The Greatest Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald - 45 Titles in One Edition. F. Scott Fitzgerald

stopped the car among deep shadows.

      “What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?” he demanded, as he produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug.

      Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason for coming to the coast.

      “Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?” he asked instead.

      “Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park—”

      “Lord, Alec! It’s hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are all three dead.”

      Alec shivered.

      “Don’t talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough.”

      Jill seemed to agree.

      “Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways,” she commented. “Tell him to drink deep—it’s good and scarce these days.”

      “What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are—”

      “Why, New York, I suppose—”

      “I mean tonight, because if you haven’t got a room yet you’d better help me out.”

      “Glad to.”

      “You see, Tully and I have two rooms with bath between at the Ranier, and he’s got to go back to New York. I don’t want to have to move. Question is, will you occupy one of the rooms?”

      Amory was willing, if he could get in right away.

      “You’ll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name.”

      Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left the car and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel.

      He was in an eddy again, a deep, lethargic gulf, without desire to work or write, love or dissipate. For the first time in his life he rather longed for death to roll over his generation, obliterating their petty fevers and struggles and exultations. His youth seemed never so vanished as now in the contrast between the utter loneliness of this visit and that riotous, joyful party of four years before. Things that had been the merest commonplaces of his life then, deep sleep, the sense of beauty around him, all desire, had flown away and the gaps they left were filled only with the great listlessness of his disillusion.

      “To hold a man a woman has to appeal to the worst in him.” This sentence was the thesis of most of his bad nights, of which he felt this was to be one. His mind had already started to play variations on the subject. Tireless passion, fierce jealousy, longing to possess and crush—these alone were left of all his love for Rosalind; these remained to him as payment for the loss of his youth—bitter calomel under the thin sugar of love’s exaltation.

      In his room he undressed and wrapping himself in blankets to keep out the chill October air drowsed in an armchair by the open window.

      He remembered a poem he had read months before:

      “Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me,

      I waste my years sailing along the sea—”

      Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that waste implied. He felt that life had rejected him.

      “Rosalind! Rosalind!” He poured the words softly into the half-darkness until she seemed to permeate the room; the wet salt breeze filled his hair with moisture, the rim of a moon seared the sky and made the curtains dim and ghostly. He fell asleep.

      When he awoke it was very late and quiet. The blanket had slipped partly off his shoulders and he touched his skin to find it damp and cold.

      Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away.

      He became rigid.

      “Don’t make a sound!” It was Alec’s voice. “Jill—do you hear me?”

      “Yes—” breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the bathroom.

      Then his ears caught a louder sound from somewhere along the corridor outside. It was a mumbling of men’s voices and a repeated muffled rapping. Amory threw off the blankets and moved close to the bathroom door.

      “My God!” came the girl’s voice again. “You’ll have to let them in.”

      “Sh!”

      Suddenly a steady, insistent knocking began at Amory’s hall door and simultaneously out of the bathroom came Alec, followed by the vermilion-lipped girl. They were both clad in pajamas.

      “Amory!” an anxious whisper.

      “What’s the trouble?”

      “It’s house detectives. My God, Amory—they’re just looking for a test-case”

      “Well, better let them in.”

      “You don’t understand. They can get me under the Mann Act.”

      The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure in the darkness.

      Amory tried to plan quickly.

      “You make a racket and let them in your room,” he suggested anxiously, “and I’ll get her out by this door.”

      “They’re here too, though. They’ll watch this door.”

      “Can’t you give a wrong name?”

      “No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they’d trail the auto license number.”

      “Say you’re married.”

      “Jill says one of the house detectives knows her.”

      The girl had stolen to the bed and tumbled upon it; lay there listening wretchedly to the knocking which had grown gradually to a pounding. Then came a man’s voice, angry and imperative:

      “Open up or we’ll break the door in!”

      In the silence when this voice ceased Amory realized that there were other things in the room besides people… over and around the figure crouched on the bed there hung an aura, gossamer as a moonbeam, tainted as stale, weak wine, yet a horror, diffusively brooding already over the three of them… and over by the window among the stirring curtains stood something else, featureless and indistinguishable, yet strangely familiar…. Simultaneously two great cases presented themselves side by side to Amory; all that took place in his mind, then, occupied in actual time less than ten seconds.

      The first fact that flashed radiantly on his comprehension was the great impersonality of sacrifice—he perceived that what we call love and hate, reward and punishment, had no more to do with it than the date of the month. He quickly recapitulated the story of a sacrifice he had heard of in college: a man had cheated in an examination; his roommate in a gust of sentiment had taken the entire blame—due to the shame of it the innocent one’s entire future seemed shrouded in regret and failure, capped by the ingratitude of the real culprit. He had finally taken his own life—years afterward the facts had come out. At the time the story had both puzzled and worried Amory. Now he realized the truth; that sacrifice was no purchase of freedom. It was like a great elective office, it was like an inheritance of power—to certain people at certain times an essential luxury, carrying with it not a guarantee but a responsibility, not a security but an infinite risk. Its very momentum might drag him down to ruin—the passing of the emotional wave that made it possible might leave the one who made it high and dry forever on an island of despair.

      … Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for having done so much for him….

      … All this was flung before Amory like an opened scroll, while ulterior to him and speculating upon him were those two breathless, listening forces: the gossamer aura that hung over and about the girl and that familiar thing by the window.

      Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal;