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

left in me would die—”

      This gave him a confused and increasing worry. It fitted so well with the Gloria who lay in the corner — no longer a proud Gloria, nor any Gloria he had known. He asked himself if it were possible. While he did not believe she would cease to love him — this, of course, was unthinkable — it was yet problematical whether Gloria without her arrogance, her independence, her virginal confidence and courage, would be the girl of his glory, the radiant woman who was precious and charming because she was ineffably, triumphantly herself.

      He was very drunk even then, so drunk as not to realize his own drunkenness. When they reached the gray house he went to his own room and, his mind still wrestling helplessly and sombrely with what he had done, fell into a deep stupor on his bed.

      It was after one o’clock and the hall seemed extraordinarily quiet when Gloria, wide-eyed and sleepless, traversed it and pushed open the door of his room. He had been too befuddled to open the windows and the air was stale and thick with whiskey. She stood for a moment by his bed, a slender, exquisitely graceful figure in her boyish silk pajamas — then with abandon she flung herself upon him, half waking him in the frantic emotion of her embrace, dropping her warm tears upon his throat.

      “Oh, Anthony!” she cried passionately, “oh, my darling, you don’t know what you did!”

      Yet in the morning, coming early into her room, he knelt down by her bed and cried like a little boy, as though it was his heart that had been broken.

      “It seemed, last night,” she said gravely, her fingers playing in his hair, “that all the part of me you loved, the part that was worth knowing, all the pride and fire, was gone. I knew that what was left of me would always love you, but never in quite the same way.”

      Nevertheless, she was aware even then that she would forget in time and that it is the manner of life seldom to strike but always to wear away. After that morning the incident was never mentioned and its deep wound healed with Anthony’s hand — and if there was triumph some darker force than theirs possessed it, possessed the knowledge and the victory.

       NIETZSCHEAN INCIDENT

      Gloria’s independence, like all sincere and profound qualities, had begun unconsciously, but, once brought to her attention by Anthony’s fascinated discovery of it, it assumed more nearly the proportions of a formal code. From her conversation it might be assumed that all her energy and vitality went into a violent affirmation of the negative principle “Never give a damn.”

      “Not for anything or anybody,” she said, “except myself and, by implication, for Anthony. That’s the rule of all life and if it weren’t I’d be that way anyhow. Nobody’d do anything for me if it didn’t gratify them to, and I’d do as little for them.”

      She was on the front porch of the nicest lady in Marietta when she said this, and as she finished she gave a curious little cry and sank in a dead faint to the porch floor.

      The lady brought her to and drove her home in her car. It had occurred to the estimable Gloria that she was probably with child.

      She lay upon the long lounge downstairs. Day was slipping warmly out the window, touching the late roses on the porch pillars.

      “All I think of ever is that I love you,” she wailed. “I value my body because you think it’s beautiful. And this body of mine — of yours — to have it grow ugly and shapeless? It’s simply intolerable. Oh, Anthony, I’m not afraid of the pain.”

      He consoled her desperately — but in vain. She continued:

      “And then afterward I might have wide hips and be pale, with all my freshness gone and no radiance in my hair.”

      He paced the floor with his hands in his pockets, asking:

      “Is it certain?”

      “I don’t know anything. I’ve always hated obstrics, or whatever you call them. I thought I’d have a child some time. But not now.”

      “Well, for God’s sake don’t lie there and go to pieces.”

      Her sobs lapsed. She drew down a merciful silence from the twilight which filled the room. “Turn on the lights,” she pleaded. “These days seem so short — June seemed — to — have — longer days when I was a little girl.”

      The lights snapped on and it was as though blue drapes of softest silk had been dropped behind the windows and the door. Her pallor, her immobility, without grief now, or joy, awoke his sympathy.

      “Do you want me to have it?” she asked listlessly.

      “I’m indifferent. That is, I’m neutral. If you have it I’ll probably be glad. If you don’t — well, that’s all right too.”

      “I wish you’d make up your mind one way or the other!”

      “Suppose you make up your mind.”

      She looked at him contemptuously, scorning to answer.

      “You’d think you’d been singled out of all the women in the world for this crowning indignity.”

      “What if I do!” she cried angrily. “It isn’t an indignity for them. It’s their one excuse for living. It’s the one thing they’re good for. It is an indignity for me.

      “See here, Gloria, I’m with you whatever you do, but for God’s sake be a sport about it.”

      “Oh, don’t fuss at me!” she wailed.

      They exchanged a mute look of no particular significance but of much stress. Then Anthony took a book from the shelf and dropped into a chair.

      Half an hour later her voice came out of the intense stillness that pervaded the room and hung like incense on the air.

      “I’ll drive over and see Constance Merriam tomorrow.”

      “All right. And I’ll go to Tarrytown and see Grampa.”

      “ — You see,” she added, “it isn’t that I’m afraid — of this or anything else. I’m being true to me, you know.”

      “I know,” he agreed.

       THE PRACTICAL MEN

      Adam Patch, in a pious rage against the Germans, subsisted on the war news. Pin maps plastered his walls; atlases were piled deep on tables convenient to his hand together with “Photographic Histories of the World War,” official Explain-alls, and the “Personal Impressions” of war correspondents and of Privates X, Y, and Z. Several times during Anthony’s visit his grandfather’s secretary, Edward Shuttleworth, the one-time “Accomplished Gin-physician” of “Pat’s Place” in Hoboken, now shod with righteous indignation, would appear with an extra. The old man attacked each paper with untiring fury, tearing out those columns which appeared to him of sufficient pregnancy for preservation and thrusting them into one of his already bulging files.

      “Well, what have you been doing?” he asked Anthony blandly. “Nothing? Well, I thought so. I’ve been intending to drive over and see you, all summer.”

      “I’ve been writing. Don’t you remember the essay I sent you — the one I sold to The Florentine last winter?”

      “Essay? You never sent me any essay.”

      “Oh, yes, I did. We talked about it.”

      Adam Patch shook his head mildly.

      “Oh, no. You never sent me any essay. You may have thought you sent it but it never reached me.”

      “Why, you read it, Grampa,” insisted Anthony, somewhat exasperated, “you read it and disagreed with it.”

      The old man suddenly remembered, but this was made apparent only by a partial falling open of his mouth, displaying rows of gray gums. Eying Anthony with a green and ancient stare he hesitated between confessing