THE COMPLETE WORKS OF F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

he never displayed but at which she guessed. This excitement about things reached an intensity out of proportion to their importance, generating a really extraordinary virtuosity with people. Save among a few of the tough-minded and perennially suspicious, he had the power of arousing a fascinated and uncritical love. The reaction came when he realized the waste and extravagance involved. He sometimes looked back with awe at the carnivals of affection he had given, as a general might gaze upon a massacre he had ordered to satisfy an impersonal blood lust.

      But to be included in Dick Diver’s world for a while was a remarkable experience: people believed he made special reservations about them, recognizing the proud uniqueness of their destinies, buried under the compromises of how many years. He won everyone quickly with an exquisite consideration and a politeness that moved so fast and intuitively that it could be examined only in its effect. Then, without caution, lest the first bloom of the relation wither, he opened the gate to his amusing world. So long as they subscribed to it completely, their happiness was his preoccupation, but at the first flicker of doubt as to its all-inclusiveness he evaporated before their eyes, leaving little communicable memory of what he had said or done.

      At eight-thirty that evening he came out to meet his first guests, his coat carried rather ceremoniously, rather promisingly, in his hand, like a toreador’s cape. It was characteristic that after greeting Rosemary and her mother he waited for them to speak first, as if to allow them the reassurance of their own voices in new surroundings.

      To resume Rosemary’s point of view it should be said that, under the spell of the climb to Tarmes and the fresher air, she and her mother looked about appreciatively. Just as the personal qualities of extraordinary people can make themselves plain in an unaccustomed change of expression, so the intensely calculated perfection of Villa Diana transpired all at once through such minute failures as the chance apparition of a maid in the background or the perversity of a cork. While the first guests arrived bringing with them the excitement of the night, the domestic activity of the day receded past them gently, symbolized by the Diver children and their governess still at supper on the terrace.

      “What a beautiful garden!” Mrs. Speers exclaimed.

      “Nicole’s garden,” said Dick. “She won’t let it alone — she nags it all the time, worries about its diseases. Any day now I expect to have her come down with Powdery Mildew or Fly Speck, or Late Blight.” He pointed his forefinger decisively at Rosemary, saying with a lightness seeming to conceal a paternal interest, “I’m going to save your reason — I’m going to give you a hat to wear on the beach.”

      He turned them from the garden to the terrace, where he poured a cocktail. Earl Brady arrived, discovering Rosemary with surprise. His manner was softer than at the studio, as if his differentness had been put on at the gate, and Rosemary, comparing him instantly with Dick Diver, swung sharply toward the latter. In comparison Earl Brady seemed faintly gross, faintly illbred; once more, though, she felt an electric response to his person.

      He spoke familiarly to the children who were getting up from their outdoor supper.

      “Hello, Lanier, how about a song? Will you and Topsy sing me a song?”

      “What shall we sing?” agreed the little boy, with the odd chanting accent of American children brought up in France.

      “That song about ‘Mon Ami Pierrot.’”

      Brother and sister stood side by side without selfconsciousness and their voices soared sweet and shrill upon the evening air.

      “Au clair de la lune

       Mon Ami Pierrot

       Prête-moi ta plume

       Pour écrire un mot

       Ma chandelle est morte

       Je n’ai plus de feu

       Ouvre-moi ta porte

       Pour l’amour de Dieu.”

      The singing ceased and the children, their faces aglow with the late sunshine, stood smiling calmly at their success. Rosemary was thinking that the Villa Diana was the centre of the world. On such a stage some memorable thing was sure to happen. She lighted up higher as the gate tinkled open and the rest of the guests arrived in a body — the McKiscos, Mrs. Abrams, Mr. Dumphry, and Mr. Campion came up to the terrace.

      Rosemary had a sharp feeling of disappointment — she looked quickly at Dick, as though to ask an explanation of this incongruous mingling. But there was nothing unusual in his expression. He greeted his new guests with a proud bearing and an obvious deference to their infinite and unknown possibilities. She believed in him so much that presently she accepted the rightness of the McKiscos’ presence as if she had expected to meet them all along.

      “I’ve met you in Paris,” McKisco said to Abe North, who with his wife had arrived on their heels, “in fact I’ve met you twice.”

      “Yes, I remember,” Abe said.

      “Then where was it?” demanded McKisco, not content to let well enough alone.

      “Why, I think—” Abe got tired of the game, “I can’t remember.”

      The interchange filled a pause and Rosemary’s instinct was that something tactful should be said by somebody, but Dick made no attempt to break up the grouping formed by these late arrivals, not even to disarm Mrs. McKisco of her air of supercilious amusement. He did not solve this social problem because he knew it was not of importance at the moment and would solve itself. He was saving his newness for a larger effort, waiting a more significant moment for his guests to be conscious of a good time.

      Rosemary stood beside Tommy Barban — he was in a particularly scornful mood and there seemed to be some special stimulus working upon him. He was leaving in the morning.

      “Going home?”

      “Home? I have no home. I am going to a war.”

      “What war?”

      “What war? Any war. I haven’t seen a paper lately but I suppose there’s a war — there always is.”

      “Don’t you care what you fight for?”

      “Not at all — so long as I’m well treated. When I’m in a rut I come to see the Divers, because then I know that in a few weeks I’ll want to go to war.”

      Rosemary stiffened.

      “You like the Divers,” she reminded him.

      “Of course — especially her — but they make me want to go to war.”

      She considered this, to no avail. The Divers made her want to stay near them forever.

      “You’re half American,” she said, as if that should solve the problem.

      “Also I’m half French, and I was educated in England and since I was eighteen I’ve worn the uniforms of eight countries. But I hope I did not give you the impression that I am not fond of the Divers — I am, especially of Nicole.”

      “How could any one help it?” she said simply.

      She felt far from him. The undertone of his words repelled her and she withdrew her adoration for the Divers from the profanity of his bitterness. She was glad he was not next to her at dinner and she was still thinking of his words “especially her” as they moved toward the table in the garden.

      For a moment now she was beside Dick Diver on the path. Alongside his hard, neat brightness everything faded into the surety that he knew everything. For a year, which was forever, she had had money and a certain celebrity and contact with the celebrated, and these latter had presented themselves merely as powerful enlargements of the people with whom the doctor’s widow and her daughter had associated in a hôtel-pension in Paris. Rosemary was a romantic and her career had not provided many satisfactory opportunities on that score. Her mother, with the idea of a career for Rosemary, would not tolerate any such spurious substitutes as the excitations available on all sides, and indeed Rosemary