The Beautiful and Damned - F. Scott Fitzgerald (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

returned to New York, where husband and wife passed a restless week. A little incident that occurred one evening indicated to what tension their nerves were drawn.

Walking home along a cross-street after dinner, Anthony noticed a night-bound cat prowling near a railing.

“I always have an instinct to kick a cat,” he said idly.

“I like them.”

“I yielded to it once.”

“When?”

“Oh, years ago; before I met you. One night between the acts of a show. Cold night, like this, and I was a little tight⁠—one of the first times I was ever tight,” he added. “The poor little beggar was looking for a place to sleep, I guess, and I was in a mean mood, so it took my fancy to kick it⁠—”

“Oh, the poor kitty!” cried Gloria, sincerely moved. Inspired with the narrative instinct, Anthony enlarged on the theme.

“It was pretty bad,” he admitted. “The poor little beast turned around and looked at me rather plaintively as though hoping I’d pick him up and be kind to him⁠—he was really just a kitten⁠—and before he knew it a big foot launched out at him and caught his little back⁠—”

“Oh!” Gloria’s cry was full of anguish.

“It was such a cold night,” he continued, perversely, keeping his voice upon a melancholy note. “I guess it expected kindness from somebody, and it got only pain⁠—”

He broke off suddenly⁠—Gloria was sobbing. They had reached home, and when they entered the apartment she threw herself upon the lounge, crying as though he had struck at her very soul.

“Oh, the poor little kitty!” she repeated piteously, “the poor little kitty. So cold⁠—”

“Gloria⁠—”

“Don’t come near me! Please, don’t come near me. You killed the soft little kitty.”

Touched, Anthony knelt beside her.

“Dear,” he said. “Oh, Gloria, darling. It isn’t true. I invented it⁠—every word of it.”

But she would not believe him. There had been something in the details he had chosen to describe that made her cry herself asleep that night, for the kitten, for Anthony for herself, for the pain and bitterness and cruelty of all the world.

The Passing of an American Moralist

Old Adam died on a midnight of late November with a pious compliment to his God on his thin lips. He, who had been flattered so much, faded out flattering the Omnipotent Abstraction which he fancied he might have angered in the more lascivious moments of his youth. It was announced that he had arranged some sort of an armistice with the deity, the terms of which were not made public, though they were thought to have included a large cash payment. All the newspapers printed his biography, and two of them ran short editorials on his sterling worth, and his part in the drama of industrialism, with which he had grown up. They referred guardedly to the reforms he had sponsored and financed. The memories of Comstock and Cato the Censor were resuscitated and paraded like gaunt ghosts through the columns.

Every newspaper remarked that he was survived by a single grandson, Anthony Comstock Patch, of New York.

The burial took place in the family plot at Tarrytown. Anthony and Gloria rode in the first carriage, too worried to feel grotesque, both trying desperately to glean presage of fortune from the faces of retainers who had been with him at the end.

They waited a frantic week for decency, and then, having received no notification of any kind, Anthony called up his grandfather’s lawyer. Mr. Brett was not he was expected back in an hour. Anthony left his telephone number.

It was the last day of November, cool and crackling outside, with a lustreless sun peering bleakly in at the windows. While they waited for the call, ostensibly engaged in reading, the atmosphere, within and without, seemed pervaded with a deliberate rendition of the pathetic fallacy. After an interminable while, the bell jingled, and Anthony, starting violently, took up the receiver.

“Hello⁠ ⁠…” His voice was strained and hollow. “Yes⁠—I did leave word. Who is this, please?⁠ ⁠… Yes.⁠ ⁠… Why, it was about the estate. Naturally I’m interested, and I’ve received no word about the reading of the will⁠—I thought you might not have my address.⁠ ⁠… What?⁠ ⁠… Yes⁠ ⁠…”

Gloria fell on her knees. The intervals between Anthony’s speeches were like tourniquets winding on her heart. She found herself helplessly twisting the large buttons from a velvet cushion. Then:

“That’s⁠—that’s very, very odd⁠—that’s very odd⁠—that’s very odd. Not even any⁠—ah⁠—mention or any⁠—ah⁠—reason?”

His voice sounded faint and far away. She uttered a little sound, half gasp, half cry.

“Yes, I’ll see.⁠ ⁠… All right, thanks⁠ ⁠… thanks.⁠ ⁠…”

The phone clicked. Her eyes looking along the floor saw his feet cut the pattern of a patch of sunlight on the carpet. She arose and faced him with a gray, level glance just as his arms folded about her.

“My dearest,” he whispered huskily. “He did it, God damn him!”

Next Day

“Who are the heirs?” asked Mr. Haight. “You see when you can tell me so little about it⁠—”

Mr. Haight was tall and bent and beetle-browed. He had been recommended to Anthony as an astute and tenacious lawyer.

“I only know vaguely,” answered Anthony. “A man named Shuttleworth, who was a sort of pet of his, has the whole thing in charge as administrator or trustee or something⁠—all except the direct bequests to charity and the provisions for servants and for those two cousins in Idaho.”

“How distant are the cousins?”

“Oh, third or fourth, anyway. I never even heard of them.”

Mr. Haight nodded comprehensively.

“And you want to contest a provision of the will?”

“I guess so,” admitted Anthony helplessly. “I want to do what sounds most hopeful⁠—that’s what I want you to tell me.”

“You want them to refuse probate to the will?”

Anthony shook his head.

“You’ve got me. I haven’t any idea what ‘probate’ is. I want a share of the estate.”

“Suppose you tell me some more details. For instance, do you know why the testator disinherited you?”

“Why⁠—yes,” began Anthony. “You see he was always a sucker for moral reform, and all that⁠—”

“I know,” interjected Mr. Haight humorlessly.

“⁠—and I don’t suppose he ever thought I was much good. I