

(GILLESPIE bows and leaves.)

ROSALIND: He's too much _people_.

AMORY: I was in love with a _people_ once.

ROSALIND: So?

AMORY: Oh, yes--her name was Isabelle--nothing at all to her except what

I read into her.

ROSALIND: What happened?

AMORY: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was--then she

threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, you know.

ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical?

AMORY: Oh--drive a car, but can't change a tire.

ROSALIND: What are you going to do?

AMORY: Can't say--run for President, write--

ROSALIND: Greenwich Village?

AMORY: Good heavens, no--I said write--not drink.

ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely.

AMORY: I feel as if I'd known you for ages.

ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the "pyramid" story?

AMORY: No--I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you were

one of my--my--(Changing his tone.) Suppose--we fell in love.

ROSALIND: I've suggested pretending.

AMORY: If we did it would be very big.

ROSALIND: Why?

AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great

loves.

ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend.

(Very deliberately they kiss.)

AMORY: I can't say sweet things. But you _are_ beautiful.

ROSALIND: Not that.

AMORY: What then?

ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing--only I want sentiment, real

sentiment--and I never find it.

AMORY: I never find anything else in the world--and I loathe it.

ROSALIND: It's so hard to find a male to gratify one's artistic taste.

(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the

room. ROSALIND rises.)

ROSALIND: Listen! they're playing "Kiss Me Again."

(He looks at her.)

AMORY: Well?

ROSALIND: Well?

AMORY: (Softly--the battle lost) I love you.

ROSALIND: I love you--now.

(They kiss.)

AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done?

ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don't talk. Kiss me again.

AMORY: I don't know why or how, but I love you--from the moment I saw

you.

ROSALIND: Me too--I--I--oh, to-night's to-night.

(Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: "Oh,

excuse me," and goes.)

ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don't let me go--I don't care who

knows what I do.

AMORY: Say it!

ROSALIND: I love you--now. (They part.) Oh--I am very youthful, thank

God--and rather beautiful, thank God--and happy, thank God, thank

God--(She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, adds) Poor

Amory!

(He kisses her again.)

*****

KISMET

Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately in

love. The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of them a dozen

romances were dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over them.

"It may be an insane love-affair," she told her anxious mother, "but

it's not inane."

The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March, where

he alternated between astonishing bursts of rather exceptional work and

wild dreams of becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind.

They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly every

evening--always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they feared that any

minute the spell would break and drop them out of this paradise of rose

and flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase from day

to day; they began to talk of marrying in July--in June. All life was

transmitted into terms of their love, all experience, all desires, all

ambitions, were nullified--their senses of humor crawled into corners to

sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely

regretted juvenalia.

For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement

and was hurrying into line with his generation.

*****

A LITTLE INTERLUDE

Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as

inevitably his--the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets

... it seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last

and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these

countless lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing--he

moved in a half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind

hurrying toward him with eager feet from every corner.... How the

unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps,

a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be

more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even

his dreams now were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the

summer air.

The room was in darkness except for the faint glow of Tom's cigarette

where he lounged by the open window. As the door shut behind him, Amory

stood a moment with his back against it.

"Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business to-day?"

Amory sprawled on a couch.

"I loathed it as usual!" The momentary vision of the bustling agency was

displaced quickly by another picture.

"My God! She's wonderful!"

Tom sighed.

"I can't tell you," repeated Amory, "just how wonderful she is. I don't

want you to know. I don't want any one to know."

Another sigh came from the window--quite a resigned sigh.

"She's life and hope and happiness, my whole world now."

He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid.

"Oh, _Golly_, Tom!"

*****

BITTER SWEET

"Sit like we do," she whispered.

He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle

inside them.

"I knew you'd come to-night," she said softly, "like summer, just when I

needed you most... darling... darling..."

His lips moved lazily over her face.

"You _taste_ so good," he sighed.

"How do you mean, lover?"

"Oh, just sweet, just sweet..." he held her closer.

"Amory," she whispered, "when you're ready for me I'll marry you."

"We won't have much at first."

"Don't!" she cried. "It hurts when you reproach yourself for what you

can't give me. I've got your precious self--and that's enough for me."

"Tell me..."

"You know, don't you? Oh, you know."

"Yes, but I want to hear you say it."

"I love you, Amory, with all my heart."

"Always, will you?"

"All my life--Oh, Amory--"

"What?"

"I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to

have your babies."

"But I haven't any people."

"Don't laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me."

"I'll do what you want," he said.

"No, I'll do what _you_ want. We're _you_--not me. Oh, you're so much a

part, so much all of me..."

He closed his eyes.

"I'm so happy that I'm frightened. Wouldn't it be awful if this was--was

the high point?..."

She looked at him dreamily.

"Beauty and love pass, I know.... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose

all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and

then the death of roses--"

"Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony...."

"And, Amory, we're beautiful, I know. I'm sure God loves us--"

"He loves you. You're his most precious possession."

"I'm not his, I'm yours. Amory, I belong to you. For the first time I

regret all the other kisses; now I know how much a kiss can mean."

Then they would smoke and he would tell her about his day at the

office--and where they might live. Sometimes, when he was particularly

loquacious, she went to sleep in his arms, but he loved that

Rosalind--all Rosalinds--as he had never in the world loved any one

else. Intangibly fleeting, unrememberable hours.

*****

AQUATIC INCIDENT

One day Amory and Howard Gillespie meeting by accident down-town took

lunch together, and Amory heard a story that delighted him. Gillespie

after several cocktails was in a talkative mood; he began by telling

Amory that he was sure Rosalind was slightly eccentric.

He had gone with her on a swimming party up in Westchester County, and

some one mentioned that Annette Kellerman had been there one day on a

visit and had dived from the top of a rickety, thirty-foot summer-house.

Immediately Rosalind insisted that Howard should climb up with her to

see what it looked like.

A minute later, as he sat and dangled his feet on the edge, a form shot

by him; Rosalind, her arms spread in a beautiful swan dive, had sailed

through the air into the clear water.

"Of course _I_ had to go, after that--and I nearly killed myself. I

thought I was pretty good to even try it. Nobody else in the party tried

it. Well, afterward Rosalind had the nerve to ask me why I stooped over

when I dove. 'It didn't make it any easier,' she said, 'it just took all

the courage out of it.' I ask you, what can a man do with a girl like

that? Unnecessary, I call it."

Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly all

through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow optimists.

*****

FIVE WEEKS LATER

Again the library of the Connage house. ROSALIND is alone, sitting

on the lounge staring very moodily and unhappily at nothing. She has

changed perceptibly--she is a trifle thinner for one thing; the light in

her eyes is not so bright; she looks easily a year older.

Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in ROSALIND

with a nervous glance.

MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night?

(ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.)

MRS. CONNAGE: Alec is coming up to take me to this Barrie play, "Et tu,

Brutus." (She perceives that she is talking to herself.) Rosalind! I

asked you who is coming to-night?

ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh--what--oh--Amory--

MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so _many_ admirers lately that I

couldn't imagine _which_ one. (ROSALIND doesn't answer.) Dawson Ryder

is more patient than I thought he'd be. You haven't given him an evening

this week.

ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her face.)

Mother--please--

MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, _I_ won't interfere. You've already wasted over two

months on a theoretical genius who hasn't a penny to his name, but _go_

ahead, waste your life on him. _I_ won't interfere.

ROSALIND: (As if repeating a tiresome lesson) You know he has a

little income--and you know he's earning thirty-five dollars a week in

advertising--

MRS. CONNAGE: And it wouldn't buy your clothes. (She pauses but ROSALIND

makes no reply.) I have your best interests at heart when I tell you not

to take a step you'll spend your days regretting. It's not as if your

father could help you. Things have been hard for him lately and he's an

old man. You'd be dependent absolutely on a dreamer, a nice, well-born

boy, but a dreamer--merely _clever_. (She implies that this quality in

itself is rather vicious.)

ROSALIND: For heaven's sake, mother--

(A maid appears, announces Mr. Blaine who follows immediately. AMORY'S

friends have been telling him for ten days that he "looks like the wrath

of God," and he does. As a matter of fact he has not been able to eat a

mouthful in the last thirty-six hours.)

AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage.

MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory.

(AMORY and ROSALIND exchange glances--and ALEC comes in. ALEC'S attitude

throughout has been neutral. He believes in his heart that the marriage

would make AMORY mediocre and ROSALIND miserable, but he feels a great

sympathy for both of them.)

ALEC: Hi, Amory!

AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he'd meet you at the theatre.

ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How's the advertising to-day? Write some

brilliant copy?

AMORY: Oh, it's about the same. I got a raise--(Every one looks at him

rather eagerly)--of two dollars a week. (General collapse.)

MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car.

(A good night, rather chilly in sections. After MRS. CONNAGE and ALEC

go out there is a pause. ROSALIND still stares moodily at the fireplace.

AMORY goes to her and puts his arm around her.)

AMORY: Darling girl.

(They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it with

kisses and holds it to her breast.)

ROSALIND: (Sadly) I love your hands, more than anything. I see them

often when you're away from me--so tired; I know every line of them.

Dear hands!

(Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry--a tearless

sobbing.)

AMORY: Rosalind!

ROSALIND: Oh, we're so darned pitiful!

AMORY: Rosalind!

ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die!

AMORY: Rosalind, another night of this and I'll go to pieces. You've

been this way four days now. You've got to be more encouraging or I

can't work or eat or sleep. (He looks around helplessly as if searching

for new words to clothe an old, shopworn phrase.) We'll have to make a

start. I like having to make a start together. (His forced hopefulness

fades as he sees her unresponsive.) What's the matter? (He gets up

suddenly and starts to pace the floor.) It's Dawson Ryder, that's what

it is. He's been working on your nerves. You've been with him every

afternoon for a week. People come and tell me they've seen you together,

and I have to smile and nod and pretend it hasn't the slightest

significance for me. And you won't tell me anything as it develops.

ROSALIND: Amory, if you don't sit down I'll scream.

AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord.

ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don't you?

AMORY: Yes.

ROSALIND: You know I'll always love you--

AMORY: Don't talk that way; you frighten me. It sounds as if we weren't

going to have each other. (She cries a little and rising from the couch

goes to the armchair.) I've felt all afternoon that things were worse.

I nearly went wild down at the office--couldn't write a line. Tell me

everything.

ROSALIND: There's nothing to tell, I say. I'm just nervous.

AMORY: Rosalind, you're playing with the idea of marrying Dawson Ryder.

ROSALIND: (After a pause) He's been asking me to all day.

AMORY: Well, he's got his nerve!

ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him.

AMORY: Don't say that. It hurts me.

ROSALIND: Don't be a silly idiot. You know you're the only man I've ever

loved, ever will love.

AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let's get married--next week.

ROSALIND: We can't.

AMORY: Why not?

ROSALIND: Oh, we can't. I'd be your squaw--in some horrible place.

AMORY: We'll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month all told.

ROSALIND: Darling, I don't even do my own hair, usually.

AMORY: I'll do it for you.

ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks.

AMORY: Rosalind, you _can't_ be thinking of marrying some one else. Tell

me! You leave me in the dark. I can help you fight it out if you'll only

tell me.

ROSALIND: It's just--us. We're pitiful, that's all. The very qualities I

love you for are the ones that will always make you a failure.

AMORY: (Grimly) Go on.

ROSALIND: Oh--it _is_ Dawson Ryder. He's so reliable, I almost feel that

he'd be a--a background.

AMORY: You don't love him.

ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he's a good man and a strong

one.

AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes--he's that.

ROSALIND: Well--here's one little thing. There was a little poor boy we

met in Rye Tuesday afternoon--and, oh, Dawson took him on his lap

and talked to him and promised him an Indian suit--and next day he

remembered and bought it--and, oh, it was so sweet and I couldn't help

thinking he'd be so nice to--to our children--take care of them--and I

wouldn't have to worry.

AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind!

ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don't look so consciously

suffering.

AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other!

ROSALIND: (Commencing to sob again) It's been so perfect--you and I. So

like a dream that I'd longed for and never thought I'd find. The first

real unselfishness I've ever felt in my life. And I can't see it fade

out in a colorless atmosphere!

AMORY: It won't--it won't!

ROSALIND: I'd rather keep it as a beautiful memory--tucked away in my

heart.

AMORY: Yes, women can do that--but not men. I'd remember always, not

the beauty of it while it lasted, but just the bitterness, the long

bitterness.

ROSALIND: Don't!

AMORY: All the years never to see you, never to kiss you, just a gate

shut and barred--you don't dare be my wife.

ROSALIND: No--no--I'm taking the hardest course, the strongest course.

Marrying you would be a failure and I never fail--if you don't stop

walking up and down I'll scream!

(Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.)

AMORY: Come over here and kiss me.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 520