The Beautiful and Damned. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

that he liked her, for since a lamentable affair with a débutante the preceding summer, when he had discovered that after half a dozen kisses a proposal was expected, he had been wary of girls of his own class. It was only too easy to turn a critical eye on their imperfections: some physical harshness or a general lack of personal delicacy—but a girl who was usher at Keith’s was approached with a different attitude. One could tolerate qualities in an intimate valet that would be unforgivable in a mere acquaintance on one’s social level.

      Geraldine, curled up at the foot of the lounge, considered him with narrow slanting eyes.

      “You drink all the time, don’t you?” she said suddenly.

      “Why, I suppose so,” replied Anthony in some surprise. “Don’t you?”

      “Nope. I go on parties sometimes—you know, about once a week, but I only take two or three drinks. You and your friends keep on drinking all the time. I should think you’d ruin your health.”

      Anthony was somewhat touched.

      “Why, aren’t you sweet to worry about me!”

      “Well, I do.”

      “I don’t drink so very much,” he declared. “Last month I didn’t touch a drop for three weeks. And I only get really tight about once a week.”

      “But you have something to drink every day and you’re only twenty-five. Haven’t you any ambition? Think what you’ll be at forty?”

      “I sincerely trust that I won’t live that long.”

      She clicked her tongue with her teeth.

      “You cra-azy!” she said as he mixed another cocktail—and then: “Are you any relation to Adam Patch?”

      “Yes, he’s my grandfather.”

      “Really?” She was obviously thrilled.

      “Absolutely.”

      “That’s funny. My daddy used to work for him.”

      “He’s a queer old man.”

      “Is he nice?” she demanded.

      “Well, in private life he’s seldom unnecessarily disagreeable.”

      “Tell us about him.”

      “Why,” Anthony considered “—he’s all shrunken up and he’s got the remains of some gray hair that always looks as though the wind were in it. He’s very moral.”

      “He’s done a lot of good,” said Geraldine with intense gravity.

      “Rot!” scoffed Anthony. “He’s a pious ass—a chicken-brain.”

      Her mind left the subject and flitted on.

      “Why don’t you live with him?”

      “Why don’t I board in a Methodist parsonage?”

      “You cra-azy!”

      Again she made a little clicking sound to express disapproval. Anthony thought how moral was this little waif at heart—how completely moral she would still be after the inevitable wave came that would wash her off the sands of respectability.

      “Do you hate him?”

      “I wonder. I never liked him. You never like people who do things for you.”

      “Does he hate you?”

      “My dear Geraldine,” protested Anthony, frowning humorously, “do have another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the room sniffing. He’s a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I probably wouldn’t be telling you this if I hadn’t had a few drinks, but I don’t suppose it matters.”

      Geraldine was persistently interested. She held her glass, untasted, between finger and thumb and regarded him with eyes in which there was a touch of awe.

      “How do you mean a hypocrite?”

      “Well,” said Anthony impatiently, “maybe he’s not. But he doesn’t like the things that I like, and so, as far as I’m concerned, he’s uninteresting.”

      “Hm.” Her curiosity seemed, at length, satisfied. She sank back into the sofa and sipped her cocktail.

      “You’re a funny one,” she commented thoughtfully. “Does everybody want to marry you because your grandfather is rich?”

      “They don’t—but I shouldn’t blame them if they did. Still, you see, I never intend to marry.”

      She scorned this.

      “You’ll fall in love someday. Oh, you will—I know.” She nodded wisely.

      “It’d be idiotic to be overconfident. That’s what ruined the Chevalier O’Keefe.”

      “Who was he?”

      “A creature of my splendid mind. He’s my one creation, the Chevalier.”

      “Cra-a-azy!” she murmured pleasantly, using the clumsy rope ladder with which she bridged all gaps and climbed after her mental superiors. Subconsciously she felt that it eliminated distances and brought the person whose imagination had eluded her back within range.

      “Oh, no!” objected Anthony, “oh, no, Geraldine. You mustn’t play the alienist upon the Chevalier. If you feel yourself unable to understand him I won’t bring him in. Besides, I should feel a certain uneasiness because of his regrettable reputation.”

      “I guess I can understand anything that’s got any sense to it,” answered Geraldine a bit testily.

      “In that case there are various episodes in the life of the Chevalier which might prove diverting.”

      “Well?”

      “It was his untimely end that caused me to think of him and made him apropos in the conversation. I hate to introduce him end foremost, but it seems inevitable that the Chevalier must back into your life.”

      “Well, what about him? Did he die?”

      “He did! In this manner. He was an Irishman, Geraldine, a semi-fictional Irishman—the wild sort with a genteel brogue and ‘reddish hair.’ He was exiled from Erin in the late days of chivalry and, of course, crossed over to France. Now the Chevalier O’Keefe, Geraldine, had, like me, one weakness. He was enormously susceptible to all sorts and conditions of women. Besides being a sentimentalist he was a romantic, a vain fellow, a man of wild passions, a little blind in one eye and almost stone-blind in the other. Now a male roaming the world in this condition is as helpless as a lion without teeth, and in consequence the Chevalier was made utterly miserable for twenty years by a series of women who hated him, used him, bored him, aggravated him, sickened him, spent his money, made a fool of him—in brief, as the world has it, loved him.

      “This was bad, Geraldine, and as the Chevalier, save for this one weakness, this exceeding susceptibility, was a man of penetration, he decided that he would rescue himself once and for all from these drains upon him. With this purpose he went to a very famous monastery in Champagne called—well, anachronistically known as St. Voltaire’s. It was the rule at St. Voltaire’s that no monk could descend to the ground story of the monastery so long as he lived, but should exist engaged in prayer and contemplation in one of the four towers, which were called after the four commandments of the monastery rule: Poverty, Chastity, Obedience, and Silence.

      “When the day came that was to witness the Chevalier’s farewell to the world he was utterly happy. He gave all his Greek books to his landlady, and his sword he sent in a golden sheath to the King of France, and all his mementos of Ireland he gave to the young Huguenot who sold fish in the street where he lived.

      “Then he rode out to St. Voltaire’s, slew his horse at the door, and presented the carcass to the monastery cook.

      “At