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

many fixed ideas and curiosities and odd quirks of mind; they were essentially companionable.

      But it had been a struggle to keep many of their conversations on the level of discussions. Arguments were fatal to Gloria’s disposition. She had all her life been associated either with her mental inferiors or with men who, under the almost hostile intimidation of her beauty, had not dared to contradict her; naturally, then, it irritated her when Anthony emerged from the state in which her pronouncements were an infallible and ultimate decision.

      He failed to realize, at first, that this was the result partly of her “female” education and partly of her beauty, and he was inclined to include her with her entire sex as curiously and definitely limited. It maddened him to find she had no sense of justice. But he discovered that, when a subject did interest her, her brain tired less quickly than his. What he chiefly missed in her mind was the pedantic teleology — the sense of order and accuracy, the sense of life as a mysteriously correlated piece of patchwork, but he understood after a while that such a quality in her would have been incongruous.

      Of the things they possessed in common, greatest of all was their almost uncanny pull at each other’s hearts. The day they left the hotel in Coronado she sat down on one of the beds while they were packing, and began to weep bitterly.

      “Dearest—” His arms were around her; he pulled her head down upon his shoulder. “What is it, my own Gloria? Tell me.”

      “We’re going away,” she sobbed. “Oh, Anthony, it’s sort of the first place we’ve lived together. Our two little beds here — side by side — they’ll be always waiting for us, and we’re never coming back to ’em any more.”

      She was tearing at his heart as she always could. Sentiment came over him, rushed into his eyes.

      “Gloria, why, we’re going on to another room. And two other little beds.. We’re going to be together all our lives.”

      Words flooded from her in a low husky voice.

      “But it won’t be — like our two beds — ever again. Everywhere we go and move on and change, something’s lost — something’s left behind. You can’t ever quite repeat anything, and I’ve been so yours, here—”

      He held her passionately near, discerning far beyond any criticism of her sentiment, a wise grasping of the minute, if only an indulgence of her desire to cry — Gloria the idler, caresser of her own dreams, extracting poignancy from the memorable things of life and youth.

      Later in the afternoon when he returned from the station with the tickets he found her asleep on one of the beds, her arm curled about a black object which he could not at first identify. Coming closer he found it was one of his shoes, not a particularly new one, nor clean one, but her face, tear-stained, was pressed against it, and he understood her ancient and most honorable message. There was almost ecstasy in waking her and seeing her smile at him, shy but well aware of her own nicety of imagination.

      With no appraisal of the worth or dross of these two things, it seemed to Anthony that they lay somewhere near the heart of love.

       THE GRAY HOUSE

      It is in the twenties that the actual momentum of life begins to slacken, and it is a simple soul indeed to whom as many things are significant and meaningful at thirty as at ten years before. At thirty an organ-grinder is a more or less moth-eaten man who grinds an organ — and once he was an organ-grinder! The unmistakable stigma of humanity touches all those impersonal and beautiful things that only youth ever grasps in their impersonal glory. A brilliant ball, gay with light romantic laughter, wears through its own silks and satins to show the bare framework of a man-made thing — oh, that eternal hand! — a play, most tragic and most divine, becomes merely a succession of speeches, sweated over by the eternal plagiarist in the clammy hours and acted by men subject to cramps, cowardice, and manly sentiment.

      And this time with Gloria and Anthony, this first year of marriage, and the gray house caught them in that stage when the organ-grinder was slowly undergoing his inevitable metamorphosis. She was twenty-three; he was twenty-six.

      The gray house was, at first, of sheerly pastoral intent. They lived impatiently in Anthony’s apartment for the first fortnight after the return from California, in a stifled atmosphere of open trunks, too many callers, and the eternal laundry-bags. They discussed with their friends the stupendous problem of their future. Dick and Maury would sit with them agreeing solemnly, almost thoughtfully, as Anthony ran through his list of what they “ought” to do, and where they “ought” to live.

      “I’d like to take Gloria abroad,” he complained, “except for this damn war — and next to that I’d sort of like to have a place in the country, somewhere near New York, of course, where I could write — or whatever I decide to do.”

      Gloria laughed.

      “Isn’t he cute?” she required of Maury. “‘Whatever he decides to do!’ But what am I going to do if he works? Maury, will you take me around if Anthony works?”

      “Anyway, I’m not going to work yet,” said Anthony quickly.

      It was vaguely understood between them that on some misty day he would enter a sort of glorified diplomatic service and be envied by princes and prime ministers for his beautiful wife.

      “Well,” said Gloria helplessly, “I’m sure I don’t know. We talk and talk and never get anywhere, and we ask all our friends and they just answer the way we want ’em to. I wish somebody’d take care of us.”

      “Why don’t you go out to — out to Greenwich or something?” suggested. Richard Caramel.

      “I’d like that,” said Gloria, brightening. “Do you think we could get a house there?”

      Dick shrugged his shoulders and Maury laughed.

      “You two amuse me,” he said. “Of all the unpractical people! As soon as a place is mentioned you expect us to pull great piles of photographs out of our pockets showing the different styles of architecture available in bungalows.”

      “That’s just what I don’t want,” wailed Gloria, “a hot stuffy bungalow, with a lot of babies next door and their father cutting the grass in his shirt sleeves—”

      “For Heaven’s sake, Gloria,” interrupted Maury, “nobody wants to lock you up in a bungalow. Who in God’s name brought bungalows into the conversation? But you’ll never get a place anywhere unless you go out and hunt for it.”

      “Go where? You say ‘go out and hunt for it,’ but where?”

      With dignity Maury waved his hand paw-like about the room.

      “Out anywhere. Out in the country. There’re lots of places.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Look here!” Richard Caramel brought his yellow eye rakishly into play. “The trouble with you two is that you’re all disorganized. Do you know anything about New York State? Shut up, Anthony, I’m talking to Gloria.”

      “Well,” she admitted finally, “I’ve been to two or three house parties in Portchester and around in Connecticut — but, of course, that isn’t in New York State, is it? And neither is Morristown,” she finished with drowsy irrelevance.

      There was a shout of laughter.

      “Oh, Lord!” cried Dick, “neither is Morristown!’ No, and neither is.

       Santa Barbara, Gloria. Now listen. To begin with, unless you have a

       fortune there’s no use considering any place like Newport or

       Southhampton or Tuxedo. They’re out of the question.”

      They all agreed to this solemnly.

      “And personally I hate New Jersey. Then, of course, there’s upper New. York, above Tuxedo.”

      “Too cold,”