Array The griffin classics - The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald

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 down-stairs, her arms outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand. )

The corner of a den down-stairs, 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 fox-trot.

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, every one knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same every one 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, to-day, to-morrow.

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. Any one 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 Cocoanut 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?