This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Part XLV

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Every day on Daily Readers' Book Club we offer an article length section of a book until that book is done.  We are currently reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise.  This book will have 106 parts.


It was late morning when he woke and found the telephone beside his bed in the hotel tolling frantically, and remembered that he had left word to be called at eleven.  Sloane was snoring heavily, his clothes in a pile by his bed.  They dressed and ate breakfast in silence, and then sauntered out to get some air.  Amory's mind was working slowly, trying to assimilate what had happened and separate from the chaotic imagery that stacked his memory the bare shreds of truth.  If the morning had been cold and gray he could have grasped the reins of the past in an instant, but it was one of those days that New York gets sometimes in May, when the air on Fifth Avenue is a soft, light wine.  How much or how little Sloane remembered Amory did not care to know; he apparently had none of the nervous tension that was gripping Amory and forcing his mind back and forth like a shrieking saw.

Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory.

"For God's sake, let's go back!  Let's get off of this--this place!"

Sloane looked at him in amazement.

"What do you mean?"

"This street, it's ghastly!  Come on! let's get back to the Avenue!"

"Do you mean to say," said Sloane stolidly, "that 'cause you had some sort of indigestion that made you act like a maniac last night, you're never coming on Broadway again?"

Simultaneously Amory classed him with the crowd, and he seemed no longer Sloane of the debonair humor and the happy personality, but only one of the evil faces that whirled along the turbid stream.

"Man!" he shouted so loud that the people on the corner turned and followed them with their eyes, "it's filthy, and if you can't see it, you're filthy, too!"

"I can't help it," said Sloane doggedly.  "What's the matter with you?  Old remorse getting you?  You'd be in a fine state if you'd gone through with our little party."

"I'm going, Fred," said Amory slowly.  His knees were shaking under him, and he knew that if he stayed another minute on this street he would keel over where he stood.  "I'll be at the Vanderbilt for lunch."  And he strode rapidly off and turned over to Fifth Avenue.  Back at the hotel he felt better, but as he walked into the barber-shop, intending to get a head massage, the smell of the powders and tonics brought back Axia's sidelong, suggestive smile, and he left hurriedly.  In the doorway of his room a sudden blackness flowed around him like a divided river.

When he came to himself he knew that several hours had passed.  He pitched onto the bed and rolled over on his face with a deadly fear that he was going mad.  He wanted people, people, some one sane and stupid and good.  He lay for he knew not how long without moving.  He could feel the little hot veins on his forehead standing out, and his terror had hardened on him like plaster.  He felt he was passing up again through the thin crust of horror, and now only could he distinguish the shadowy twilight he was leaving.  He must have fallen asleep again, for when he next recollected himself he had paid the hotel bill and was stepping into a taxi at the door.  It was raining torrents.

On the train for Princeton he saw no one he knew, only a crowd of fagged-looking Philadelphians.  The presence of a painted woman across the aisle filled him with a fresh burst of sickness and he changed to another car, tried to concentrate on an article in a popular magazine.  He found himself reading the same paragraphs over and over, so he abandoned this attempt and leaning over wearily pressed his hot forehead against the damp window-pane.  The car, a smoker, was hot and stuffy with most of the smells of the state's alien population; he opened a window and shivered against the cloud of fog that drifted in over him.  The two hours' ride were like days, and he nearly cried aloud with joy when the towers of Princeton loomed up beside him and the yellow squares of light filtered through the blue rain.

Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting a cigar-stub.  Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing him.

"Had a hell of a dream about you last night," came in the cracked voice through the cigar smoke.  "I had an idea you were in some trouble."

"Don't tell me about it!"  Amory almost shrieked.  "Don't say a word; I'm tired and pepped out."

Image courtesy of Peter Alfred Hess.


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