This Side of Paradise (Wisehouse Classics Edition). F. Scott Fitzgerald

with the English Dramatic Association faded out when he found that the most ingenious brains and talents were concentrated upon the Triangle Club, a musical comedy organization that every year took a great Christmas trip. In the meanwhile, feeling strangely alone and restless in Commons, with new desires and ambitions stirring in his mind, he let the first term go by between an envy of the embryo successes and a puzzled fretting with Kerry as to why they were not accepted immediately among the élite of the class.

      Many afternoons they lounged in the windows of 12 Univee and watched the class pass to and from Commons, noting satellites already attaching themselves to the more prominent, watching the lonely grind with his hurried step and downcast eye, envying the happy security of the big school groups.

      “We’re the damned middle class, that’s what!” he complained to Kerry one day as he lay stretched out on the sofa, consuming a family of Fatimas with contemplative precision.

      “Well, why not? We came to Princeton so we could feel that way toward the small colleges—have it on ’em, more self-confidence, dress better, cut a swathe——”

      “Oh, it isn’t that I mind the glittering caste system,” admitted Amory. “I like having a bunch of hot cats on top, but gosh, Kerry, I’ve got to be one of them.”

      “But just now, Amory, you’re only a sweaty bourgeois.”

      Amory lay for a moment without speaking.

      “I won’t be—long,” he said finally. “But I hate to get anywhere by working for it. I’ll show the marks, don’t you know.”

      “Honorable scars.” Kerry craned his neck suddenly at the street. “There’s Langueduc, if you want to see what he looks like—and Humbird just behind.”

      Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows.

      “Oh,” he said, scrutinizing these worthies, “Humbird looks like a knockout, but this Langueduc—he’s the rugged type, isn’t he? I distrust that sort. All diamonds look big in the rough.”

      “Well,” said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, “you’re a literary genius. It’s up to you.”

      “I wonder”— Amory paused— “if I could be. I honestly think so sometimes. That sounds like the devil, and I wouldn’t say it to anybody except you.”

      “Well—go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy D’Invilliers in the Lit.”

      Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table.

      “Read his latest effort?”

      “Never miss ’em. They’re rare.”

      Amory glanced through the issue.

      “Hello!” he said in surprise, “he’s a freshman, isn’t he?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Listen to this! My God!

       “‘A serving lady speaks:

       Black velvet trails its folds over the day,

       White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames,

       Wave their thin flames like shadows in the wind,

       Pia, Pompia, come—come away——’

      “Now, what the devil does that mean?”

      “It’s a pantry scene.”

       “‘Her toes are stiffened like a stork’s in flight;

       She’s laid upon her bed, on the white sheets,

       Her hands pressed on her smooth bust like a saint,

       Bella Cunizza, come into the light!’

      “My gosh, Kerry, what in hell is it all about? I swear I don’t get him at all, and I’m a literary bird myself.”

      “It’s pretty tricky,” said Kerry, “only you’ve got to think of hearses and stale milk when you read it. That isn’t as pash as some of them.”

      Amory tossed the magazine on the table.

      “Well,” he sighed, “I sure am up in the air. I know I’m not a regular fellow, yet I loathe anybody else that isn’t. I can’t decide whether to cultivate my mind and be a great dramatist, or to thumb my nose at the Golden Treasury and be a Princeton slicker.”

      “Why decide?” suggested Kerry. “Better drift, like me. I’m going to sail into prominence on Burne’s coat-tails.”

      “I can’t drift—I want to be interested. I want to pull strings, even for somebody else, or be Princetonian chairman or Triangle president. I want to be admired, Kerry.”

      “You’re thinking too much about yourself.”

      Amory sat up at this.

      “No. I’m thinking about you, too. We’ve got to get out and mix around the class right now, when it’s fun to be a snob. I’d like to bring a sardine to the prom in June, for instance, but I wouldn’t do it unless I could be damn debonaire about it— introduce her to all the prize parlor-snakes, and the football captain, and all that simple stuff.”

      “Amory,” said Kerry impatiently, “you’re just going around in a circle. If you want to be prominent, get out and try for something; if you don’t, just take it easy.” He yawned. “Come on, let’s let the smoke drift off. We’ll go down and watch football practice.”

      Amory gradually accepted this point of view, decided that next fall would inaugurate his career, and relinquished himself to watching Kerry extract joy from 12 Univee.

      They filled the Jewish youth’s bed with lemon pie; they put out the gas all over the house every night by blowing into the jet in Amory’s room, to the bewilderment of Mrs. Twelve and the local plumber; they set up the effects of the plebeian drunks— pictures, books, and furniture—in the bathroom, to the confusion of the pair, who hazily discovered the transposition on their return from a Trenton spree; they were disappointed beyond measure when the plebeian drunks decided to take it as a joke; they played red-dog and twenty-one and jackpot from dinner to dawn, and on the occasion of one man’s birthday persuaded him to buy sufficient champagne for a hilarious celebration. The donor of the party having remained sober, Kerry and Amory accidentally dropped him down two flights of stairs and called, shame-faced and penitent, at the infirmary all the following week.

      “Say, who are all these women?” demanded Kerry one day, protesting at the size of Amory’s mail. “I’ve been looking at the postmarks lately—Farmington and Dobbs and Westover and Dana Hall—what’s the idea?”

      Amory grinned.

      “All from the Twin Cities.” He named them off. “There’s Marylyn De Witt—she’s pretty, got a car of her own and that’s damn convenient; there’s Sally Weatherby—she’s getting too fat; there’s Myra St. Claire, she’s an old flame, easy to kiss if you like it—— ”

      “What line do you throw ’em?” demanded Kerry. “I’ve tried everything, and the mad wags aren’t even afraid of me.”

      “You’re the ‘nice boy’ type,” suggested Amory.

      “That’s just it. Mother always feels the girl is safe if she’s with me. Honestly, it’s annoying. If I start to hold somebody’s hand, they laugh at me, and let me, just as if it wasn’t part of them. As soon as I get hold of a hand they sort of disconnect it from the rest of them.”

      “Sulk,” suggested Amory. “Tell ’em you’re wild and have ’em reform you—go home furious—come back in half an hour—startle ’em.”

      Kerry shook his head.

      “No chance. I wrote a St. Timothy girl a really