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

it diminished to the faintest of drums⁠—then to a faraway droning eagle.

There were the bells and the continued low blur of auto horns from Fifth Avenue, but his own street was silent and he was safe in here from all the threat of life, for there was his door and the long hall and his guardian bedroom⁠—safe, safe! The arc-light shining into his window seemed for this hour like the moon, only brighter and more beautiful than the moon.

A Flashback in Paradise

Beauty, who was born anew every hundred years, sat in a sort of outdoor waiting room through which blew gusts of white wind and occasionally a breathless hurried star. The stars winked at her intimately as they went by and the winds made a soft incessant flurry in her hair. She was incomprehensible, for, in her, soul and spirit were one⁠—the beauty of her body was the essence of her soul. She was that unity sought for by philosophers through many centuries. In this outdoor waiting room of winds and stars she had been sitting for a hundred years, at peace in the contemplation of herself.

It became known to her, at length, that she was to be born again. Sighing, she began a long conversation with a voice that was in the white wind, a conversation that took many hours and of which I can give only a fragment here.

Beauty Her lips scarcely stirring, her eyes turned, as always, inward upon herself. Whither shall I journey now? The Voice To a new country⁠—a land you have never seen before. Beauty Petulantly. I loathe breaking into these new civilizations. How long a stay this time? The Voice Fifteen years. Beauty And what’s the name of the place? The Voice It is the most opulent, most gorgeous land on earth⁠—a land whose wisest are but little wiser than its dullest; a land where the rulers have minds like little children and the lawgivers believe in Santa Claus; where ugly women control strong men⁠— Beauty In astonishment. What? The Voice Very much depressed. Yes, it is truly a melancholy spectacle. Women with receding chins and shapeless noses go about in broad daylight saying “Do this!” and “Do that!” and all the men, even those of great wealth, obey implicitly their women to whom they refer sonorously either as “Mrs. So-and-so” or as “the wife.” Beauty But this can’t be true! I can understand, of course, their obedience to women of charm⁠—but to fat women? to bony women? to women with scrawny cheeks? The Voice Even so. Beauty What of me? What chance shall I have? The Voice It will be “harder going,” if I may borrow a phrase. Beauty After a dissatisfied pause. Why not the old lands, the land of grapes and soft-tongued men or the land of ships and seas? The Voice It’s expected that they’ll be very busy shortly. Beauty Oh! The Voice Your life on earth will be, as always, the interval between two significant glances in a mundane mirror. Beauty What will I be? Tell me? The Voice At first it was thought that you would go this time as an actress in the motion pictures but, after all, it’s not advisable. You will be disguised during your fifteen years as what is called a “susciety gurl.” Beauty What’s that? There is a new sound in the wind which must for our purposes be interpreted as The Voice scratching its head. The Voice At length. It’s a sort of bogus aristocrat. Beauty “Bogus”? What is bogus? The Voice That, too, you will discover in this land. You will find much that is bogus. Also, you will do much that is bogus. Beauty Placidly. It all sounds so vulgar. The Voice Not half as vulgar as it is. You will be known during your fifteen years as a ragtime kid, a flapper, a jazz-baby, and a baby vamp. You will dance new dances neither more nor less gracefully than you danced the old ones. Beauty In a whisper. Will I be paid? The Voice Yes, as usual⁠—in love. Beauty With a faint laugh which disturbs only momentarily the immobility of her lips. And will I like being called a jazz-baby? The Voice Soberly. You will love it.⁠ ⁠…

The dialogue ends here, with Beauty still sitting quietly, the stars pausing in an ecstasy of appreciation, the wind, white and gusty, blowing through her hair.

All this took place seven years before Anthony sat by the front windows of his apartment and listened to the chimes of St. Anne’s.

II Portrait of a Siren

Crispness folded down upon New York a month later, bringing November and the three big football games and a great fluttering of furs along Fifth Avenue. It brought, also, a sense of tension to the city, and suppressed excitement. Every morning now there were invitations in Anthony’s mail. Three dozen virtuous females of the first layer were proclaiming their fitness, if not their specific willingness, to bear children unto three dozen millionaires. Five dozen virtuous females of the second layer were proclaiming not only this fitness, but in addition a tremendous undaunted ambition toward the first three dozen young men, who were of course invited to each of the ninety-six parties⁠—as were the young lady’s group of family friends, acquaintances, college boys, and eager young outsiders. To continue, there was a third layer from the skirts of the city, from Newark and the Jersey suburbs up to bitter Connecticut and the ineligible sections of Long Island⁠—and doubtless contiguous layers down to the city’s shoes: Jewesses were coming out into a society of Jewish men and women, from Riverside to the Bronx, and looking forward to a rising young broker or jeweller and a kosher wedding; Irish girls were casting their eyes, with license at last to do so, upon a society of young Tammany politicians, pious undertakers, and grownup choirboys.

And, naturally, the city caught the contagious air of entré⁠—the working girls, poor ugly souls, wrapping soap in the factories and showing finery in the