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

around to the Unfinished Masterpiece.

      “Got any handkerchiefs, Gloria?” he asked. Gloria shook her golden head.

      “Not a one. I’m using one of yours.”

      “The last one, I deduce.” He laughed dryly.

      “Is it?” She applied an emphatic though very delicate contour to her lips.

      “Isn’t the laundry back?”

      “I don’t know.”

      Anthony hesitated — then, with sudden discernment, opened the closet door. His suspicions were verified. On the hook provided hung the blue bag furnished by the hotel. This was full of his clothes — he had put them there himself. The floor beneath it was littered with an astonishing mass of finery — lingerie, stockings, dresses, nightgowns, and pajamas — most of it scarcely worn but all of it coming indubitably under the general heading of Gloria’s laundry.

      He stood holding the closet door open.

      “Why, Gloria!”

      “What?”

      The lip line was being erased and corrected according to some mysterious perspective; not a finger trembled as she manipulated the lipstick, not a glance wavered in his direction. It was a triumph of concentration.

      “Haven’t you ever sent out the laundry?”

      “Is it there?”

      “It most certainly is.”

      “Well, I guess I haven’t, then.”

      “Gloria,” began Anthony, sitting down on the bed and trying to catch her mirrored eyes, “you’re a nice fellow, you are! I’ve sent it out every time it’s been sent since we left New York, and over a week ago you promised you’d do it for a change. All you’d have to do would be to cram your own junk into that bag and ring for the chambermaid.”

      “Oh, why fuss about the laundry?” exclaimed Gloria petulantly, “I’ll take care of it.”

      “I haven’t fussed about it. I’d just as soon divide the bother with you, but when we run out of handkerchiefs it’s darn near time something’s done.”

      Anthony considered that he was being extraordinarily logical. But Gloria, unimpressed, put away her cosmetics and casually offered him her back.

      “Hook me up,” she suggested; “Anthony, dearest, I forgot all about it. I meant to, honestly, and I will to-day. Don’t be cross with your sweetheart.”

      What could Anthony do then but draw her down upon his knee and kiss a shade of color from her lips.

      “But I don’t mind,” she murmured with a smile, radiant and magnanimous..

      “You can kiss all the paint off my lips any time you want.”

      They went down to tea. They bought some handkerchiefs in a notion store near by. All was forgotten.

      But two days later Anthony looked in the closet and saw the bag still hung limp upon its hook and that the gay and vivid pile on the floor had increased surprisingly in height.

      “Gloria!” he cried.

      “Oh—” Her voice was full of real distress. Despairingly Anthony went to the phone and called the chambermaid.

      “It seems to me,” he said impatiently, “that you expect me to be some sort of French valet to you.”

      Gloria laughed, so infectiously that Anthony was unwise enough to smile. Unfortunate man! In some intangible manner his smile made her mistress of the situation — with an air of injured righteousness she went emphatically to the closet and began pushing her laundry violently into the bag. Anthony watched her — ashamed of himself.

      “There!” she said, implying that her fingers had been worked to the bone by a brutal taskmaster.

      He considered, nevertheless, that he had given her an object-lesson and that the matter was closed, but on the contrary it was merely beginning. Laundry pile followed laundry pile — at long intervals; dearth of handkerchief followed dearth of handkerchief — at short ones; not to mention dearth of sock, of shirt, of everything. And Anthony found at length that either he must send it out himself or go through the increasingly unpleasant ordeal of a verbal battle with Gloria.

       GLORIA AND GENERAL LEE

      On their way East they stopped two days in Washington, strolling about with some hostility in its atmosphere of harsh repellent light, of distance without freedom, of pomp without splendor — it seemed a pasty-pale and selfconscious city. The second day they made an ill-advised trip to General Lee’s old home at Arlington.

      The bus which bore them was crowded with hot, unprosperous people, and Anthony, intimate to Gloria, felt a storm brewing. It broke at the Zoo, where the party stopped for ten minutes. The Zoo, it seemed, smelt of monkeys. Anthony laughed; Gloria called down the curse of Heaven upon monkeys, including in her malevolence all the passengers of the bus and their perspiring offspring who had hied themselves monkey-ward.

      Eventually the bus moved on to Arlington. There it met other busses and immediately a swarm of women and children were leaving a trail of peanut-shells through the halls of General Lee and crowding at length into the room where he was married. On the wall of this room a pleasing sign announced in large red letters “Ladies’ Toilet.” At this final blow Gloria broke down.

      “I think it’s perfectly terrible!” she said furiously, “the idea of letting these people come here! And of encouraging them by making these houses show-places.”

      “Well,” objected Anthony, “if they weren’t kept up they’d go to pieces.”

      “What if they did!” she exclaimed as they sought the wide pillared porch. “Do you think they’ve left a breath of 1860 here? This has become a thing of 1914.”

      “Don’t you want to preserve old things?”

      “But you can’t, Anthony. Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay. And just as any period decays in our minds, the things of that period should decay too, and in that way they’re preserved for a while in the few hearts like mine that react to them. That graveyard at Tarrytown, for instance. The asses who give money to preserve things have spoiled that too. Sleepy Hollow’s gone; Washington Irving’s dead and his books are rotting in our estimation year by year — then let the graveyard rot too, as it should, as all things should. Trying to preserve a century by keeping its relics up to date is like keeping a dying man alive by stimulants.”

      “So you think that just as a time goes to pieces its houses ought to go too?”

      “Of course! Would you value your Keats letter if the signature was traced over to make it last longer? It’s just because I love the past that I want this house to look back on its glamourous moment of youth and beauty, and I want its stairs to creak as if to the footsteps of women with hoop skirts and men in boots and spurs. But they’ve made it into a blondined, rouged-up old woman of sixty. It hasn’t any right to look so prosperous. It might care enough for Lee to drop a brick now and then. How many of these — these animals” — she waved her hand around— “get anything from this, for all the histories and guidebooks and restorations in existence? How many of them who think that, at best, appreciation is talking in undertones and walking on tiptoes would even come here if it was any trouble? I want it to smell of magnolias instead of peanuts and I want my shoes to crunch on the same gravel that Lee’s boots crunched on. There’s no beauty without poignancy and there’s no poignancy without the feeling that it’s going, men, names, books, houses — bound for dust — mortal—”

      A small boy appeared beside them and, swinging a handful of banana-peels, flung them valiantly in the direction of the Potomac.

       SENTIMENT

      Simultaneously