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

it rather embarrassed him when she tried to read new interests into him for the benefit of what other adorers were present. He felt as if a polite but insistent stage-manager were attempting to make him give a new interpretation of a part he had conned for years.

      But Clara talking, Clara telling a slender tale of a hatpin and an inebriated man and herself…. People tried afterward to repeat her anecdotes but for the life of them they could make them sound like nothing whatever. They gave her a sort of innocent attention and the best smiles many of them had smiled for long; there were few tears in Clara, but people smiled misty-eyed at her.

      Very occasionally Amory stayed for little half-hours after the rest of the court had gone, and they would have bread and jam and tea late in the afternoon or “maple-sugar lunches,” as she called them, at night.

      “You are remarkable, aren’t you!” Amory was becoming trite from where he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six o’clock.

      “Not a bit,” she answered. She was searching out napkins in the sideboard. “I’m really most humdrum and commonplace. One of those people who have no interest in anything but their children.”

      “Tell that to somebody else,” scoffed Amory. “You know you’re perfectly effulgent.” He asked her the one thing that he knew might embarrass her. It was the remark that the first bore made to Adam.

      “Tell me about yourself.” And she gave the answer that Adam must have given.

      “There’s nothing to tell.”

       But eventually Adam probably told the bore all the things he thought about at night when the locusts sang in the sandy grass, and he must have remarked patronizingly how different he was from Eve, forgetting how different she was from him… at any rate, Clara told Amory much about herself that evening. She had had a harried life from sixteen on, and her education had stopped sharply with her leisure. Browsing in her library, Amory found a tattered gray book out of which fell a yellow sheet that he impudently opened. It was a poem that she had written at school about a gray convent wall on a gray day, and a girl with her cloak blown by the wind sitting atop of it and thinking about the many-colored world. As a rule such sentiment bored him, but this was done with so much simplicity and atmosphere, that it brought a picture of Clara to his mind, of Clara on such a cool, gray day with her keen blue eyes staring out, trying to see her tragedies come marching over the gardens outside. He envied that poem. How he would have loved to have come along and seen her on the wall and talked nonsense or romance to her, perched above him in the air. He began to be frightfully jealous of everything about Clara: of her past, of her babies, of the men and women who flocked to drink deep of her cool kindness and rest their tired minds as at an absorbing play.

      “Nobody seems to bore you,” he objected.

      “About half the world do,” she admitted, “but I think that’s a pretty good average, don’t you?” and she turned to find something in Browning that bore on the subject. She was the only person he ever met who could look up passages and quotations to show him in the middle of the conversation, and yet not be irritating to distraction. She did it constantly, with such a serious enthusiasm that he grew fond of watching her golden hair bent over a book, brow wrinkled ever so little at hunting her sentence.

      Through early March he took to going to Philadelphia for weekends. Almost always there was some one else there and she seemed not anxious to see him alone, for many occasions presented themselves when a word from her would have given him another delicious half-hour of adoration. But he fell gradually in love and began to speculate wildly on marriage. Though this design flowed through his brain even to his lips, still he knew afterward that the desire had not been deeply rooted. Once he dreamt that it had come true and woke up in a cold panic, for in his dream she had been a silly, flaxen Clara, with the gold gone out of her hair and platitudes falling insipidly from her changeling tongue. But she was the first fine woman he ever knew and one of the few good people who ever interested him. She made her goodness such an asset. Amory had decided that most good people either dragged theirs after them as a liability, or else distorted it to artificial geniality, and of course there were the ever-present prig and Pharisee — (but Amory never included them as being among the saved).

       ST. CECILIA

      “Over her gray and velvet dress,

      Under her molten, beaten hair,

      Color of rose in mock distress

      Flushes and fades and makes her fair;

      Fills the air from her to him

      With light and languor and little sighs,

      Just so subtly he scarcely knows…

      Laughing lightning, color of rose.”

      “Do you like me?”

      “Of course I do,” said Clara seriously.

      “Why?”

      “Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are spontaneous in each of us — or were originally.”

      “You’re implying that I haven’t used myself very well?”

      Clara hesitated.

      “Well, I can’t judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot more, and I’ve been sheltered.”

      “Oh, don’t stall, please, Clara,” Amory interrupted; “but do talk about me a little, won’t you?”

      “Surely, I’d adore to.” She didn’t smile.

      “That’s sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully conceited?”

      “Well — no, you have tremendous vanity, but it’ll amuse the people who notice its preponderance.”

      “I see.”

      “You’re really humble at heart. You sink to the third hell of depression when you think you’ve been slighted. In fact, you haven’t much self-respect.”

      “Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let me say a word.”

      “Of course not — I can never judge a man while he’s talking. But I’m not through; the reason you have so little real self-confidence, even though you gravely announce to the occasional philistine that you think you’re a genius, is that you’ve attributed all sorts of atrocious faults to yourself and are trying to live up to them. For instance, you’re always saying that you are a slave to highballs.”

      “But I am, potentially.”

      “And you say you’re a weak character, that you’ve no will.”

      “Not a bit of will — I’m a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires—”

      “You are not!” She brought one little fist down onto the other. “You’re a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.”

      “You certainly interest me. If this isn’t boring you, go on.”

      “I notice that when you want to stay over an extra day from college you go about it in a sure way. You never decide at first while the merits of going or staying are fairly clear in your mind. You let your imagination shinny on the side of your desires for a few hours, and then you decide. Naturally your imagination, after a little freedom, thinks up a million reasons why you should stay, so your decision when it comes isn’t true. It’s biassed.”

      “Yes,” objected Amory, “but isn’t it lack of will-power to let my imagination shinny on the wrong side?”

      “My dear boy, there’s your big mistake. This has nothing to do with will-power; that’s a crazy, useless word, anyway; you lack judgment — the judgment to decide at once when you know your imagination will play you false, given half a chance.”

      “Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Amory in