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

love hope in its own survival. It could do no more.

      It was then that a new note separated itself jarringly from the soft crying of the night. It was a noise from an areaway within a hundred feet from his rear window, the noise of a woman’s laughter. It began low, incessant and whining — some servant-maid with her fellow, he thought — and then it grew in volume and became hysterical, until it reminded him of a girl he had seen overcome with nervous laughter at a vaudeville performance. Then it sank, receded, only to rise again and include words — a coarse joke, some bit of obscure horseplay he could not distinguish. It would break off for a moment and he would just catch the low rumble of a man’s voice, then begin again — interminably; at first annoying, then strangely terrible. He shivered, and getting up out of bed went to the window. It had reached a high point, tensed and stifled, almost the quality of a scream — then it ceased and left behind it a silence empty and menacing as the greater silence overhead. Anthony stood by the window a moment longer before he returned to his bed. He found himself upset and shaken. Try as he might to strangle his reaction, some animal quality in that unrestrained laughter had grasped at his imagination, and for the first time in four months aroused his old aversion and horror toward all the business of life. The room had grown smothery. He wanted to be out in some cool and bitter breeze, miles above the cities, and to live serene and detached back in the corners of his mind. Life was that sound out there, that ghastly reiterated female sound.

      “Oh, my God!” he cried, drawing in his breath sharply.

      Burying his face in the pillows he tried in vain to concentrate upon the details of the next day.

       MORNING

      In the gray light he found that it was only five o’clock. He regretted nervously that he had awakened so early — he would appear fagged at the wedding. He envied Gloria who could hide her fatigue with careful pigmentation.

      In his bathroom he contemplated himself in the mirror and saw that he was unusually white — half a dozen small imperfections stood out against the morning pallor of his complexion, and overnight he had grown the faint stubble of a beard — the general effect, he fancied, was unprepossessing, haggard, half unwell.

      On his dressing table were spread a number of articles which he told over carefully with suddenly fumbling fingers — their tickets to California, the book of traveller’s checks, his watch, set to the half minute, the key to his apartment, which he must not forget to give to Maury, and, most important of all, the ring. It was of platinum set around with small emeralds; Gloria had insisted on this; she had always wanted an emerald wedding ring, she said.

      It was the third present he had given her; first had come the engagement ring, and then a little gold cigarette-case. He would be giving her many things now — clothes and jewels and friends and excitement. It seemed absurd that from now on he would pay for all her meals. It was going to cost: he wondered if he had not underestimated for this trip, and if he had not better cash a larger check. The question worried him.

      Then the breathless impendency of the event swept his mind clear of details. This was the day — unsought, unsuspected six months before, but now breaking in yellow light through his east window, dancing along the carpet as though the sun were smiling at some ancient and reiterated gag of his own.

      Anthony laughed in a nervous one-syllable snort.

      “By God!” he muttered to himself, “I’m as good as married!”

       THE USHERS

      Six young men in CROSS PATCH’S library growing more and more cheery under the influence of Mumm’s Extra Dry, set surreptitiously in cold pails by the bookcases.

      THE FIRST YOUNG MAN: By golly! Believe me, in my next book I’m going to do a wedding scene that’ll knock ’em cold!

      THE SECOND YOUNG MAN: Met a débutante th’other day said she thought your book was powerful. As a rule young girls cry for this primitive business.

      THE THIRD YOUNG MAN: Where’s Anthony?

      THE FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Walking up and down outside talking to himself.

      SECOND YOUNG MAN: Lord! Did you see the minister? Most peculiar looking teeth.

      FIFTH YOUNG MAN: Think they’re natural. Funny thing people having gold teeth.

      SIXTH YOUNG MAN: They say they love ‘em. My dentist told me once a woman came to him and insisted on having two of her teeth covered with gold. No reason at all. All right the way they were.

      FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Hear you got out a book, Dicky. ‘Gratulations!

      DICK: (Stiffly) Thanks.

      FOURTH YOUNG MAN: (Innocently) What is it? College stories?

      DICK: (More stiffly) No. Not college stories.

      FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Pity! Hasn’t been a good book about Harvard for years.

      DICK: (Touchily) Why don’t you supply the lack?

      THIRD YOUNG MAN: I think I saw a squad of guests turn the drive in a

       Packard just now.

      SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Might open a couple more bottles on the strength of that.

      THIRD YOUNG MAN: It was the shock of my life when I heard the old man was going to have a wet wedding. Rabid prohibitionist, you know.

      FOURTH YOUNG MAN: (Snapping his fingers excitedly) By gad! I knew I’d forgotten something. Kept thinking it was my vest.

      DICK: What was it?

      FOURTH YOUNG MAN: By gad! By gad!

      SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Here! Here! Why the tragedy?

      SECOND YOUNG MAN: What’d you forget? The way home?

      DICK: (Maliciously) He forgot the plot for his book of Harvard stories.

      FOURTH YOUNG MAN: No, sir, I forgot the present, by George! I forgot to buy old Anthony a present. I kept putting it off and putting it off, and by gad I’ve forgotten it! What’ll they think?

      SIXTH YOUNG MAN: (Facetiously) That’s probably what’s been holding up the wedding.

      (THE FOURTH YOUNG MAN looks nervously at his watch. Laughter.)

      FOURTH YOUNG MAN: By gad! What an ass I am!

      SECOND YOUNG MAN: What d’you make of the bridesmaid who thinks she’s

       Nora Bayes? Kept telling me she wished this was a ragtime wedding.

       Name’s Haines or Hampton.

      DICK: (Hurriedly spurring his imagination) Kane, you mean, Muriel Kane. She’s a sort of debt of honor, I believe. Once saved Gloria from drowning, or something of the sort.

      SECOND YOUNG MAN: I didn’t think she could stop that perpetual swaying long enough to swim. Fill up my glass, will you? Old man and I had a long talk about the weather just now.

      MAURY: Who? Old Adam?

      SECOND YOUNG MAN: No, the bride’s father. He must be with a weather bureau.

      DICK: He’s my uncle, Otis.

      OTIS: Well, it’s an honorable profession. (Laughter.)

      SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Bride your cousin, isn’t she?

      DICK: Yes, Cable, she is.

      CABLE: She certainly is a beauty. Not like you, Dicky. Bet she brings old Anthony to terms.

      MAURY: Why are all grooms given the title of “old”? I think marriage is an error of youth.

      DICK: Maury, the professional cynic.

      MAURY: Why, you intellectual faker!

      FIFTH YOUNG MAN: Battle of the highbrows here, Otis. Pick up what crumbs you can.

      DICK: Faker yourself! What do you know?

      MAURY: