BABYLON REVISITED & OTHER TALES. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

you feel about it is beautiful to me.”

      “No, no, it’s not me, it’s them — that old time that I’ve tried to have live in me. These were just men, unimportant evidently or they wouldn’t have been ‘unknown’; but they died for the most beautiful thing in the world — the dead South. You see,” she continued, her voice still husky, her eyes glistening with tears, “people have these dreams they fasten onto things, and I’ve always grown up with that dream. It was so easy because it was all dead and there weren’t any disillusions comin’ to me. I’ve tried in a way to live up to those past standards of noblesse oblige — there’s just the last remnants of it, you know, like the roses of an old garden dying all round us — streaks of strange courtliness and chivalry in some of these boys an’ stories I used to hear from a Confederate soldier who lived next door, and a few old darkies. Oh, Harry, there was something, there was something! I couldn’t ever make you understand but it was there.”

      “I understand,” he assured her again quietly.

      Sally Carol smiled and dried her eyes on the tip of a handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket.

      “You don’t feel depressed, do you, lover? Even when I cry I’m happy here, and I get a sort of strength from it.”

      Hand in hand they turned and walked slowly away. Finding soft grass she drew him down to a seat beside her with their backs against the remnants of a low broken wall.

      “Wish those three old women would clear out,” he complained. “I want to kiss you, Sally Carrol.”

      “Me, too.”

      They waited impatiently for the three bent figures to move off, and then she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade out and all her smiles and tears to vanish in an ecstasy of eternal seconds.

      Afterward they walked slowly back together, while on the corners twilight played at somnolent black-and-white checkers with the end of day.

      “You’ll be up about mid-January,” he said, “and you’ve got to stay a month at least. It’ll be slick. There’s a winter carnival on, and if you’ve never really seen snow it’ll be like fairyland to you. There’ll be skating and skiing and tobogganing and sleigh-riding, and all sorts of torchlight parades on snow-shoes. They haven’t had one for years, so they’re gong to make it a knockout.”

      “Will I be cold, Harry?” she asked suddenly.

      “You certainly won’t. You may freeze your nose, but you won’t be shivery cold. It’s hard and dry, you know.”

      “I guess I’m a summer child. I don’t like any cold I’ve ever seen.”

      She broke off and they were both silent for a minute.

      “Sally Carol,” he said very slowly, “what do you say to — March?”

      “I say I love you.”

      “March?”

      “March, Harry.”

       III

      All night in the Pullman it was very cold. She rang for the porter to ask for another blanket, and when he couldn’t give her one she tried vainly, by squeezing down into the bottom of her berth and doubling back the bedclothes, to snatch a few hours’ sleep. She wanted to look her best in the morning.

      She rose at six and sliding uncomfortably into her clothes stumbled up to the diner for a cup of coffee. The snow had filtered into the vestibules and covered the door with a slippery coating. It was intriguing this cold, it crept in everywhere. Her breath was quite visible and she blew into the air with a naïve enjoyment. Seated in the diner she stared out the window at white hills and valleys and scattered pines whose every branch was a green platter for a cold feast of snow. Sometimes a solitary farmhouse would fly by, ugly and bleak and lone on the white waste; and with each one she had an instant of chill compassion for the souls shut in there waiting for spring.

      As she left the diner and swayed back into the Pullman she experienced a surging rush of energy and wondered if she was feeling the bracing air of which Harry had spoken. This was the North, the North — her land now!

      “Then blow, ye winds, heighho!. A-roving I will go,”

      she chanted exultantly to herself.

      “What’s ‘at?” inquired the porter politely.

      “I said: ‘Brush me off.’”

      The long wires of the telegraph poles doubled, two tracks ran up beside the train — three — four; came a succession of white-roofed houses, a glimpse of a trolley-car with frosted windows, streets — more streets — the city.

      She stood for a dazed moment in the frosty station before she saw three fur-bundled figures descending upon her.

      “There she is!”

      “Oh, Sally Carrol!”

      Sally Carrol dropped her bag.

      “Hi!”

      A faintly familiar icy-cold face kissed her, and then she was in a group of faces all apparently emitting great clouds of heavy smoke; she was shaking hands. There were Gordon, a short, eager man of thirty who looked like an amateur knocked-about model for Harry, and his wife, Myra, a listless lady with flaxen hair under a fur automobile cap. Almost immediately Sally Carrol thought of her as vaguely Scandinavian. A cheerful chauffeur adopted her bag, and amid ricochets of half-phrases, exclamations and perfunctory listless “my dears” from Myra, they swept each other from the station.

      Then they were in a sedan bound through a crooked succession of snowy streets where dozens of little boys were hitching sleds behind grocery wagons and automobiles.

      “Oh,” cried Sally Carrol, “I want to do that! Can we Harry?”

      “That’s for kids. But we might — —”

      “It looks like such a circus!” she said regretfully.

      Home was a rambling frame house set on a white lap of snow, and there she met a big, gray-haired man of whom she approved, and a lady who was like an egg, and who kissed her — these were Harry’s parents. There was a breathless indescribable hour crammed full of self-sentences, hot water, bacon and eggs and confusion; and after that she was alone with Harry in the library, asking him if she dared smoke.

      It was a large room with a Madonna over the fireplace and rows upon rows of books in covers of light gold and dark gold and shiny red. All the chairs had little lace squares where one’s head should rest, the couch was just comfortable, the books looked as if they had been read — some — and Sally Carrol had an instantaneous vision of the battered old library at home, with her father’s huge medical books, and the oil-paintings of her three great-uncles, and the old couch that had been mended up for forty-five years and was still luxurious to dream in. This room struck her as being neither attractive nor particularly otherwise. It was simply a room with a lot of fairly expensive things in it that all looked about fifteen years old.

      “What do you think of it up here?” demanded Harry eagerly. “Does it surprise you? Is it what you expected I mean?”

      “You are, Harry,” she said quietly, and reached out her arms to him.

      But after a brief kiss he seemed to extort enthusiasm from her.

      “The town, I mean. Do you like it? Can you feel the pep in the air?”

      “Oh, Harry,” she laughed, “you’ll have to give me time. You can’t just fling questions at me.”

      She puffed at her cigarette with a sigh of contentment.

      “One thing I want to ask you,” he began rather apologetically; “you Southerners put quite an emphasis on family, and all that — not that it isn’t quite all right, but you’ll find it a little different here. I mean — you’ll notice a lot of things that’ll seem to you sort of vulgar display at first, Sally Carrol; but