This Side of Paradise

Amory Blaine inherited from his mother every trait, except the stray inexpressible few, that made him worth while. His father, an ineffectual, inarticulate man with a taste for Byron and a habit of drowsing over the Encyclopedia Britannica, grew wealthy at thirty through the death of two elder brothers, successful Chicago brokers, and in the first flush of feeling that the world was his, went to Bar Harbor and met Beatrice O’Hara. In consequence, Stephen Blaine handed down to posterity his height of just under six feet and his tendency to waver at crucial moments, these two abstractions appearing in his son Amory. For many years he hovered in the background of his family’s life, an unassertive figure with a face half-obliterated by lifeless, silky hair, continually occupied in “taking care” of his wife, continually harassed by the idea that he didn’t and couldn’t understand her.

A butler (one of the three in Minneapolis) swung open the door. Amory stepped inside and divested himself of cap and coat. He was mildly surprised not to hear the shrill squawk of conversation from the next room, and he decided it must be quite formal. He approved of that⁠—as he approved of the butler.

“Miss Myra,” he said.

To his surprise the butler grinned horribly.

“Oh, yeah,” he declared, “she’s here.” He was unaware that his failure to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly.

“But,” continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, “she’s the only one what is here. The party’s gone.”

Amory gasped in sudden horror.

“What?”

“She’s been waitin’ for Amory Blaine. That’s you, ain’t it? Her mother says that if you showed up by five-thirty you two was to go after ’em in the Packard.”

Amory’s despair was crystallized by the appearance of Myra herself, bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her face plainly sulky, her voice pleasant only with difficulty.

“ ’Lo, Amory.”

“ ’Lo, Myra.” He had described the state of his vitality.

“Well⁠—you got here, anyways.”

“Well⁠—I’ll tell you. I guess you don’t know about the auto accident,” he romanced.

Myra’s eyes opened wide.

“Who was it to?”

“Well,” he continued desperately, “uncle ’n aunt ’n I.”

“Was anyone killed?”

Amory paused and then nodded.

“Your uncle?”⁠—alarm.

“Oh, no just a horse⁠—a sorta gray horse.”

“My dear boy, I’ve been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair and we’ll have a chat.”

“I’ve just come from school⁠—St. Regis’s, you know.”

“So your mother says⁠—a remarkable woman; have a cigarette⁠—I’m sure you smoke. Well, if you’re like me, you loathe all science and mathematics⁠—”

Amory nodded vehemently.

“Hate ’em all. Like English and history.”

“Of course. You’ll hate school for a while, too, but I’m glad you’re going to St. Regis’s.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a gentleman’s school, and democracy won’t hit you so early. You’ll find plenty of that in college.”

“I want to go to Princeton,” said Amory. “I don’t know why, but I think of all Harvard men as sissies, like I used to be, and all Yale men as wearing big blue sweaters and smoking pipes.”

Monsignor chuckled.

“I’m one, you know.”

“Oh, you’re different⁠—I think of Princeton as being lazy and good-looking and aristocratic⁠—you know, like a spring day. Harvard seems sort of indoors⁠—”

“And Yale is November, crisp and energetic,” finished Monsignor.

“That’s it.”

They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.

“I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie,” announced Amory.

“Of course you were⁠—and for Hannibal⁠—”

“Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy.”

Isabelle

She paused at the top of the staircase. The sensations attributed to divers on springboards, leading ladies on opening nights, and lumpy, husky young men on the day of the Big Game, crowded through her. She should have descended to a burst of drums or a discordant blend of themes from Thais and Carmen. She had never been so curious about her appearance, she had never been so satisfied with it. She had been sixteen years old for six months.

“Isabelle!” called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the dressing-room.

“I’m ready.” She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her throat.

“I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. It’ll be just a minute.”

Isabelle started toward the dressing-room for a last peek in the mirror, but something decided her to stand there and gaze down the broad stairs of the Minnehaha Club. They curved tantalizingly, and she could catch just a glimpse of two pairs of masculine feet in the hall below. Pump-shod in uniform black, they gave no hint of identity, but she wondered eagerly if one pair were attached to Amory Blaine. This young man, not as yet encountered, had nevertheless taken up a considerable part of her day⁠—the first day of her arrival. Coming up in the machine from the station, Sally had volunteered, amid a rain of question, comment, revelation, and exaggeration:

“You remember Amory Blaine, of course. Well, he’s simply mad to see you again. He’s stayed over a day from college, and he’s coming tonight. He’s heard so much about you⁠—says he remembers your eyes.”

Suddenly a strange sound fell on his ears. It was a song, in a low, husky voice, a girl’s voice, and whoever was singing was very close to him. A year before he might have laughed, or trembled; but in his restless mood he only stood and listened while the words sank into his consciousness:

“Les sanglots longs Des violons De l’automne Blessent mon cœur D’une langueur Monotone.”

The lightning split the sky, but the song went on without a quaver. The girl was evidently in the field and the voice seemed to come vaguely from a haystack about twenty feet in front of him.

Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that soared and hung and fell and blended with the rain:

“Tout suffocant Et blême quand Sonne l’heure Je me souviens Des jours anciens Et je pleure.⁠ ⁠…”

“Who the devil is there in Ramilly County,” muttered Amory aloud, “who would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?”

“Somebody’s there!” cried the voice unalarmed. “Who are you?⁠—Manfred, St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?”

“I’m Don Juan!” Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the noise of the rain and the wind.

A delighted shriek came from the haystack.

“I know who you are⁠—you’re the blond boy that likes ‘Ulalume’⁠—I recognize your voice.”

“How do I get up?” he cried from the foot of the haystack, whither he had arrived, dripping wet. A head appeared over the edge⁠—it was so dark that Amory could just make out a patch of damp hair and two eyes that gleamed like a cat’s.

“Run back!” came the voice, “and jump and I’ll catch your hand⁠—no, not there⁠—on the other side.”