This Side of Paradise - I: The Débutante

I

The Débutante

The time is February. The place is a large, dainty bedroom in the Connage house on Sixty-eighth Street, New York. A girl’s room: pink walls and curtains and a pink bedspread on a cream-colored bed. Pink and cream are the motifs of the room, but the only article of furniture in full view is a luxurious dressing-table with a glass top and a three-sided mirror. On the walls there is an expensive print of Cherry Ripe, a few polite dogs by Landseer, and the King of the Black Isles, by Maxfield Parrish.

Great disorder consisting of the following items: (1) seven or eight empty cardboard boxes, with tissue-paper tongues hanging panting from their mouths; (2) an assortment of street dresses mingled with their sisters of the evening, all upon the table, all evidently new; (3) a roll of tulle, which has lost its dignity and wound itself tortuously around everything in sight, and (4) upon the two small chairs, a collection of lingerie that beggars description. One would enjoy seeing the bill called forth by the finery displayed and one is possessed by a desire to see the princess for whose benefit⁠—Look! There’s someone! Disappointment! This is only a maid hunting for something⁠—she lifts a heap from a chair⁠—Not there; another heap, the dressing-table, the chiffonier drawers. She brings to light several beautiful chemises and an amazing pajama but this does not satisfy her⁠—she goes out.

An indistinguishable mumble from the next room.

Now, we are getting warm. This is Alec’s mother, Mrs. Connage, ample, dignified, rouged to the dowager point and quite worn out. Her lips move significantly as she looks for it. Her search is less thorough than the maid’s but there is a touch of fury in it, that quite makes up for its sketchiness. She stumbles on the tulle and her “damn” is quite audible. She retires, empty-handed.

More chatter outside and a girl’s voice, a very spoiled voice, says: “Of all the stupid people⁠—”

After a pause a third seeker enters, not she of the spoiled voice, but a younger edition. This is Cecelia Connage, sixteen, pretty, shrewd, and constitutionally good-humored. She is dressed for the evening in a gown the obvious simplicity of which probably bores her. She goes to the nearest pile, selects a small pink garment and holds it up appraisingly.

Cecelia	Pink?
Rosalind	Outside. Yes!
Cecelia	Very snappy?
Rosalind	Yes!
Cecelia	I’ve got it!
	She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and commences to shimmy enthusiastically.
Rosalind	Outside. What are you doing⁠—trying it on?
	Cecelia ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right shoulder.
	From the other door, enters Alec Connage. He looks around quickly and in a huge voice shouts: Mama! There is a chorus of protest from next door and encouraged he starts toward it, but is repelled by another chorus.
Alec	So that’s where you all are! Amory Blaine is here.
Cecelia	Quickly. Take him downstairs.
Alec	Oh, he is downstairs.
Mrs. Connage	Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him I’m sorry that I can’t meet him now.
Alec	He’s heard a lot about you all. I wish you’d hurry. Father’s telling him all about the war and he’s restless. He’s sort of temperamental.
	This last suffices to draw Cecelia* into the room.*
Cecelia	Seating herself high upon lingerie. How do you mean⁠—temperamental? You used to say that about him in letters.
Alec	Oh, he writes stuff.
Cecelia	Does he play the piano?
Alec	Don’t think so.
Cecelia	Speculatively. Drink?
Alec	Yes⁠—nothing queer about him.
Cecelia	Money?
Alec	Good Lord⁠—ask him, he used to have a lot, and he’s got some income now.
	Mrs. Connage appears.
Mrs. Connage	Alec, of course we’re glad to have any friend of yours⁠—
Alec	You certainly ought to meet Amory.
Mrs. Connage	Of course, I want to. But I think it’s so childish of you to leave a perfectly good home to go and live with two other boys in some impossible apartment. I hope it isn’t in order that you can all drink as much as you want. She pauses. He’ll be a little neglected tonight. This is Rosalind’s week, you see. When a girl comes out, she needs all the attention.
Rosalind	Outside. Well, then, prove it by coming here and hooking me.
	Mrs. Connage goes.
Alec	Rosalind hasn’t changed a bit.
Cecelia	In a lower tone. She’s awfully spoiled.
Alec	She’ll meet her match tonight.
Cecelia	Who⁠—Mr. Amory Blaine?
	Alec nods.
Cecelia	Well, Rosalind has still to meet the man she can’t outdistance. Honestly, Alec, she treats men terribly. She abuses them and cuts them and breaks dates with them and yawns in their faces⁠—and they come back for more.
Alec	They love it.
Cecelia	They hate it. She’s a⁠—she’s a sort of vampire, I think⁠—and she can make girls do what she wants usually⁠—only she hates girls.
Alec	Personality runs in our family.
Cecelia	Resignedly. I guess it ran out before it got to me.
Alec	Does Rosalind behave herself?
Cecelia	Not particularly well. Oh, she’s average⁠—smokes sometimes, drinks punch, frequently kissed⁠—Oh, yes⁠—common knowledge⁠—one of the effects of the war, you know.
	Emerges Mrs. Connage.
Mrs. Connage	Rosalind’s almost finished so I can go down and meet your friend.
	Alec and his mother go out.
Rosalind	Outside. Oh, mother⁠—
Cecelia	Mother’s gone down.
	And now Rosalind enters. Rosalind is⁠—utterly Rosalind. She is one of those girls who need never make the slightest effort to have men fall in love with them. Two types of men seldom do: dull men are usually afraid of her cleverness and intellectual men are usually afraid of her beauty. All others are hers by natural prerogative.
	If Rosalind could be spoiled the process would have been complete by this time, and as a matter of fact, her disposition is not all it should be; she wants what she wants when she wants it and she is prone to make everyone around her pretty miserable when she doesn’t get it⁠—but in the true sense she is not spoiled. Her fresh enthusiasm, her will to grow and learn, her endless faith in the inexhaustibility of romance, her courage and fundamental honesty⁠—these things are not spoiled.
	There are long periods when she cordially loathes her whole family. She is quite unprincipled; her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez-faire for others. She loves shocking stories: she has that coarse streak that usually goes with natures that are both fine and big. She wants people to like her, but if they do not it never worries her or changes her.
	She is by no means a model character.
	The education of all beautiful women is the knowledge of men. Rosalind had been disappointed in man after man as individuals, but she had great faith in man as a sex. Women she detested. They represented qualities that she felt and despised in herself⁠—incipient meanness, conceit, cowardice, and petty dishonesty. She once told a roomful of her mother’s friends that the only excuse for women was the necessity for a disturbing element among men. She danced exceptionally well, drew cleverly but hastily, and had a startling facility with words, which she used only in love-letters.
	But all criticism of Rosalind ends in her beauty. There was that shade of glorious yellow hair, the desire to imitate which supports the dye industry. There was the eternal kissable mouth, small, slightly sensual, and utterly disturbing. There were gray eyes and an unimpeachable skin with two spots of vanishing color. She was slender and athletic, without underdevelopment, and it was a delight to watch her move about a room, walk along a street, swing a golf club, or turn a “cartwheel.”
	A last qualification⁠—her vivid, instant personality escaped that conscious, theatrical quality that Amory had found in Isabelle. Monsignor Darcy would have been quite up a tree whether to call her a personality or a personage. She was perhaps the delicious, inexpressible, once-in-a-century blend.
	On the night of her debut she is, for all her strange, stray wisdom, quite like a happy little girl. Her mother’s maid has just done her hair, but she has decided impatiently that she can do a better job herself. She is too nervous just now to stay in one place. To that we owe her presence in this littered room. She is going to speak. Isabelle’s alto tones had been like a violin, but if you could hear Rosalind, you would say her voice was musical as a waterfall.
Rosalind	Honestly, there are only two costumes in the world that I really enjoy being in⁠—Combing her hair at the dressing-table. One’s a hoop skirt with pantaloons; the other’s a one-piece bathing-suit. I’m quite charming in both of them.
Cecelia	Glad you’re coming out?
Rosalind	Yes; aren’t you?
Cecelia	Cynically. You’re glad so you can get married and live on Long Island with the fast younger married set. You want life to be a chain of flirtation with a man for every link.
Rosalind	Want it to be one! You mean I’ve found it one.
Cecelia	Ha!
Rosalind	Cecelia, darling, you don’t know what a trial it is to be⁠—like me. I’ve got to keep my face like steel in the street to keep men from winking at me. If I laugh hard from a front row in the theatre, the comedian plays to me for the rest of the evening. If I drop my voice, my eyes, my handkerchief at a dance, my partner calls me up on the phone every day for a week.
Cecelia	It must be an awful strain.
Rosalind	The unfortunate part is that the only men who interest me at all are the totally ineligible ones. Now⁠—if I were poor I’d go on the stage.
Cecelia	Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting you do.
Rosalind	Sometimes when I’ve felt particularly radiant I’ve thought, why should this be wasted on one man?
Cecelia	Often when you’re particularly sulky, I’ve wondered why it should all be wasted on just one family. Getting up. I think I’ll go down and meet Mr. Amory Blaine. I like temperamental men.
Rosalind	There aren’t any. Men don’t know how to be really angry or really happy⁠—and the ones that do, go to pieces.
Cecelia	Well, I’m glad I don’t have all your worries. I’m engaged.
Rosalind	With a scornful smile. Engaged? Why, you little lunatic! If mother heard you talking like that she’d send you off to boarding-school, where you belong.
Cecelia	You won’t tell her, though, because I know things I could tell⁠—and you’re too selfish!
Rosalind	A little annoyed. Run along, little girl! Who are you engaged to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store?
Cecelia	Cheap wit⁠—goodbye, darling, I’ll see you later.
Rosalind	Oh, be sure and do that⁠—you’re such a help.
	Exit Cecelia. Rosalind finished her hair and rises, humming. She goes up to the mirror and starts to dance in front of it on the soft carpet. She watches not her feet, but her eyes⁠—never casually but always intently, even when she smiles. The door suddenly opens and then slams behind Amory, very cool and handsome as usual. He melts into instant confusion.
He	Oh, I’m sorry. I thought⁠—
She	Smiling radiantly. Oh, you’re Amory Blaine, aren’t you?
He	Regarding her closely. And you’re Rosalind?
She	I’m going to call you Amory⁠—oh, come in⁠—it’s all right⁠—mother’ll be right in⁠—under her breath. unfortunately.
He	Gazing around. This is sort of a new wrinkle for me.
She	This is No Man’s Land.
He	This is where you⁠—you⁠—pause.
She	Yes⁠—all those things. She crosses to the bureau. See, here’s my rouge⁠—eye pencils.
He	I didn’t know you were that way.
She	What did you expect?
He	I thought you’d be sort of⁠—sort of⁠—sexless, you know, swim and play golf.
She	Oh, I do⁠—but not in business hours.
He	Business?
She	Six to two⁠—strictly.
He	I’d like to have some stock in the corporation.
She	Oh, it’s not a corporation⁠—it’s just “Rosalind, Unlimited.” Fifty-one shares, name, goodwill, and everything goes at $25,000 a year.
He	Disapprovingly. Sort of a chilly proposition.
She	Well, Amory, you don’t mind⁠—do you? When I meet a man that doesn’t bore me to death after two weeks, perhaps it’ll be different.
He	Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on women.
She	I’m not really feminine, you know⁠—in my mind.
He	Interested. Go on.
She	No, you⁠—you go on⁠—you’ve made me talk about myself. That’s against the rules.
He	Rules?
She	My own rules⁠—but you⁠—Oh, Amory, I hear you’re brilliant. The family expects so much of you.
He	How encouraging!
She	Alec said you’d taught him to think. Did you? I didn’t believe anyone could.
He	No. I’m really quite dull.
	He evidently doesn’t intend this to be taken seriously.
She	Liar.
He	I’m⁠—I’m religious⁠—I’m literary. I’ve⁠—I’ve even written poems.
She	Vers libre⁠—splendid! She declaims. “The trees are green, The birds are singing in the trees, The girl sips her poison The bird flies away the girl dies.”
He	Laughing. No, not that kind.
She	Suddenly. I like you.
He	Don’t.
She	Modest too⁠—
He	I’m afraid of you. I’m always afraid of a girl⁠—until I’ve kissed her.
She	Emphatically. My dear boy, the war is over.
He	So I’ll always be afraid of you.
She	Rather sadly. I suppose you will.
	A slight hesitation on both their parts.
He	After due consideration. Listen. This is a frightful thing to ask.
She	Knowing what’s coming. After five minutes.
He	But will you⁠—kiss me? Or are you afraid?
She	I’m never afraid⁠—but your reasons are so poor.
He	Rosalind, I really want to kiss you.
She	So do I.
	They kiss⁠—definitely and thoroughly.
He	After a breathless second. Well, is your curiosity satisfied?
She	Is yours?
He	No, it’s only aroused.
	He looks it.
She	Dreamily. I’ve kissed dozens of men. I suppose I’ll kiss dozens more.
He	Abstractedly. Yes, I suppose you could⁠—like that.
She	Most people like the way I kiss.
He	Remembering himself. Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, Rosalind.
She	No⁠—my curiosity is generally satisfied at one.
He	Discouraged. Is that a rule?
She	I make rules to fit the cases.
He	You and I are somewhat alike⁠—except that I’m years older in experience.
She	How old are you?
He	Almost twenty-three. You?
She	Nineteen⁠—just.
He	I suppose you’re the product of a fashionable school.
She	No⁠—I’m fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence⁠—I’ve forgotten why.
He	What’s your general trend?
She	Oh, I’m bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond of admiration⁠—
He	Suddenly. I don’t want to fall in love with you⁠—
She	Raising her eyebrows. Nobody asked you to.
He	Continuing coldly. But I probably will. I love your mouth.
She	Hush! Please don’t fall in love with my mouth⁠—hair, eyes, shoulders, slippers⁠—but not my mouth. Everybody falls in love with my mouth.
He	It’s quite beautiful.
She	It’s too small.
He	No it isn’t⁠—let’s see.
	He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.
She	Rather moved. Say something sweet.
He	Frightened. Lord help me.
She	Drawing away. Well, don’t⁠—if it’s so hard.
He	Shall we pretend? So soon?
She	We haven’t the same standards of time as other people.
He	Already it’s⁠—other people.
She	Let’s pretend.
He	No⁠—I can’t⁠—it’s sentiment.
She	You’re not sentimental?
He	No, I’m romantic⁠—a sentimental person thinks things will last⁠—a romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t. Sentiment is emotional.
She	And you’re not? With her eyes half-closed. You probably flatter yourself that that’s a superior attitude.
He	Well⁠—Rosalind, Rosalind, don’t argue⁠—kiss me again.
She	Quite chilly now. No⁠—I have no desire to kiss you.
He	Openly taken aback. You wanted to kiss me a minute ago.
She	This is now.
He	I’d better go.
She	I suppose so.
	He goes toward the door.
She	Oh!
	He turns.
She	Laughing. Score⁠—Home Team: One hundred⁠—Opponents: Zero.
	He starts back.
She	Quickly. Rain⁠—no game.
	He goes out.
	She goes quietly to the chiffonier, takes out a cigarette-case and hides it in the side drawer of a desk. Her mother enters, notebook in hand.
Mrs. Connage	Good⁠—I’ve been wanting to speak to you alone before we go downstairs.
Rosalind	Heavens! you frighten me!
Mrs. Connage	Rosalind, you’ve been a very expensive proposition.
Rosalind	Resignedly. Yes.
Mrs. Connage	And you know your father hasn’t what he once had.
Rosalind	Making a wry face. Oh, please don’t talk about money.
Mrs. Connage	You can’t do anything without it. This is our last year in this house⁠—and unless things change Cecelia won’t have the advantages you’ve had.
Rosalind	Impatiently. Well⁠—what is it?
Mrs. Connage	So I ask you to please mind me in several things I’ve put down in my notebook. The first one is: don’t disappear with young men. There may be a time when it’s valuable, but at present I want you on the dance floor where I can find you. There are certain men I want to have you meet and I don’t like finding you in some corner of the conservatory exchanging silliness with anyone⁠—or listening to it.
Rosalind	Sarcastically. Yes, listening to it is better.
Mrs. Connage	And don’t waste a lot of time with the college set⁠—little boys nineteen and twenty years old. I don’t mind a prom or a football game, but staying away from advantageous parties to eat in little cafés downtown with Tom, Dick, and Harry⁠—
Rosalind	Offering her code, which is, in its way, quite as high as her mother’s. Mother, it’s done⁠—you can’t run everything now the way you did in the early nineties.
Mrs. Connage	Paying no attention. There are several bachelor friends of your father’s that I want you to meet tonight⁠—youngish men.
Rosalind	Nodding wisely. About forty-five?
Mrs. Connage	Sharply. Why not?
Rosalind	Oh, quite all right⁠—they know life and are so adorably tired looking shakes her head.⁠—but they will dance.
Mrs. Connage	I haven’t met Mr. Blaine⁠—but I don’t think you’ll care for him. He doesn’t sound like a moneymaker.
Rosalind	Mother, I never think about money.
Mrs. Connage	You never keep it long enough to think about it.
Rosalind	Sighs. Yes, I suppose some day I’ll marry a ton of it⁠—out of sheer boredom.
Mrs. Connage	Referring to notebook. I had a wire from Hartford. Dawson Ryder is coming up. Now there’s a young man I like, and he’s floating in money. It seems to me that since you seem tired of Howard Gillespie you might give Mr. Ryder some encouragement. This is the third time he’s been up in a month.
Rosalind	How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie?
Mrs. Connage	The poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes.
Rosalind	That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. They’re all wrong.
Mrs. Connage	Her say said. At any rate, make us proud of you tonight.
Rosalind	Don’t you think I’m beautiful?
Mrs. Connage	You know you are.
	From downstairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of a drum. Mrs. Connage* turns quickly to her daughter.*
Mrs. Connage	Come!
Rosalind	One minute!
	Her mother leaves. Rosalind goes to the glass where she gazes at herself with great satisfaction. She kisses her hand and touches her mirrored mouth with it. Then she turns out the lights and leaves the room. Silence for a moment. A few chords from the piano, the discreet patter of faint drums, the rustle of new silk, all blend on the staircase outside and drift in through the partly opened door. Bundled figures pass in the lighted hall. The laughter heard below becomes doubled and multiplied. Then someone comes in, closes the door, and switches on the lights. It is Cecelia. She goes to the chiffonier, looks in the drawers, hesitates⁠—then to the desk whence she takes the cigarette-case and extracts one. She lights it and then, puffing and blowing, walks toward the mirror.
Cecelia	In tremendously sophisticated accents. Oh, yes, coming out is such a farce nowadays, you know. One really plays around so much before one is seventeen, that it’s positively anticlimax. Shaking hands with a visionary middle-aged nobleman. Yes, your grace⁠—I b’lieve I’ve heard my sister speak of you. Have a puff⁠—they’re very good. They’re⁠—they’re Coronas. You don’t smoke? What a pity! The king doesn’t allow it, I suppose. Yes, I’ll dance.
	So she dances around the room to a tune from downstairs, her arms outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand.

Several Hours Later

	The corner of a den downstairs, filled by a very comfortable leather lounge. A small light is on each side above, and in the middle, over the couch hangs a painting of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period 1860. Outside the music is heard in a foxtrot.
	Rosalind is seated on the lounge and on her left is Howard Gillespie, a vapid youth of about twenty-four. He is obviously very unhappy, and she is quite bored.
Gillespie	Feebly. What do you mean I’ve changed. I feel the same toward you.
Rosalind	But you don’t look the same to me.
Gillespie	Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I was so blasé, so indifferent⁠—I still am.
Rosalind	But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown eyes and thin legs.
Gillespie	Helplessly. They’re still thin and brown. You’re a vampire, that’s all.
Rosalind	The only thing I know about vamping is what’s on the piano score. What confuses men is that I’m perfectly natural. I used to think you were never jealous. Now you follow me with your eyes wherever I go.
Gillespie	I love you.
Rosalind	Coldly. I know it.
Gillespie	And you haven’t kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that after a girl was kissed she was⁠—was⁠—won.
Rosalind	Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me.
Gillespie	Are you serious?
Rosalind	About as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now there’s a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he’d kissed a girl, everyone knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same everyone knows it’s because he can’t kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays.
Gillespie	Then why do you play with men?
Rosalind	Leaning forward confidentially. For that first moment, when he’s interested. There is a moment⁠—Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word⁠—something that makes it worth while.
Gillespie	And then?
Rosalind	Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty soon he thinks of nothing but being alone with you⁠—he sulks, he won’t fight, he doesn’t want to play⁠—Victory!
	Enter Dawson Ryder, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.
Ryder	I believe this is my dance, Rosalind.
Rosalind	Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven’t got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie.
	They shake hands and Gillespie* leaves, tremendously downcast.*
Ryder	Your party is certainly a success.
Rosalind	Is it⁠—I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary⁠—Do you mind sitting out a minute?
Ryder	Mind⁠—I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing” idea. See a girl yesterday, today, tomorrow.
Rosalind	Dawson!
Ryder	What?
Rosalind	I wonder if you know you love me.
Ryder	Startled. What⁠—Oh⁠—you know you’re remarkable!
Rosalind	Because you know I’m an awful proposition. Anyone who marries me will have his hands full. I’m mean⁠—mighty mean.
Ryder	Oh, I wouldn’t say that.
Rosalind	Oh, yes, I am⁠—especially to the people nearest to me. She rises. Come, let’s go. I’ve changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother is probably having a fit.
	Exeunt. Enter Alec* and Cecelia.*
Cecelia	Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission.
Alec	Gloomily. I’ll go if you want me to.
Cecelia	Good heavens, no⁠—with whom would I begin the next dance? Sighs. There’s no color in a dance since the French officers went back.
Alec	Thoughtfully. I don’t want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind.
Cecelia	Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want.
Alec	I did, but since seeing these girls⁠—I don’t know. I’m awfully attached to Amory. He’s sensitive and I don’t want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn’t care about him.
Cecelia	He’s very good looking.
Alec	Still thoughtfully. She won’t marry him, but a girl doesn’t have to marry a man to break his heart.
Cecelia	What does it? I wish I knew the secret.
Alec	Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It’s lucky for some that the Lord gave you a pug nose.
	Enter Mrs. Connage.
Mrs. Connage	Where on earth is Rosalind?
Alec	Brilliantly. Of course you’ve come to the best people to find out. She’d naturally be with us.
Mrs. Connage	Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to meet her.
Alec	You might form a squad and march through the halls.
Mrs. Connage	I’m perfectly serious⁠—for all I know she may be at the Coconut Grove with some football player on the night of her début. You look left and I’ll⁠—
Alec	Flippantly. Hadn’t you better send the butler through the cellar?
Mrs. Connage	Perfectly serious. Oh, you don’t think she’d be there?
Cecelia	He’s only joking, mother.
Alec	Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high hurdler.
Mrs. Connage	Let’s look right away.
	They go out. Rosalind* comes in with Gillespie.*
Gillespie	Rosalind⁠—Once more I ask you. Don’t you care a blessed thing about me?
	Amory walks in briskly.
Amory	My dance.
Rosalind	Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine.
Gillespie	I’ve met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren’t you?
Amory	Yes.
Gillespie	Desperately. I’ve been there. It’s in the⁠—the Middle West, isn’t it?
Amory	Spicily. Approximately. But I always felt that I’d rather be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning.
Gillespie	What!
Amory	Oh, no offense.
	Gillespie bows and leaves.
Rosalind	He’s too much people.
Amory	I was in love with a people once.
Rosalind	So?
Amory	Oh, yes⁠—her name was Isabelle⁠—nothing at all to her except what I read into her.
Rosalind	What happened?
Amory	Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was⁠—then she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, you know.
Rosalind	What do you mean impractical?
Amory	Oh⁠—drive a car, but can’t change a tire.
Rosalind	What are you going to do?
Amory	Can’t say⁠—run for President, write⁠—
Rosalind	Greenwich Village?
Amory	Good heavens, no⁠—I said write⁠—not drink.
Rosalind	I like businessmen. Clever men are usually so homely.
Amory	I feel as if I’d known you for ages.
Rosalind	Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story?
Amory	No⁠—I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you were one of my⁠—my⁠—Changing his tone. Suppose⁠—we fell in love.
Rosalind	I’ve suggested pretending.
Amory	If we did it would be very big.
Rosalind	Why?
Amory	Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.
Rosalind	Turning her lips up. Pretend.
	Very deliberately they kiss.
Amory	I can’t say sweet things. But you are beautiful.
Rosalind	Not that.
Amory	What then?
Rosalind	Sadly. Oh, nothing⁠—only I want sentiment, real sentiment⁠—and I never find it.
Amory	I never find anything else in the world⁠—and I loathe it.
Rosalind	It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic taste.
	Someone has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the room. Rosalind rises.
Rosalind	Listen! they’re playing “Kiss Me Again.”
	He looks at her.
Amory	Well?
Rosalind	Well?
Amory	Softly⁠—the battle lost. I love you.
Rosalind	I love you⁠—now.
	They kiss.
Amory	Oh, God, what have I done?
Rosalind	Nothing. Oh, don’t talk. Kiss me again.
Amory	I don’t know why or how, but I love you⁠—from the moment I saw you.
Rosalind	Me too⁠—I⁠—I⁠—oh, tonight’s tonight.
	Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: “Oh, excuse me,” and goes.
Rosalind	Her lips scarcely stirring. Don’t let me go⁠—I don’t care who knows what I do.
Amory	Say it!
Rosalind	I love you⁠—now. They part. Oh⁠—I am very youthful, thank God⁠—and rather beautiful, thank God⁠—and happy, thank God, thank God⁠—She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, adds. Poor Amory!
	He kisses her again.

Kismet

Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately in love. The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of them a dozen romances were dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over them.

“It may be an insane love-affair,” she told her anxious mother, “but it’s not inane.”

The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March, where he alternated between astonishing bursts of rather exceptional work and wild dreams of becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind.

They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly every evening⁠—always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they feared that any minute the spell would break and drop them out of this paradise of rose and flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase from day to day; they began to talk of marrying in July⁠—in June. All life was transmitted into terms of their love, all experience, all desires, all ambitions, were nullified⁠—their senses of humor crawled into corners to sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely regretted juvenalia.

For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement and was hurrying into line with his generation.

A Little Interlude

Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as inevitably his⁠—the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets⁠ ⁠… it seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these countless lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing⁠—he moved in a half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying toward him with eager feet from every corner.⁠ ⁠… How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even his dreams now were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the summer air.

The room was in darkness except for the faint glow of Tom’s cigarette where he lounged by the open window. As the door shut behind him, Amory stood a moment with his back against it.

“Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business today?”

Amory sprawled on a couch.

“I loathed it as usual!” The momentary vision of the bustling agency was displaced quickly by another picture.

“My God! She’s wonderful!”

Tom sighed.

“I can’t tell you,” repeated Amory, “just how wonderful she is. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want anyone to know.”

Another sigh came from the window⁠—quite a resigned sigh.

“She’s life and hope and happiness, my whole world now.”

He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid.

“Oh, golly, Tom!”

Bitter Sweet

“Sit like we do,” she whispered.

He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle inside them.

“I knew you’d come tonight,” she said softly, “like summer, just when I needed you most⁠ ⁠… darling⁠ ⁠… darling⁠ ⁠…”

His lips moved lazily over her face.

“You taste so good,” he sighed.

“How do you mean, lover?”

“Oh, just sweet, just sweet⁠ ⁠…” he held her closer.

“Amory,” she whispered, “when you’re ready for me I’ll marry you.”

“We won’t have much at first.”

“Don’t!” she cried. “It hurts when you reproach yourself for what you can’t give me. I’ve got your precious self⁠—and that’s enough for me.”

“Tell me⁠ ⁠…”

“You know, don’t you? Oh, you know.”

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you, Amory, with all my heart.”

“Always, will you?”

“All my life⁠—Oh, Amory⁠—”

“What?”

“I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to have your babies.”

“But I haven’t any people.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me.”

“I’ll do what you want,” he said.

“No, I’ll do what you want. We’re you⁠—not me. Oh, you’re so much a part, so much all of me⁠ ⁠…”

He closed his eyes.

“I’m so happy that I’m frightened. Wouldn’t it be awful if this was⁠—was the high point?⁠ ⁠…”

She looked at him dreamily.

“Beauty and love pass, I know.⁠ ⁠… Oh, there’s sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses⁠—”

“Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony.⁠ ⁠…”

“And, Amory, we’re beautiful, I know. I’m sure God loves us⁠—”

“He loves you. You’re his most precious possession.”

“I’m not his, I’m yours. Amory, I belong to you. For the first time I regret all the other kisses; now I know how much a kiss can mean.”

Then they would smoke and he would tell her about his day at the office⁠—and where they might live. Sometimes, when he was particularly loquacious, she went to sleep in his arms, but he loved that Rosalind⁠—all Rosalinds⁠—as he had never in the world loved anyone else. Intangibly fleeting, unrememberable hours.

Aquatic Incident

One day Amory and Howard Gillespie meeting by accident downtown took lunch together, and Amory heard a story that delighted him. Gillespie after several cocktails was in a talkative mood; he began by telling Amory that he was sure Rosalind was slightly eccentric.

He had gone with her on a swimming party up in Westchester County, and someone mentioned that Annette Kellerman had been there one day on a visit and had dived from the top of a rickety, thirty-foot summer house. Immediately Rosalind insisted that Howard should climb up with her to see what it looked like.

A minute later, as he sat and dangled his feet on the edge, a form shot by him; Rosalind, her arms spread in a beautiful swan dive, had sailed through the air into the clear water.

“Of course I had to go, after that⁠—and I nearly killed myself. I thought I was pretty good to even try it. Nobody else in the party tried it. Well, afterward Rosalind had the nerve to ask me why I stooped over when I dove. ‘It didn’t make it any easier,’ she said, ‘it just took all the courage out of it.’ I ask you, what can a man do with a girl like that? Unnecessary, I call it.”

Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly all through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow optimists.

Five Weeks Later

Again the library of the Connage house. Rosalind is alone, sitting on the lounge staring very moodily and unhappily at nothing. She has changed perceptibly⁠—she is a trifle thinner for one thing; the light in her eyes is not so bright; she looks easily a year older.

Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in Rosalind with a nervous glance.

Mrs. Connage	Who is coming tonight?
	Rosalind fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.
Mrs. Connage	Alec is coming up to take me to this Barrie play, Et Tu, Brutus. She perceives that she is talking to herself. Rosalind! I asked you who is coming tonight?
Rosalind	Starting. Oh⁠—what⁠—oh⁠—Amory⁠—
Mrs. Connage	Sarcastically. You have so many admirers lately that I couldn’t imagine which one. (Rosalind doesn’t answer.) Dawson Ryder is more patient than I thought he’d be. You haven’t given him an evening this week.
Rosalind	With a very weary expression that is quite new to her face. Mother⁠—please⁠—
Mrs. Connage	Oh, I won’t interfere. You’ve already wasted over two months on a theoretical genius who hasn’t a penny to his name, but go ahead, waste your life on him. I won’t interfere.
Rosalind	As if repeating a tiresome lesson. You know he has a little income⁠—and you know he’s earning thirty-five dollars a week in advertising⁠—
Mrs. Connage	And it wouldn’t buy your clothes. She pauses but Rosalind* makes no reply.* I have your best interests at heart when I tell you not to take a step you’ll spend your days regretting. It’s not as if your father could help you. Things have been hard for him lately and he’s an old man. You’d be dependent absolutely on a dreamer, a nice, wellborn boy, but a dreamer⁠—merely clever. She implies that this quality in itself is rather vicious.
Rosalind	For heaven’s sake, mother⁠—
	A maid appears, announces Mr. Blaine who follows immediately. Amory’s friends have been telling him for ten days that he “looks like the wrath of God,” and he does. As a matter of fact he has not been able to eat a mouthful in the last thirty-six hours.
Amory	Good evening, Mrs. Connage.
Mrs. Connage	Not unkindly. Good evening, Amory.
	Amory and Rosalind exchange glances⁠—and Alec comes in. Alec’s attitude throughout has been neutral. He believes in his heart that the marriage would make Amory mediocre and Rosalind miserable, but he feels a great sympathy for both of them.
Alec	Hi, Amory!
Amory	Hi, Alec! Tom said he’d meet you at the theatre.
Alec	Yeah, just saw him. How’s the advertising today? Write some brilliant copy?
Amory	Oh, it’s about the same. I got a raise⁠—Everyone looks at him rather eagerly.⁠—of two dollars a week. General collapse.
Mrs. Connage	Come, Alec, I hear the car.
	A good night, rather chilly in sections. After Mrs. Connage and Alec go out there is a pause. Rosalind still stares moodily at the fireplace. Amory goes to her and puts his arm around her.
Amory	Darling girl.
	They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it with kisses and holds it to her breast.
Rosalind	Sadly. I love your hands, more than anything. I see them often when you’re away from me⁠—so tired; I know every line of them. Dear hands!
	Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry⁠—a tearless sobbing.
Amory	Rosalind!
Rosalind	Oh, we’re so darned pitiful!
Amory	Rosalind!
Rosalind	Oh, I want to die!
Amory	Rosalind, another night of this and I’ll go to pieces. You’ve been this way four days now. You’ve got to be more encouraging or I can’t work or eat or sleep. He looks around helplessly as if searching for new words to clothe an old, shopworn phrase. We’ll have to make a start. I like having to make a start together. His forced hopefulness fades as he sees her unresponsive. What’s the matter? He gets up suddenly and starts to pace the floor. It’s Dawson Ryder, that’s what it is. He’s been working on your nerves. You’ve been with him every afternoon for a week. People come and tell me they’ve seen you together, and I have to smile and nod and pretend it hasn’t the slightest significance for me. And you won’t tell me anything as it develops.
Rosalind	Amory, if you don’t sit down I’ll scream.
Amory	Sitting down suddenly beside her. Oh, Lord.
Rosalind	Taking his hand gently. You know I love you, don’t you?
Amory	Yes.
Rosalind	You know I’ll always love you⁠—
Amory	Don’t talk that way; you frighten me. It sounds as if we weren’t going to have each other. She cries a little and rising from the couch goes to the armchair. I’ve felt all afternoon that things were worse. I nearly went wild down at the office⁠—couldn’t write a line. Tell me everything.
Rosalind	There’s nothing to tell, I say. I’m just nervous.
Amory	Rosalind, you’re playing with the idea of marrying Dawson Ryder.
Rosalind	After a pause. He’s been asking me to all day.
Amory	Well, he’s got his nerve!
Rosalind	After another pause. I like him.
Amory	Don’t say that. It hurts me.
Rosalind	Don’t be a silly idiot. You know you’re the only man I’ve ever loved, ever will love.
Amory	Quickly. Rosalind, let’s get married⁠—next week.
Rosalind	We can’t.
Amory	Why not?
Rosalind	Oh, we can’t. I’d be your squaw⁠—in some horrible place.
Amory	We’ll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month all told.
Rosalind	Darling, I don’t even do my own hair, usually.
Amory	I’ll do it for you.
Rosalind	Between a laugh and a sob. Thanks.
Amory	Rosalind, you can’t be thinking of marrying someone else. Tell me! You leave me in the dark. I can help you fight it out if you’ll only tell me.
Rosalind	It’s just⁠—us. We’re pitiful, that’s all. The very qualities I love you for are the ones that will always make you a failure.
Amory	Grimly. Go on.
Rosalind	Oh⁠—it is Dawson Ryder. He’s so reliable, I almost feel that he’d be a⁠—a background.
Amory	You don’t love him.
Rosalind	I know, but I respect him, and he’s a good man and a strong one.
Amory	Grudgingly. Yes⁠—he’s that.
Rosalind	Well⁠—here’s one little thing. There was a little poor boy we met in Rye Tuesday afternoon⁠—and, oh, Dawson took him on his lap and talked to him and promised him an Indian suit⁠—and next day he remembered and bought it⁠—and, oh, it was so sweet and I couldn’t help thinking he’d be so nice to⁠—to our children⁠—take care of them⁠—and I wouldn’t have to worry.
Amory	In despair. Rosalind! Rosalind!
Rosalind	With a faint roguishness. Don’t look so consciously suffering.
Amory	What power we have of hurting each other!
Rosalind	Commencing to sob again. It’s been so perfect⁠—you and I. So like a dream that I’d longed for and never thought I’d find. The first real unselfishness I’ve ever felt in my life. And I can’t see it fade out in a colorless atmosphere!
Amory	It won’t⁠—it won’t!
Rosalind	I’d rather keep it as a beautiful memory⁠—tucked away in my heart.
Amory	Yes, women can do that⁠—but not men. I’d remember always, not the beauty of it while it lasted, but just the bitterness, the long bitterness.
Rosalind	Don’t!
Amory	All the years never to see you, never to kiss you, just a gate shut and barred⁠—you don’t dare be my wife.
Rosalind	No⁠—no⁠—I’m taking the hardest course, the strongest course. Marrying you would be a failure and I never fail⁠—if you don’t stop walking up and down I’ll scream!
	Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.
Amory	Come over here and kiss me.
Rosalind	No.
Amory	Don’t you want to kiss me?
Rosalind	Tonight I want you to love me calmly and coolly.
Amory	The beginning of the end.
Rosalind	With a burst of insight. Amory, you’re young. I’m young. People excuse us now for our poses and vanities, for treating people like Sancho and yet getting away with it. They excuse us now. But you’ve got a lot of knocks coming to you⁠—
Amory	And you’re afraid to take them with me.
Rosalind	No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere⁠—you’ll say Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh⁠—but listen: “For this is wisdom⁠—to love and live, To take what fate or the gods may give, To ask no question, to make no prayer, To kiss the lips and caress the hair, Speed passion’s ebb as we greet its flow, To have and to hold, and, in time⁠—let go.”
Amory	But we haven’t had.
Rosalind	Amory, I’m yours⁠—you know it. There have been times in the last month I’d have been completely yours if you’d said so. But I can’t marry you and ruin both our lives.
Amory	We’ve got to take our chance for happiness.
Rosalind	Dawson says I’d learn to love him.
	Amory with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life seems suddenly gone out of him.
Rosalind	Lover! Lover! I can’t do with you, and I can’t imagine life without you.
Amory	Rosalind, we’re on each other’s nerves. It’s just that we’re both high-strung, and this week⁠—
	His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his face in her hands, kisses him.
Rosalind	I can’t, Amory. I can’t be shut away from the trees and flowers, cooped up in a little flat, waiting for you. You’d hate me in a narrow atmosphere. I’d make you hate me.
	Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.
Amory	Rosalind⁠—
Rosalind	Oh, darling, go⁠—Don’t make it harder! I can’t stand it⁠—
Amory	His face drawn, his voice strained. Do you know what you’re saying? Do you mean forever?
	There is a difference somehow in the quality of their suffering.
Rosalind	Can’t you see⁠—
Amory	I’m afraid I can’t if you love me. You’re afraid of taking two years’ knocks with me.
Rosalind	I wouldn’t be the Rosalind you love.
Amory	A little hysterically. I can’t give you up! I can’t, that’s all! I’ve got to have you!
Rosalind	A hard note in her voice. You’re being a baby now.
Amory	Wildly. I don’t care! You’re spoiling our lives!
Rosalind	I’m doing the wise thing, the only thing.
Amory	Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder?
Rosalind	Oh, don’t ask me. You know I’m old in some ways⁠—in others⁠—well, I’m just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness⁠—and I dread responsibility. I don’t want to think about pots and kitchens and brooms. I want to worry whether my legs will get slick and brown when I swim in the summer.
Amory	And you love me.
Rosalind	That’s just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. We can’t have any more scenes like this.
	She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their eyes blind again with tears.
Amory	His lips against her wet cheek. Don’t! Keep it, please⁠—oh, don’t break my heart!
	She presses the ring softly into his hand.
Rosalind	Brokenly. You’d better go.
Amory	Goodbye⁠—
	She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite sadness.
Rosalind	Don’t ever forget me, Amory⁠—
Amory	Goodbye⁠—
	He goes to the door, fumbles for the knob, finds it⁠—she sees him throw back his head⁠—and he is gone. Gone⁠—she half starts from the lounge and then sinks forward on her face into the pillows.
Rosalind	Oh, God, I want to die! After a moment she rises and with her eyes closed feels her way to the door. Then she turns and looks once more at the room. Here they had sat and dreamed: that tray she had so often filled with matches for him; that shade that they had discreetly lowered one long Sunday afternoon. Misty-eyed she stands and remembers; she speaks aloud. Oh, Amory, what have I done to you?
	And deep under the aching sadness that will pass in time, Rosalind feels that she has lost something, she knows not what, she knows not why.