The Essential Fitzgerald - 45 Short Stories & Novels in One Edition. F. Scott Fitzgerald

said to Tom one night when they had grown more amicable on the subject, “that the people who violently disapprove of Burne’s radicalism are distinctly the Pharisee class—I mean they’re the best-educated men in college—the editors of the papers, like yourself and Ferrenby, the younger professors…. The illiterate athletes like Langueduc think he’s getting eccentric, but they just say, ‘Good old Burne has got some queer ideas in his head,’ and pass on—the Pharisee class—Gee! they ridicule him unmercifully.”

      The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a recitation.

      “Whither bound, Tsar?”

      “Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby,” he waved a copy of the morning’s Princetonian at Amory. “He wrote this editorial.”

      “Going to flay him alive?”

      “No—but he’s got me all balled up. Either I’ve misjudged him or he’s suddenly become the world’s worst radical.”

      Burne hurried on, and it was several days before Amory heard an account of the ensuing conversation. Burne had come into the editor’s sanctum displaying the paper cheerfully.

      “Hello, Jesse.”

      “Hello there, Savonarola.”

      “I just read your editorial.”

      “Good boy—didn’t know you stooped that low.”

      “Jesse, you startled me.”

      “How so?”

      “Aren’t you afraid the faculty’ll get after you if you pull this irreligious stuff?”

      “What?”

      “Like this morning.”

      “What the devil—that editorial was on the coaching system.”

      “Yes, but that quotation—”

      Jesse sat up.

      “What quotation?”

      “You know: ‘He who is not with me is against me.’”

      “Well—what about it?”

      Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed.

      “Well, you say here—let me see.” Burne opened the paper and read: “‘He who is not with me is against me, as that gentleman said who was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and puerile generalities.’”

      “What of it?” Ferrenby began to look alarmed. “Oliver Cromwell said it, didn’t he? or was it Washington, or one of the saints? Good Lord, I’ve forgotten.”

      Burne roared with laughter.

      “Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse.”

      “Who said it, for Pete’s sake?”

      “Well,” said Burne, recovering his voice, “St. Matthew attributes it to Christ.”

      “My God!” cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the wastebasket.

      AMORY WRITES A POEM

      The weeks tore by. Amory wandered occasionally to New York on the chance of finding a new shining green auto-bus, that its stick-of-candy glamour might penetrate his disposition. One day he ventured into a stock-company revival of a play whose name was faintly familiar. The curtain rose—he watched casually as a girl entered. A few phrases rang in his ear and touched a faint chord of memory. Where—? When—?

      Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very soft, vibrant voice: “Oh, I’m such a poor little fool; do tell me when I do wrong.”

      The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of Isabelle.

      He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble rapidly:

      “Here in the figured dark I watch once more,

      There, with the curtain, roll the years away;

      Two years of years—there was an idle day

      Of ours, when happy endings didn’t bore

      Our unfermented souls; I could adore

      Your eager face beside me, wide-eyed, gay,

      Smiling a repertoire while the poor play

      Reached me as a faint ripple reaches shore.

      “Yawning and wondering an evening through,

      I watch alone… and chatterings, of course,

      Spoil the one scene which, somehow, did have charms;

      You wept a bit, and I grew sad for you

      Right here! Where Mr. X defends divorce

      And What’s-Her-Name falls fainting in his arms.”

      STILL CALM

      “Ghosts are such dumb things,” said Alec, “they’re slow-witted. I can always outguess a ghost.”

      “How?” asked Tom.

      “Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use any discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom.”

      “Go on, s’pose you think there’s maybe a ghost in your bedroom—what measures do you take on getting home at night?” demanded Amory, interested.

      “Take a stick” answered Alec, with ponderous reverence, “one about the length of a broom-handle. Now, the first thing to do is to get the room cleared—to do this you rush with your eyes closed into your study and turn on the lights—next, approaching the closet, carefully run the stick in the door three or four times. Then, if nothing happens, you can look in. Always, always run the stick in viciously first—never look first!”

      “Of course, that’s the ancient Celtic school,” said Tom gravely.

      “Yes—but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to clear the closets and also for behind all doors—”

      “And the bed,” Amory suggested.

      “Oh, Amory, no!” cried Alec in horror. “That isn’t the way—the bed requires different tactics—let the bed alone, as you value your reason—if there is a ghost in the room and that’s only about a third of the time, it is almost always under the bed.”

      “Well” Amory began.

      Alec waved him into silence.

      “Of course you never look. You stand in the middle of the floor and before he knows what you’re going to do make a sudden leap for the bed—never walk near the bed; to a ghost your ankle is your most vulnerable part—once in bed, you’re safe; he may lie around under the bed all night, but you’re safe as daylight. If you still have doubts pull the blanket over your head.”

      “All that’s very interesting, Tom.”

      “Isn’t it?” Alec beamed proudly. “All my own, too—the Sir Oliver Lodge of the new world.”

      Amory was enjoying college immensely again. The sense of going forward in a direct, determined line had come back; youth was stirring and shaking out a few new feathers. He had even stored enough surplus energy to sally into a new pose.

      “What’s the idea of all this ‘distracted’ stuff, Amory?” asked Alec one day, and then as Amory pretended to be cramped over his book in a daze: “Oh, don’t try to act Burne, the mystic, to me.”

      Amory looked up innocently.

      “What?”

      “What?” mimicked Alec. “Are you trying to read yourself into a rhapsody with—let’s see the book.”