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

      “It’s not a decision I can make for myself,” said Dick. “Nicole is not strong.” He made his decision but pretended to hesitate. “I can put it up to my professional associate.”

      “What your associate says goes with me — very well, Doctor. Let me tell you my debt to you is so large—”

      Dick stood up quickly.

      “I’ll let you know the result through Doctor Dangeu.”

      In his room he called the clinic on the Zugersee. After a long time Kaethe answered from her own house.

      “I want to get in touch with Franz.”

      “Franz is up on the mountain. I’m going up myself — is it something I can tell him, Dick?”

      “It’s about Nicole — her father is dying here in Lausanne. Tell Franz that, to show him it’s important; and ask him to phone me from up there.”

      “I will.”

      “Tell him I’ll be in my room here at the hotel from three to five, and again from seven to eight, and after that to page me in the dining-room.”

      In plotting these hours he forgot to add that Nicole was not to be told; when he remembered it he was talking into a dead telephone. Certainly Kaethe should realize.

      … Kaethe had no exact intention of telling Nicole about the call when she rode up the deserted hill of mountain wild-flowers and secret winds, where the patients were taken to ski in winter and to climb in spring. Getting off the train she saw Nicole shepherding the children through some organized romp. Approaching, she drew her arm gently along Nicole’s shoulder, saying: “You are clever with children — you must teach them more about swimming in the summer.”

      In the play they had grown hot, and Nicole’s reflex in drawing away from Kaethe’s arm was automatic to the point of rudeness. Kaethe’s hand fell awkwardly into space, and then she too reacted, verbally, and deplorably.

      “Did you think I was going to embrace you?” she demanded sharply. “It was only about Dick, I talked on the phone to him and I was sorry—”

      “Is anything the matter with Dick?”

      Kaethe suddenly realized her error, but she had taken a tactless course and there was no choice but to answer as Nicole pursued her with reiterated questions: “… then why were you sorry?”

      “Nothing about Dick. I must talk to Franz.”

      “It is about Dick.”

      There was terror in her face and collaborating alarm in the faces of the Diver children, near at hand. Kaethe collapsed with: “Your father is ill in Lausanne — Dick wants to talk to Franz about it.”

      “Is he very sick?” Nicole demanded — just as Franz came up with his hearty hospital manner. Gratefully Kaethe passed the remnant of the buck to him — but the damage was done.

      “I’m going to Lausanne,” announced Nicole.

      “One minute,” said Franz. “I’m not sure it’s advisable. I must first talk on the phone to Dick.”

      “Then I’ll miss the train down,” Nicole protested, “and then I’ll miss the three o’clock from Zurich! If my father is dying I must—” She left this in the air, afraid to formulate it. “I must go. I’ll have to run for the train.” She was running even as she spoke toward the sequence of flat cars that crowned the bare hill with bursting steam and sound. Over her shoulder she called back, “If you phone Dick tell him I’m coming, Franz!” …

      … Dick was in his own room in the hotel reading The New York Herald when the swallow-like nun rushed in — simultaneously the phone rang.

      “Is he dead?” Dick demanded of the nun, hopefully.

      “Monsieur, il est parti — he has gone away.”

      “Comment?”

      “Il est parti — his man and his baggage have gone away too!”

      It was incredible. A man in that condition to arise and depart.

      Dick answered the phone-call from Franz. “You shouldn’t have told Nicole,” he protested.

      “Kaethe told her, very unwisely.”

      “I suppose it was my fault. Never tell a thing to a woman till it’s done. However, I’ll meet Nicole … say, Franz, the craziest thing has happened down here — the old boy took up his bed and walked… .”

      “At what? What did you say?”

      “I say he walked, old Warren — he walked!”

      “But why not?”

      “He was supposed to be dying of general collapse … he got up and walked away, back to Chicago, I guess… . I don’t know, the nurse is here now… . I don’t know, Franz — I’ve just heard about it… . Call me later.”

      He spent the better part of two hours tracing Warren’s movements. The patient had found an opportunity between the change of day and night nurses to resort to the bar where he had gulped down four whiskeys; he paid his hotel bill with a thousand dollar note, instructing the desk that the change should be sent after him, and departed, presumably for America. A last minute dash by Dick and Dangeu to overtake him at the station resulted only in Dick’s failing to meet Nicole; when they did meet in the lobby of the hotel she seemed suddenly tired, and there was a tight purse to her lips that disquieted him.

      “How’s father?” she demanded.

      “He’s much better. He seemed to have a good deal of reserve energy after all.” He hesitated, breaking it to her easy. “In fact he got up and went away.”

      Wanting a drink, for the chase had occupied the dinner hour, he led her, puzzled, toward the grill, and continued as they occupied two leather easychairs and ordered a highball and a glass of beer: “The man who was taking care of him made a wrong prognosis or something — wait a minute, I’ve hardly had time to think the thing out myself.”

      “He’s gone?”

      “He got the evening train for Paris.”

      They sat silent. From Nicole flowed a vast tragic apathy.

      “It was instinct,” Dick said, finally. “He was really dying, but he tried to get a resumption of rhythm — he’s not the first person that ever walked off his deathbed — like an old clock — you know, you shake it and somehow from sheer habit it gets going again. Now your father—”

      “Oh, don’t tell me,” she said.

      “His principal fuel was fear,” he continued. “He got afraid, and off he went. He’ll probably live till ninety—”

      “Please don’t tell me any more,” she said. “Please don’t — I couldn’t stand any more.”

      “All right. The little devil I came down to see is hopeless. We may as well go back tomorrow.”

      “I don’t see why you have to — come in contact with all this,” she burst forth.

      “Oh, don’t you? Sometimes I don’t either.”

      She put her hand on his.

      “Oh, I’m sorry I said that, Dick.”

      Some one had brought a phonograph into the bar and they sat listening to The Wedding of the Painted Doll.

      III

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      One morning a week later, stopping at the desk