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This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald

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. . . Well this side of Paradise! . . .
There's little comfort in the wise.
--Rupert Brooke.

Experience is the name so many people
give to their mistakes.
--Oscar Wilde.



BOOK ONE: The Romantic Egotist


BOOK TWO: The Education of a Personage


The Romantic Egotist


Amory, Son of Beatrice

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.

But Beatrice Blaine! There was a woman! Early pictures taken on her
father's estate at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, or in Rome at the Sacred Heart
Convent--an educational extravagance that in her youth was only for the
daughters of the exceptionally wealthy--showed the exquisite delicacy
of her features, the consummate art and simplicity of her clothes. A
brilliant education she had--her youth passed in renaissance glory,
she was versed in the latest gossip of the Older Roman Families; known by
name as a fabulously wealthy American girl to Cardinal Vitori and Queen
Margherita and more subtle celebrities that one must have had some
culture even to have heard of. She learned in England to prefer whiskey
and soda to wine, and her small talk was broadened in two senses during
a winter in Vienna. All in all Beatrice O'Hara absorbed the sort of
education that will be quite impossible ever again; a tutelage measured
by the number of things and people one could be contemptuous of and
charming about; a culture rich in all arts and traditions, barren of all
ideas, in the last of those days when the great gardener clipped the
inferior roses to produce one perfect bud.

In her less important moments she returned to America, met Stephen Blaine
and married him--this almost entirely because she was a little bit weary,
a little bit sad. Her only child was carried through a tiresome season
and brought into the world on a spring day in ninety-six.

When Amory was five he was already a delightful companion for her.
He was an auburn-haired boy, with great, handsome eyes which he would
grow up to in time, a facile imaginative mind and a taste for fancy
dress. From his fourth to his tenth year he did the country with his
mother in her father's private car, from Coronado, where his mother
became so bored that she had a nervous breakdown in a fashionable hotel,
down to Mexico City, where she took a mild, almost epidemic consumption.
This trouble pleased her, and later she made use of it as an intrinsic
part of her atmosphere--especially after several astounding bracers.

So, while more or less fortunate little rich boys were defying
governesses on the beach at Newport, or being spanked or tutored or read
to from "Do and Dare," or "Frank on the Mississippi," Amory was biting
acquiescent bell-boys in the Waldorf, outgrowing a natural repugnance to
chamber music and symphonies, and deriving a highly specialized education
from his mother.


"Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for his mother; she encouraged it.)

"Dear, don't _think_ of getting out of bed yet. I've always suspected
that early rising in early life makes one nervous. Clothilde is having
your breakfast brought up."

"All right."

"I am feeling very old to-day, Amory," she would sigh, her face a rare
cameo of pathos, her voice exquisitely modulated, her hands as facile
as Bernhardt's. "My nerves are on edge--on edge. We must leave this
terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sunshine."

Amory's penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled hair at his
mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her.


"Oh, _yes_."

"I want you to take a red-hot bath as hot as you can bear it, and just
relax your nerves. You can read in the tub if you wish."

She fed him sections of the "Fetes Galantes" before he was ten; at eleven
he could talk glibly, if rather reminiscently, of Brahms and Mozart and
Beethoven. One afternoon, when left alone in the hotel at Hot Springs,
he sampled his mother's apricot cordial, and as the taste pleased him,
he became quite tipsy. This was fun for a while, but he essayed a
cigarette in his exaltation, and succumbed to a vulgar, plebeian
reaction. Though this incident horrified Beatrice, it also secretly
amused her and became part of what in a later generation would have been
termed her "line."

"This son of mine," he heard her tell a room full of awestruck, admiring
women one day, "is entirely sophisticated and quite charming--but
delicate--we're all delicate; _here_, you know." Her hand was radiantly
outlined against her beautiful bosom; then sinking her voice to a whisper,
she told them of the apricot cordial. They rejoiced, for she was a brave
raconteuse, but many were the keys turned in sideboard locks that night
against the possible defection of little Bobby or Barbara. . . .

These domestic pilgrimages were invariably in state; two maids, the
private car, or Mr. Blaine when available, and very often a physician.
When Amory had the whooping-cough four disgusted specialists glared at
each other hunched around his bed; when he took scarlet fever the number
of attendants, including physicians and nurses, totalled fourteen.
However, blood being thicker than broth, he was pulled through.

The Blaines were attached to no city. They were the Blaines of Lake
Geneva; they had quite enough relatives to serve in place of friends,
and an enviable standing from Pasadena to Cape Cod. But Beatrice grew
more and more prone to like only new acquaintances, as there were certain
stories, such as the history of her constitution and its many amendments,
memories of her years abroad, that it was necessary for her to repeat
at regular intervals. Like Freudian dreams, they must be thrown off,
else they would sweep in and lay siege to her nerves. But Beatrice was
critical about American women, especially the floating population of

"They have accents, my dear," she told Amory, "not Southern accents or
Boston accents, not an accent attached to any locality, just an accent"--
she became dreamy. "They pick up old, moth-eaten London accents that
are down on their luck and have to be used by some one. They talk as
an English butler might after several years in a Chicago grand-opera
company." She became almost incoherent-- "Suppose--time in every
Western woman's life--she feels her husband is prosperous enough for her
to have--accent--they try to impress _me_, my dear--"

Though she thought of her body as a mass of frailties, she considered her
soul quite as ill, and therefore important in her life. She had once
been a Catholic, but discovering that priests were infinitely more
attentive when she was in process of losing or regaining faith in Mother
Church, she maintained an enchantingly wavering attitude. Often she
deplored the bourgeois quality of the American Catholic clergy, and was
quite sure that had she lived in the shadow of the great Continental
cathedrals her soul would still be a thin flame on the mighty altar of
Rome. Still, next to doctors, priests were her favorite sport.

"Ah, Bishop Wiston," she would declare, "I do not want to talk of myself.
I can imagine the stream of hysterical women fluttering at your doors,
beseeching you to be simpatico"--then after an interlude filled by the
clergyman--"but my mood--is--oddly dissimilar."

Only to bishops and above did she divulge her clerical romance. When she
had first returned to her country there had been a pagan, Swinburnian
young man in Asheville, for whose passionate kisses and unsentimental
conversations she had taken a decided penchant--they had discussed
the matter pro and con with an intellectual romancing quite devoid of
sappiness. Eventually she had decided to marry for background, and the
young pagan from Asheville had gone through a spiritual crisis, joined
the Catholic Church, and was now--Monsignor Darcy.

"Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company--quite the
cardinal's right-hand man."

"Amory will go to him one day, I know," breathed the beautiful lady,
"and Monsignor Dark will understand him as he understood me."

Amory became thirteen, rather tall and slender, and more than ever on to
his Celtic mother. He had tutored occasionally--the idea being that he
was to "keep up," at each place "taking up the work where he left off,"
yet as no tutor ever found the place he left off, his mind was still in
very good shape. What a few more years of this life would have made of
him is problematical. However, four hours out from land, Italy bound,
with Beatrice, his appendix burst, probably from too many meals in bed,
and after a series of frantic telegrams to Europe and America, to the
amazement of the passengers the great ship slowly wheeled around and
returned to New York to deposit Amory at the pier. You will admit that
if it was not life it was magnificent.

After the operation Beatrice had a nervous breakdown that bore a
suspicious resemblance to delirium tremens, and Amory was left in
Minneapolis, destined to spend the ensuing two years with his aunt
and uncle. There the crude, vulgar air of Western civilization first
catches him--in his underwear, so to speak.

* * * *


His lip curled when he read it.

"I am going to have a bobbing party," it said, "on Thursday,
December the seventeenth, at five o'clock, and I would like it
very much if you could come.

Yours truly,

R.S.V.P. Myra St. Claire.

He had been two months in Minneapolis, and his chief struggle had been
the concealing from "the other guys at school" how particularly superior
he felt himself to be, yet this conviction was built upon shifting sands.
He had shown off one day in French class (he was in senior French class)
to the utter confusion of Mr. Reardon, whose accent Amory damned
contemptuously, and to the delight of the class. Mr. Reardon, who had
spent several weeks in Paris ten years before, took his revenge on the
verbs, whenever he had his book open. But another time Amory showed off
in history class, with quite disastrous results, for the boys there were
his own age, and they shrilled innuendoes at each other all the following

"Aw--I b'lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was _lawgely_ an
affair of the middul _clawses_," or

"Washington came of very good blood--aw, quite good--I b'lieve."

Amory ingeniously tried to retrieve himself by blundering on purpose.
Two years before he had commenced a history of the United States which,
though it only got as far as the Colonial Wars, had been pronounced by
his mother completely enchanting.

His chief disadvantage lay in athletics, but as soon as he discovered
that it was the touchstone of power and popularity at school, he began
to make furious, persistent efforts to excel in the winter sports, and
with his ankles aching and bending in spite of his efforts, he skated
valiantly around the Lorelie rink every afternoon, wondering how soon he
would be able to carry a hockey-stick without getting it inexplicably
tangled in his skates.

The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire's bobbing party spent the morning
in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty
piece of peanut brittle. During the afternoon he brought it to light
with a sigh, and after some consideration and a preliminary draft in the
back of Collar and Daniel's "First-Year Latin," composed an answer:

My dear Miss St. Claire:
Your truly charming envitation for the evening of next Thursday
evening was truly delightful to receive this morning. I will be
charm and inchanted indeed to present my compliments on next
Thursday evening.

Amory Blaine.

* * * *

On Thursday, therefore, he walked pensively along the slippery,
shovel-scraped sidewalks, and came in sight of Myra's house, on the
half-hour after five, a lateness which he fancied his mother would
have favored. He waited on the door-step with his eyes nonchalantly
half-closed, and planned his entrance with precision. He would cross the
floor, not too hastily, to Mrs. St. Claire, and say with exactly the
correct modulation:

"My _dear_ Mrs. St. Claire, I'm _frightfully_ sorry to be late, but my
maid"--he paused there and realized he would be quoting--"but my uncle
and I had to see a fella-- Yes, I've met your enchanting daughter at

Then he would shake hands, using that slight, half-foreign bow, with all
the starchy little females, and nod to the fellas who would be standing
'round, paralyzed into rigid groups for mutual protection.

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.


"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, _any_ways."

"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 any one _killed?_"

Amory paused and then nodded.

"Your uncle?"--alarm.

"Oh, no just a horse--a sorta gray horse."

At this point the Erse butler snickered.

"Probably killed the engine," he suggested. Amory would have put him on
the rack without a scruple.

"We'll go now," said Myra coolly. "You see, Amory, the bobs were ordered
for five and everybody was here, so we couldn't wait--"

"Well, I couldn't help it, could I?"

"So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the bobs
before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory."

Amory's shredded poise dropped from him. He pictured the happy party
jingling along snowy streets, the appearance of the limousine, the
horrible public descent of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes,
his apology--a real one this time. He sighed aloud.

"What?" inquired Myra.

"Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ catch up with
'em before they get there?" He was encouraging a faint hope that they
might slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be found
in blase seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude.

"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right--let's hurry."

He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped into the machine he
hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather box-like plan
he had conceived. It was based upon some "trade-lasts" gleaned at
dancing-school, to the effect that he was "awful good-looking and
_English_, sort of."

"Myra," he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words carefully,
"I beg a thousand pardons. Can you ever forgive me?" She regarded him
gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that to her thirteen-year-old,
arrow-collar taste was the quintessence of romance. Yes, Myra could
forgive him very easily.


He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes.

"I'm awful," he said sadly. "I'm diff'runt. I don't know why I make
faux pas. 'Cause I don't care, I s'pose." Then, recklessly: "I been
smoking too much. I've got t'bacca heart."

Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling
from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp.

"Oh, _Amory_, don't smoke. You'll stunt your _growth!_"

"I don't care," he persisted gloomily. "I gotta. I got the habit.
I've done a lot of things that if my fambly knew"--he hesitated, giving
her imagination time to picture dark horrors--"I went to the burlesque
show last week."

Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes on her again. "You're
the only girl in town I like much," he exclaimed in a rush of sentiment.
"You're simpatico."

Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely

Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden turn
she was jolted against him; their hands touched.

"You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. "Don't you know that?"

He shook his head.

"Nobody cares."

Myra hesitated.

"_I_ care."

Something stirred within Amory.

"Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody
knows that."

"No, I haven't," very slowly.

A silence, while Amory thrilled. There was something fascinating about
Myra, shut away here cosily from the dim, chill air. Myra, a little
bundle of clothes, with strands of yellow hair curling out from under her
skating cap.

"Because I've got a crush, too--" He paused, for he heard in the
distance the sound of young laughter, and, peering through the frosted
glass along the lamp-lit street, he made out the dark outline of the
bobbing party. He must act quickly. He reached over with a violent,
jerky effort, and clutched Myra's hand--her thumb, to be exact.

"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I wanta talk
to you--I _got_ to talk to you."

Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her mother,
and then--alas for convention--glanced into the eyes beside. "Turn down
this side street, Richard, and drive straight to the Minnehaha Club!"
she cried through the speaking tube. Amory sank back against the
cushions with a sigh of relief.

"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!"

Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, and the night around
was chill and vibrant with rich tension. From the Country Club steps the
roads stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge heaps of
snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant moles. They lingered for
a moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon.

"Pale moons like that one"--Amory made a vague gesture--"make people
mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off and her hair
sorta mussed"--her hands clutched at her hair--"Oh, leave it, it looks

They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little den of
his dreams, where a cosy fire was burning before a big sink-down couch.
A few years later this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for
many an emotional crisis. Now they talked for a moment about bobbing

"There's always a bunch of shy fellas," he commented, "sitting at the
tail of the bob, sorta lurkin' an' whisperin' an' pushin' each other off.
Then there's always some crazy cross-eyed girl"--he gave a terrifying
imitation--"she's always talkin' _hard_, sorta, to the chaperon."

"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra.

"How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at

"Oh--always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing with
Marylyn and I to-morrow?"

"I don't like girls in the daytime," he said shortly, and then, thinking
this a bit abrupt, he added: "But I like you." He cleared his throat.
"I like you first and second and third."

Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell Marylyn!
Here on the couch with this _wonderful_-looking boy--the little fire--
the sense that they were alone in the great building--

Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate.

"I like you the first twenty-five," she confessed, her voice trembling,
"and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth."

Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had not even
noticed it.

But Amory, being on the spot, leaned over quickly and kissed Myra's
cheek. He had never kissed a girl before, and he tasted his lips
curiously, as if he had munched some new fruit. Then their lips brushed
like young wild flowers in the wind.

"We're awful," rejoiced Myra gently. She slipped her hand into his,
her head drooped against his shoulder. Sudden revulsion seized Amory,
disgust, loathing for the whole incident. He desired frantically to be
away, never to see Myra again, never to kiss any one; he became conscious
of his face and hers, of their clinging hands, and he wanted to creep out
of his body and hide somewhere safe out of sight, up in the corner of his

"Kiss me again." Her voice came out of a great void.

"I don't want to," he heard himself saying. There was another pause.

"I don't want to!" he repeated passionately.

Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great bow on the
back of her head trembling sympathetically.

"I hate you!" she cried. "Don't you ever dare to speak to me again!"

"What?" stammered Amory.

"I'll tell mama you kissed me! I will too! I will too! I'll tell mama,
and she won't let me play with you!"

Amory rose and stared at her helplessly, as though she were a new animal
of whose presence on the earth he had not heretofore been aware.

The door opened suddenly, and Myra's mother appeared on the threshold,
fumbling with her lorgnette.

"Well," she began, adjusting it benignantly, "the man at the desk told me
you two children were up here--How do you do, Amory."

Amory watched Myra and waited for the crash--but none came. The pout
faded, the high pink subsided, and Myra's voice was placid as a summer
lake when she answered her mother.

"Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well--"

He heard from below the shrieks of laughter, and smelled the vapid
odor of hot chocolate and tea-cakes as he silently followed mother and
daughter down-stairs. The sound of the graphophone mingled with the
voices of many girls humming the air, and a faint glow was born and
spread over him:

"Casey-Jones--mounted to the cab-un
Casey-Jones--'th his orders in his hand.
Casey-Jones--mounted to the cab-un
Took his farewell journey to the prom-ised land."

* * * *


Amory spent nearly two years in Minneapolis. The first winter he wore
moccasins that were born yellow, but after many applications of oil and
dirt assumed their mature color, a dirty, greenish brown; he wore a gray
plaid mackinaw coat, and a red toboggan cap. His dog, Count Del Monte,
ate the red cap, so his uncle gave him a gray one that pulled down over
his face. The trouble with this one was that you breathed into it and
your breath froze; one day the darn thing froze his cheek. He rubbed
snow on his cheek, but it turned bluish-black just the same.

* * * *

The Count Del Monte ate a box of bluing once, but it didn't hurt him.
Later, however, he lost his mind and ran madly up the street, bumping
into fences, rolling in gutters, and pursuing his eccentric course out
of Amory's life. Amory cried on his bed.

"Poor little Count," he cried. "Oh, _poor_ little _Count!_"

After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of emotional

* * * *

Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in literature
occurred in Act III of "Arsene Lupin."

They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees.
The line was:

"If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best thing
is to be a great criminal."

* * * *

Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it:

"Marylyn and Sallee,
Those are the girls for me.
Marylyn stands above
Sallee in that sweet, deep love."

He was interested in whether McGovern of Minnesota would make the first
or second All-American, how to do the card-pass, how to do the coin-pass,
chameleon ties, how babies were born, and whether Three-fingered Brown
was really a better pitcher than Christie Mathewson.

Among other things he read: "For the Honor of the School," "Little Women"
(twice), "The Common Law," "Sapho," "Dangerous Dan McGrew," "The Broad
Highway" (three times), "The Fall of the House of Usher," "Three Weeks,"
"Mary Ware, the Little Colonel's Chum," "Gunga Din," The Police Gazette,
and Jim-Jam Jems.

He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly fond of the
cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart.

* * * *

School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard authors.
His masters considered him idle, unreliable and superficially clever.

* * * *

He collected locks of hair from many girls. He wore the rings of
several. Finally he could borrow no more rings, owing to his nervous
habit of chewing them out of shape. This, it seemed, usually aroused
the jealous suspicions of the next borrower.

* * * *

All through the summer months Amory and Frog Parker went each week to
the Stock Company. Afterward they would stroll home in the balmy air of
August night, dreaming along Hennepin and Nicollet Avenues, through the
gay crowd. Amory wondered how people could fail to notice that he was
a boy marked for glory, and when faces of the throng turned toward him
and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of
expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of

Always, after he was in bed, there were voices--indefinite, fading,
enchanting--just outside his window, and before he fell asleep he would
dream one of his favorite waking dreams, the one about becoming a great
half-back, or the one about the Japanese invasion, when he was rewarded
by being made the youngest general in the world. It was always the
becoming he dreamed of, never the being. This, too, was quite
characteristic of Amory.

* * * *


Before he was summoned back to Lake Geneva, he had appeared, shy but
inwardly glowing, in his first long trousers, set off by a purple
accordion tie and a "Belmont" collar with the edges unassailably meeting,
purple socks, and handkerchief with a purple border peeping from his
breast pocket. But more than that, he had formulated his first
philosophy, a code to live by, which, as near as it can be named, was
a sort of aristocratic egotism.

He had realized that his best interests were bound up with those of a
certain variant, changing person, whose label, in order that his past
might always be identified with him, was Amory Blaine. Amory marked
himself a fortunate youth, capable of infinite expansion for good or
evil. He did not consider himself a "strong char'c'ter," but relied on
his facility (learn things sorta quick) and his superior mentality (read
a lotta deep books). He was proud of the fact that he could never become
a mechanical or scientific genius. From no other heights was he debarred.

Physically.--Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He was.
He fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple dancer.

Socially.--Here his condition was, perhaps, most dangerous. He granted
himself personality, charm, magnetism, poise, the power of dominating all
contemporary males, the gift of fascinating all women.

Mentally.--Complete, unquestioned superiority.

Now a confession will have to be made. Amory had rather a Puritan
conscience. Not that he yielded to it--later in life he almost
completely slew it--but at fifteen it made him consider himself a great
deal worse than other boys . . . unscrupulousness . . . the desire to
influence people in almost every way, even for evil . . . a certain
coldness and lack of affection, amounting sometimes to cruelty . . .
a shifting sense of honor . . . an unholy selfishness . . . a puzzled,
furtive interest in everything concerning sex.

There was, also, a curious strain of weakness running crosswise through
his make-up . . . a harsh phrase from the lips of an older boy (older
boys usually detested him) was liable to sweep him off his poise into
surly sensitiveness, or timid stupidity . . . he was a slave to his own
moods and he felt that though he was capable of recklessness and audacity,
he possessed neither courage, perseverance, nor self-respect.

Vanity, tempered with self-suspicion if not self-knowledge, a sense of
people as automatons to his will, a desire to "pass" as many boys as
possible and get to a vague top of the world . . . with this background
did Amory drift into adolescence.

* * * *


The train slowed up with midsummer languor at Lake Geneva, and Amory
caught sight of his mother waiting in her electric on the gravelled
station drive. It was an ancient electric, one of the early types,
and painted gray. The sight of her sitting there, slenderly erect,
and of her face, where beauty and dignity combined, melting to a dreamy
recollected smile, filled him with a sudden great pride of her. As they
kissed coolly and he stepped into the electric, he felt a quick fear
lest he had lost the requisite charm to measure up to her.

"Dear boy--you're _so_ tall . . . look behind and see if there's anything
coming . . ."

She looked left and right, she slipped cautiously into a speed of two
miles an hour, beseeching Amory to act as sentinel; and at one busy
crossing she made him get out and run ahead to signal her forward like a
traffic policeman. Beatrice was what might be termed a careful driver.

"You _are_ tall--but you're still very handsome--you've skipped the
awkward age, or is that sixteen; perhaps it's fourteen or fifteen;
I can never remember; but you've skipped it."

"Don't embarrass me," murmured Amory.

"But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a _set_--
don't they? Is your underwear purple, too?"

Amory grunted impolitely.

"You must go to Brooks' and get some really nice suits. Oh, we'll have a
talk to-night or perhaps to-morrow night. I want to tell you about your
heart--you've probably been neglecting your heart--and you don't _know_."

Amory thought how superficial was the recent overlay of his own
generation. Aside from a minute shyness, he felt that the old cynical
kinship with his mother had not been one bit broken. Yet for the first
few days he wandered about the gardens and along the shore in a state of
superloneliness, finding a lethargic content in smoking "Bull" at the
garage with one of the chauffeurs.

The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and new summer houses
and many fountains and white benches that came suddenly into sight from
foliage-hung hiding-places; there was a great and constantly increasing
family of white cats that prowled the many flower-beds and were
silhouetted suddenly at night against the darkening trees. It was on
one of the shadowy paths that Beatrice at last captured Amory, after
Mr. Blaine had, as usual, retired for the evening to his private library.
After reproving him for avoiding her, she took him for a long tete-a-tete
in the moonlight. He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, that
was mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of a
fortunate woman of thirty.

"Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird time
after I left you."

"Did you, Beatrice?"

"When I had my last breakdown"--she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant feat.

"The doctors told me"--her voice sang on a confidential note--"that if
any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would have
been physically _shattered_, my dear, and in his _grave_--long in his

Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker.

"Yes," continued Beatrice tragically, "I had dreams--wonderful visions."
She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. "I saw bronze rivers
lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air,
parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and
the flare of barbaric trumpets--what?"

Amory had snickered.

"What, Amory?"

"I said go on, Beatrice."

"That was all--it merely recurred and recurred--gardens that flaunted
coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and
swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons--"

"Are you quite well now, Beatrice?"

"Quite well--as well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory.
I know that can't express it to you, Amory, but--I am not understood."

Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his
head gently against her shoulder.

"Poor Beatrice--poor Beatrice."

"Tell me about _you_, Amory. Did you have two _horrible_ years?"

Amory considered lying, and then decided against it.

"No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself to the bourgeoisie.
I became conventional." He surprised himself by saying that, and he
pictured how Froggy would have gaped.

"Beatrice," he said suddenly, "I want to go away to school. Everybody in
Minneapolis is going to go away to school."

Beatrice showed some alarm.

"But you're only fifteen."

"Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I _want_ to,

On Beatrice's suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the walk,
but a week later she delighted him by saying:

"Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to,
you can go to school."


"To St. Regis's in Connecticut."

Amory felt a quick excitement.

"It's being arranged," continued Beatrice. "It's better that you should
go away. I'd have preferred you to have gone to Eton, and then to Christ
Church, Oxford, but it seems impracticable now--and for the present we'll
let the university question take care of itself."

"What are you going to do, Beatrice?"

"Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away my years in this country.
Not for a second do I regret being American--indeed, I think that a
regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel sure we are the great
coming nation--yet"--and she sighed--"I feel my life should have drowsed
away close to an older, mellower civilization, a land of greens and
autumnal browns--"

Amory did not answer, so his mother continued:

"My regret is that you haven't been abroad, but still, as you are a man,
it's better that you should grow up here under the snarling eagle--
is that the right term?"

Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the Japanese

"When do I go to school?"

"Next month. You'll have to start East a little early to take your
examinations. After that you'll have a free week, so I want you to go
up the Hudson and pay a visit."

"To who?"

"To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see you. He went to Harrow and
then to Yale--became a Catholic. I want him to talk to you--I feel he
can be such a help--" She stroked his auburn hair gently. "Dear Amory,
dear Amory--"

"Dear Beatrice--"

* * * *

So early in September Amory, provided with "six suits summer underwear,
six suits winter underwear, one sweater or T shirt, one jersey, one
overcoat, winter, etc.," set out for New England, the land of schools.

There were Andover and Exeter with their memories of New England dead--
large, college-like democracies; St. Mark's, Groton, St. Regis'--
recruited from Boston and the Knickerbocker families of New York;
St. Paul's, with its great rinks; Pomfret and St. George's, prosperous
and well-dressed; Taft and Hotchkiss, which prepared the wealth of the
Middle West for social success at Yale; Pawling, Westminster, Choate,
Kent, and a hundred others; all milling out their well-set-up,
conventional, impressive type, year after year; their mental stimulus
the college entrance exams; their vague purpose set forth in a hundred
circulars as "To impart a Thorough Mental, Moral, and Physical Training
as a Christian Gentleman, to fit the boy for meeting the problems of
his day and generation, and to give a solid foundation in the Arts and

At St. Regis' Amory stayed three days and took his exams with a scoffing
confidence, then doubling back to New York to pay his tutelary visit.
The metropolis, barely glimpsed, made little impression on him, except
for the sense of cleanliness he drew from the tall white buildings seen
from a Hudson River steamboat in the early morning. Indeed, his mind was
so crowded with dreams of athletic prowess at school that he considered
this visit only as a rather tiresome prelude to the great adventure.
This, however, it did not prove to be.

Monsignor Darcy's house was an ancient, rambling structure set on a hill
overlooking the river, and there lived its owner, between his trips to
all parts of the Roman-Catholic world, rather like an exiled Stuart king
waiting to be called to the rule of his land. Monsignor was forty-four
then, and bustling--a trifle too stout for symmetry, with hair the color
of spun gold, and a brilliant, enveloping personality. When he came into
a room clad in his full purple regalia from thatch to toe, he resembled
a Turner sunset, and attracted both admiration and attention. He had
written two novels: one of them violently anti-Catholic, just before his
conversion, and five years later another, in which he had attempted to
turn all his clever jibes against Catholics into even cleverer innuendoes
against Episcopalians. He was intensely ritualistic, startlingly
dramatic, loved the idea of God enough to be a celibate, and rather liked
his neighbor.

Children adored him because he was like a child; youth revelled in his
company because he was still a youth, and couldn't be shocked. In the
proper land and century he might have been a Richelieu--at present he
was a very moral, very religious (if not particularly pious) clergyman,
making a great mystery about pulling rusty wires, and appreciating life
to the fullest, if not entirely enjoying it.

He and Amory took to each other at first sight--the jovial, impressive
prelate who could dazzle an embassy ball, and the green-eyed, intent
youth, in his first long trousers, accepted in their own minds a relation
of father and son within a half-hour's conversation.

"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."


"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." He was rather sceptical about
being an Irish patriot--he suspected that being Irish was being somewhat
common--but Monsignor assured him that Ireland was a romantic lost cause
and Irish people quite charming, and that it should, by all means,
be one of his principal biasses.

After a crowded hour which included several more cigarettes, and during
which Monsignor learned, to his surprise but not to his horror, that
Amory had not been brought up a Catholic, he announced that he had
another guest. This turned out to be the Honorable Thornton Hancock,
of Boston, ex-minister to The Hague, author of an erudite history of the
Middle Ages and the last of a distinguished, patriotic, and brilliant

"He comes here for a rest," said Monsignor confidentially, treating Amory
as a contemporary. "I act as an escape from the weariness of agnosticism,
and I think I'm the only man who knows how his staid old mind is really
at sea and longs for a sturdy spar like the Church to cling to."

Their first luncheon was one of the memorable events of Amory's early
life. He was quite radiant and gave off a peculiar brightness and charm.
Monsignor called out the best that he had thought by question and
suggestion, and Amory talked with an ingenious brilliance of a thousand
impulses and desires and repulsions and faiths and fears. He and
Monsignor held the floor, and the older man, with his less receptive,
less accepting, yet certainly not colder mentality, seemed content to
listen and bask in the mellow sunshine that played between these two.
Monsignor gave the effect of sunlight to many people; Amory gave it in
his youth and, to some extent, when he was very much older, but never
again was it quite so mutually spontaneous.

"He's a radiant boy," thought Thornton Hancock, who had seen the splendor
of two continents and talked with Parnell and Gladstone and Bismarck--
and afterward he added to Monsignor: "But his education ought not to be
intrusted to a school or college."

But for the next four years the best of Amory's intellect was
concentrated on matters of popularity, the intricacies of a university
social system and American Society as represented by Biltmore Teas and
Hot Springs golf-links.

. . . In all, a wonderful week, that saw Amory's mind turned inside out,
a hundred of his theories confirmed, and his joy of life crystallized to
a thousand ambitions. Not that the conversation was scholastic--heaven
forbid! Amory had only the vaguest idea as to what Bernard Shaw was--
but Monsignor made quite as much out of "The Beloved Vagabond" and "Sir
Nigel," taking good care that Amory never once felt out of his depth.

But the trumpets were sounding for Amory's preliminary skirmish with his
own generation.

"You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is
where we are not," said Monsignor.

"I _am_ sorry--"

"No, you're not. No one person in the world is necessary to you or to



* * * *


Amory's two years at St. Regis', though in turn painful and triumphant,
had as little real significance in his own life as the American "prep"
school, crushed as it is under the heel of the universities,
has to American life in general. We have no Eton to create the
self-consciousness of a governing class; we have, instead, clean, flaccid
and innocuous preparatory schools.

He went all wrong at the start, was generally considered both conceited
and arrogant, and universally detested. He played football intensely,
alternating a reckless brilliancy with a tendency to keep himself as safe
from hazard as decency would permit. In a wild panic he backed out of a
fight with a boy his own size, to a chorus of scorn, and a week later,
in desperation, picked a battle with another boy very much bigger,
from which he emerged badly beaten, but rather proud of himself.

He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and this,
combined with a lazy indifference toward his work, exasperated every
master in school. He grew discouraged and imagined himself a pariah;
took to sulking in corners and reading after lights. With a dread of
being alone he attached a few friends, but since they were not among the
elite of the school, he used them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences
before which he might do that posing absolutely essential to him.
He was unbearably lonely, desperately unhappy.

There were some few grains of comfort. Whenever Amory was submerged,
his vanity was the last part to go below the surface, so he could still
enjoy a comfortable glow when "Wookey-wookey," the deaf old housekeeper,
told him that he was the best-looking boy she had ever seen. It had
pleased him to be the lightest and youngest man on the first football
squad; it pleased him when Doctor Dougall told him at the end of a heated
conference that he could, if he wished, get the best marks in school.
But Doctor Dougall was wrong. It was temperamentally impossible for
Amory to get the best marks in school.

Miserable, confined to bounds, unpopular with both faculty and students--
that was Amory's first term. But at Christmas he had returned to
Minneapolis, tight-lipped and strangely jubilant.

"Oh, I was sort of fresh at first," he told Frog Parker patronizingly,
"but I got along fine--lightest man on the squad. You ought to go away
to school, Froggy. It's great stuff."

* * * *


On the last night of his first term, Mr. Margotson, the senior master,
sent word to study hall that Amory was to come to his room at nine.
Amory suspected that advice was forthcoming, but he determined to be
courteous, because this Mr. Margotson had been kindly disposed toward him.

His summoner received him gravely, and motioned him to a chair. He
hemmed several times and looked consciously kind, as a man will when
he knows he's on delicate ground.

"Amory," he began. "I've sent for you on a personal matter."

"Yes, sir."

"I've noticed you this year and I--I like you. I think you have in you
the makings of a--a very good man."

"Yes, sir," Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as
if he were an admitted failure.

"But I've noticed," continued the older man blindly, "that you're not
very popular with the boys."

"No, sir." Amory licked his lips.

"Ah--I thought you might not understand exactly what it was they--ah--
objected to. I'm going to tell you, because I believe--ah--that when a
boy knows his difficulties he's better able to cope with them--to conform
to what others expect of him." He a-hemmed again with delicate reticence,
and continued: "They seem to think that you're--ah--rather too fresh--"

Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely controlling
his voice when he spoke.

"I know--oh, _don't_ you s'pose I know." His voice rose. "I know what
they think; do you s'pose you have to _tell_ me!" He paused. "I'm--
I've got to go back now--hope I'm not rude--"

He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked to his
house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped.

"That _damn_ old fool!" he cried wildly. "As if I didn't _know!_"

He decided, however, that this was a good excuse not to go back to study
hall that night, so, comfortably couched up in his room, he munched
Nabiscos and finished "The White Company."

* * * *


There was a bright star in February. New York burst upon him on
Washington's Birthday with the brilliance of a long-anticipated event.
His glimpse of it as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue sky had left a
picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in the Arabian Nights;
but this time he saw it by electric light, and romance gleamed from the
chariot-race sign on Broadway and from the women's eyes at the Astor,
where he and young Paskert from St. Regis' had dinner. When they walked
down the aisle of the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging and
discord of untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance of paint and
powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything enchanted
him. The play was "The Little Millionaire," with George M. Cohan,
and there was one stunning young brunette who made him sit with brimming
eyes in the ecstasy of watching her dance.

"Oh--you--wonderful girl,
What a wonderful girl you are--"

sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately.

"All--your--wonderful words
Thrill me through--"

The violins swelled and quavered on the last notes, the girl sank to a
crumpled butterfly on the stage, a great burst of clapping filled the
house. Oh, to fall in love like that, to the languorous magic melody of
such a tune!

The last scene was laid on a roof-garden, and the 'cellos sighed to the
musical moon, while light adventure and facile froth-like comedy flitted
back and forth in the calcium. Amory was on fire to be an habitui of
roof-gardens, to meet a girl who should look like that--better, that very
girl; whose hair would be drenched with golden moonlight, while at his
elbow sparkling wine was poured by an unintelligible waiter. When the
curtain fell for the last time he gave such a long sigh that the people
in front of him twisted around and stared and said loud enough for him to

"What a _remarkable_-looking boy!"

This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem
handsome to the population of New York.

Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. The former was
the first to speak. His uncertain fifteen-year-old voice broke in in a
melancholy strain on Amory's musings:

"I'd marry that girl to-night."

There was no need to ask what girl he referred to.

"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people," continued

Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of
Paskert. It sounded so mature.

"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?"

"No, _sir_, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with emphasis,
"and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell."

They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the music
that eddied out of the cafes. New faces flashed on and off like myriad
lights, pale or rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by a weary excitement.
Amory watched them in fascination. He was planning his life. He was
going to live in New York, and be known at every restaurant and cafe,
wearing a dress-suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping away
the dull hours of the forenoon.

"Yes, _sir_, I'd marry that girl to-night!"

* * * *


October of his second and last year at St. Regis' was a high point in
Amory's memory. The game with Groton was played from three of a snappy,
exhilarating afternoon far into the crisp autumnal twilight, and Amory
at quarter-back, exhorting in wild despair, making impossible tackles,
calling signals in a voice that had diminished to a hoarse, furious
whisper, yet found time to revel in the blood-stained bandage around his
head, and the straining, glorious heroism of plunging, crashing bodies
and aching limbs. For those minutes courage flowed like wine out of the
November dusk, and he was the eternal hero, one with the sea-rover on the
prow of a Norse galley, one with Roland and Horatius, Sir Nigel and Ted
Coy, scraped and stripped into trim and then flung by his own will into
the breach, beating back the tide, hearing from afar the thunder of
cheers . . . finally bruised and weary, but still elusive, circling an
end, twisting, changing pace, straight-arming . . . falling behind the
Groton goal with two men on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game.

* * * *


From the scoffing superiority of sixth-form year and success Amory looked
back with cynical wonder on his status of the year before. He was
changed as completely as Amory Blaine could ever be changed. Amory plus
Beatrice plus two years in Minneapolis--these had been his ingredients
when he entered St. Regis'. But the Minneapolis years were not a thick
enough overlay to conceal the "Amory plus Beatrice" from the ferreting
eyes of a boarding-school, so St. Regis' had very painfully drilled
Beatrice out of him, and begun to lay down new and more conventional
planking on the fundamental Amory. But both St. Regis' and Amory were
unconscious of the fact that this fundamental Amory had not in himself
changed. Those qualities for which he had suffered, his moodiness,
his tendency to pose, his laziness, and his love of playing the fool,
were now taken as a matter of course, recognized eccentricities in a star
quarter-back, a clever actor, and the editor of the St. Regis Tattler:
it puzzled him to see impressionable small boys imitating the very
vanities that had not long ago been contemptible weaknesses.

After the football season he slumped into dreamy content. The night
of the pre-holiday dance he slipped away and went early to bed for the
pleasure of hearing the violin music cross the grass and come surging in
at his window. Many nights he lay there dreaming awake of secret cafes
in Mont Martre, where ivory women delved in romantic mysteries with
diplomats and soldiers of fortune, while orchestras played Hungarian
waltzes and the air was thick and exotic with intrigue and moonlight
and adventure. In the spring he read "L'Allegro," by request, and was
inspired to lyrical outpourings on the subject of Arcady and the pipes
of Pan. He moved his bed so that the sun would wake him at dawn that he
might dress and go out to the archaic swing that hung from an apple-tree
near the sixth-form house. Seating himself in this he would pump higher
and higher until he got the effect of swinging into the wide air, into
a fairyland of piping satyrs and nymphs with the faces of fair-haired
girls he passed in the streets of Eastchester. As the swing reached its
highest point, Arcady really lay just over the brow of a certain hill,
where the brown road dwindled out of sight in a golden dot.

He read voluminously all spring, the beginning of his eighteenth year:
"The Gentleman from Indiana," "The New Arabian Nights," "The Morals of
Marcus Ordeyne," "The Man Who Was Thursday," which he liked without
understanding; "Stover at Yale," that became somewhat of a text-book;
"Dombey and Son," because he thought he really should read better stuff;
Robert Chambers, David Graham Phillips, and E. Phillips Oppenheim
complete, and a scattering of Tennyson and Kipling. Of all his class
work only "L'Allegro" and some quality of rigid clarity in solid geometry
stirred his languid interest.

As June drew near, he felt the need of conversation to formulate his
own ideas, and, to his surprise, found a co-philosopher in Rahill, the
president of the sixth form. In many a talk, on the highroad or lying
belly-down along the edge of the baseball diamond, or late at night with
their cigarettes glowing in the dark, they threshed out the questions of
school, and there was developed the term "slicker."

"Got tobacco?" whispered Rahill one night, putting his head inside the
door five minutes after lights.


"I'm coming in."

"Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don't you."

Amory sat up in bed and lit a cigarette while Rahill settled for a
conversation. Rahill's favorite subject was the respective futures of
the sixth form, and Amory never tired of outlining them for his benefit.

"Ted Converse? 'At's easy. He'll fail his exams, tutor all summer at
Harstrum's, get into Sheff with about four conditions, and flunk out in
the middle of the freshman year. Then he'll go back West and raise hell
for a year or so; finally his father will make him go into the paint
business. He'll marry and have four sons, all bone heads. He'll always
think St. Regis's spoiled him, so he'll send his sons to day school in
Portland. He'll die of locomotor ataxia when he's forty-one, and his
wife will give a baptizing stand or whatever you call it to the
Presbyterian Church, with his name on it--"

"Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?"

"I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers."

"I'm not."

"Sure you are. You've got a darn good head on you." But Amory knew that
nothing in the abstract, no theory or generality, ever moved Rahill until
he stubbed his toe upon the concrete minutiae of it.

"Haven't," insisted Rahill. "I let people impose on me here and don't
get anything out of it. I'm the prey of my friends, damn it--do their
lessons, get 'em out of trouble, pay 'em stupid summer visits, and always
entertain their kid sisters; keep my temper when they get selfish and
then they think they pay me back by voting for me and telling me I'm the
'big man' of St. Regis's. I want to get where everybody does their own
work and I can tell people where to go. I'm tired of being nice to every
poor fish in school."

"You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly.

"A what?"

"A slicker."

"What the devil's that?"

"Well, it's something that--that--there's a lot of them. You're not one,
and neither am I, though I am more than you are."

"Who is one? What makes you one?"

Amory considered.

"Why--why, I suppose that the _sign_ of it is when a fellow slicks his
hair back with water."

"Like Carstairs?"

"Yes--sure. He's a slicker."

They spent two evenings getting an exact definition. The slicker was
good-looking or clean-looking; he had brains, social brains, that is,
and he used all means on the broad path of honesty to get ahead, be
popular, admired, and never in trouble. He dressed well, was
particularly neat in appearance, and derived his name from the fact that
his hair was inevitably worn short, soaked in water or tonic, parted in
the middle, and slicked back as the current of fashion dictated. The
slickers of that year had adopted tortoise-shell spectacles as badges of
their slickerhood, and this made them so easy to recognize that Amory and
Rahill never missed one. The slicker seemed distributed through school,
always a little wiser and shrewder than his contemporaries, managing
some team or other, and keeping his cleverness carefully concealed.

Amory found the slicker a most valuable classification until his junior
year in college, when the outline became so blurred and indeterminate
that it had to be subdivided many times, and became only a quality.
Amory's secret ideal had all the slicker qualifications, but, in addition,
courage and tremendous brains and talents--also Amory conceded him a
bizarre streak that was quite irreconcilable to the slicker proper.

This was a first real break from the hypocrisy of school tradition.
The slicker was a definite element of success, differing intrinsically
from the prep school "big man."


1. Clever sense of social values.

2. Dresses well. Pretends that dress is superficial--
but knows that it isn't.

3. Goes into such activities as he can shine in.

4. Gets to college and is, in a worldly way, successful.

5. Hair slicked.


1. Inclined to stupidity and unconscious of social values.

2. Thinks dress is superficial, and is inclined to be
careless about it.

3. Goes out for everything from a sense of duty.

4. Gets to college and has a problematical future. Feels lost
without his circle, and always says that school days were
happiest, after all. Goes back to school and makes speeches
about what St. Regis's boys are doing.

5. Hair not slicked.

Amory had decided definitely on Princeton, even though he would be the
only boy entering that year from St. Regis'. Yale had a romance and
glamour from the tales of Minneapolis, and St. Regis' men who had been
"tapped for Skull and Bones," but Princeton drew him most, with its
atmosphere of bright colors and its alluring reputation as the
pleasantest country club in America. Dwarfed by the menacing college
exams, Amory's school days drifted into the past. Years afterward,
when he went back to St. Regis', he seemed to have forgotten the
successes of sixth-form year, and to be able to picture himself only as
the unadjustable boy who had hurried down corridors, jeered at by his
rabid contemporaries mad with common sense.


The Romantic Egotist


Spires and Gargoyles

At firet Amory noticed only the wealth of sunshine creeping across the
long, green swards, dancing on the leaded window-panes, and swimming
around the tops of spires and towers and battlemented walls. Gradually
he realized that he was really walking up University Place, self-
conscious about his suitcase, developing a new tendency to glare straight
ahead when he passed any one. Several times he could have sworn that
men turned to look at him critically. He wondered vaguely if there was
something the matter with his clothes, and wished he had shaved that
morning on the train. He felt unnecessarily stiff and awkward among
these white-flannelled, bareheaded youths, who must be juniors and
seniors, judging from the savoir faire with which they strolled.

He found that 12 University Place was a large, dilapidated mansion,
at present apparently uninhabited, though he knew it housed usually a
dozen freshmen. After a hurried skirmish with his landlady he sallied
out on a tour of exploration, but he had gone scarcely a block when he
became horribly conscious that he must be the only man in town who was
wearing a hat. He returned hurriedly to 12 University, left his derby,
and, emerging bareheaded, loitered down Nassau Street, stopping to
investigate a display of athletic photographs in a store window,
including a large one of Allenby, the football captain, and next
attracted by the sign "Jigger Shop" over a confectionary window. This
sounded familiar, so he sauntered in and took a seat on a high stool.

"Chocolate sundae," he told a colored person.

"Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?"


"Bacon bun?"


He munched four of these, finding them of pleasing savor, and then
consumed another double-chocolate jigger before ease descended upon him.
After a cursory inspection of the pillow-cases, leather pennants, and
Gibson Girls that lined the walls, he left, and continued along Nassau
Street with his hands in his pockets. Gradually he was learning to
distinguish between upper classmen and entering men, even though the
freshman cap would not appear until the following Monday. Those who were
too obviously, too nervously at home were freshmen, for as each train
brought a new contingent it was immediately absorbed into the hatless,
white-shod, book-laden throng, whose function seemed to be to drift
endlessly up and down the street, emitting great clouds of smoke from
brand-new pipes. By afternoon Amory realized that now the newest
arrivals were taking him for an upper classman, and he tried
conscientiously to look both pleasantly blase and casually critical,
which was as near as he could analyze the prevalent facial expression.

At five o'clock he felt the need of hearing his own voice, so he
retreated to his house to see if any one else had arrived. Having
climbed the rickety stairs he scrutinized his room resignedly, concluding
that it was hopeless to attempt any more inspired decoration than class
banners and tiger pictures. There was a tap at the door.

"Come in!"

A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the doorway.

"Got a hammer?"

"No--sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one."

The stranger advanced into the room.

"You an inmate of this asylum?"

Amory nodded.

"Awful barn for the rent we pay."

Amory had to agree that it was.

"I thought of the campus," he said, "but they say there's so few freshmen
that they're lost. Have to sit around and study for something to do."

The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself.

"My name's Holiday."

"Blaine's my name."

They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned.

"Where'd you prep?"

"Andover--where did you?"

"St. Regis's."

"Oh, did you? I had a cousin there."

They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he
was to meet his brother for dinner at six.

"Come along and have a bite with us."

"All right."

At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holiday--he of the gray eyes was Kerry--
and during a limpid meal of thin soup and anaemic vegetables they stared
at the other freshmen, who sat either in small groups looking very ill at
ease, or in large groups seeming very much at home.

"I hear Commons is pretty bad," said Amory.

"That's the rumor. But you've got to eat there--or pay anyways."



"Oh, at Princeton you've got to swallow everything the first year.
It's like a damned prep school."

Amory agreed.

"Lot of pep, though," he insisted. "I wouldn't have gone to Yale for a

"Me either."

"You going out for anything?" inquired Amory of the elder brother.

"Not me--Burne here is going out for the Prince--the Daily Princetonian,
you know."

"Yes, I know."

"You going out for anything?"

"Why--yes. I'm going to take a whack at freshman football."

"Play at St. Regis's?"

"Some," admitted Amory depreciatingly, "but I'm getting so damned thin."

"You're not thin."

"Well, I used to be stocky last fall."


After supper they attended the movies, where Amory was fascinated by the
glib comments of a man in front of him, as well as by the wild yelling
and shouting.


"Oh, honey-baby--you're so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!"


"Oh, Clinch!"

"Kiss her, kiss 'at lady, quick!"


A group began whistling "By the Sea," and the audience took it up
noisily. This was followed by an indistinguishable song that included
much stamping and then by an endless, incoherent dirge.

She works in a Jam Factoree
But you can't-fool-me
For I know--DAMN--WELL
That she DON'T-make-jam-all-night!

As they pushed out, giving and receiving curious impersonal glances,
Amory decided that he liked the movies, wanted to enjoy them as the row
of upper classmen in front had enjoyed them, with their arms along the
backs of the seats, their comments Gaelic and caustic, their attitude a
mixture of critical wit and tolerant amusement.

"Want a sundae--I mean a jigger?" asked Kerry.


They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to 12.

"Wonderful night."

"It's a whiz."

"You men going to unpack?"

"Guess so. Come on, Burne."

Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade them good

The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last
edge of twilight. The early moon had drenched the arches with pale blue,
and, weaving over the night, in and out of the gossamer rifts of moon,
swept a song, a song with more than a hint of sadness, infinitely
transient, infinitely regretful.

He remembered that an alumnus of the nineties had told him of one of
Booth Tarkington's amusements: standing in mid-campus in the small hours
and singing tenor songs to the stars, arousing mingled emotions in the
couched undergraduates according to the sentiment of their moods.

Now, far down the shadowy line of University Place a white-clad phalanx
broke the gloom, and marching figures, white-shirted, white-trousered,
swung rhythmically up the street, with linked arms and heads thrown back:

"Going back--going back,
Going back--going back--
To the--Best--Old--Place--of--All.
Going back--going back,
From all--this--earth-ly--ball,

Amory closed his eyes as the ghostly procession drew near. The song
soared so high that all dropped out except the tenors, who bore the
melody triumphantly past the danger-point and relinquished it to the
fantastic chorus. Then Amory opened his eyes, half afraid that sight
would spoil the rich illusion of harmony.

He sighed eagerly. There at the head of the white platoon marched
Allenby, the football captain, slim and defiant, as if aware that this
year the hopes of the college rested on him, that his hundred-and-sixty
pounds were expected to dodge to victory through the heavy blue and
crimson lines.

Fascinated, Amory watched each rank of linked arms as it came abreast,
the faces indistinct above the polo shirts, the voices blent in a paean
of triumph--and then the procession passed through shadowy Campbell Arch,
and the voices grew fainter as it wound eastward over the campus.

The minutes passed and Amory sat there very quietly. He regretted the
rule that would forbid freshmen to be outdoors after curfew, for he
wanted to ramble through the shadowy scented lanes, where Witherspoon
brooded like a dark mother over Whig and Clio, her Attic children,
where the black Gothic snake of Little curled down to Cuyler and Patton,
these in turn flinging the mystery out over the placid slope rolling to
the lake.

* * * *

Princeton of the daytime filtered slowly into his consciousness--West
and Reunion, redolent of the sixties, Seventy-nine Hall, brick-red and
arrogant, Upper and Lower Pyne, aristocratic Elizabethan ladies not quite
content to live among shopkeepers, and, topping all, climbing with clear
blue aspiration, the great dreaming spires of Holder and Cleveland towers.

From the first he loved Princeton--its lazy beauty, its half-grasped
significance, the wild moonlight revel of the rushes, the handsome,
prosperous big-game crowds, and under it all the air of struggle that
pervaded his class. From the day when, wild-eyed and exhausted, the
jerseyed freshmen sat in the gymnasium and elected some one from Hill
School class president, a Lawrenceville celebrity vice-president, a
hockey star from St. Paul's secretary, up until the end of sophomore year
it never ceased, that breathless social system, that worship, seldom
named, never really admitted, of the bogey "Big Man."

First it was schools, and Amory, alone from St. Regis', watched the
crowds form and widen and form again; St. Paul's, Hill, Pomfret, eating
at certain tacitly reserved tables in Commons, dressing in their own
corners of the gymnasium, and drawing unconsciously about them a barrier
of the slightly less important but socially ambitious to protect them
from the friendly, rather puzzled high-school element. From the
moment he realized this Amory resented social barriers as artificial
distinctions made by the strong to bolster up their weak retainers and
keep out the almost strong.

Having decided to be one of the gods of the class, he reported for
freshman football practice, but in the second week, playing quarter-back,
already paragraphed in corners of the Princetonian, he wrenched his knee
seriously enough to put him out for the rest of the season. This forced
him to retire and consider the situation.

"12 Univee" housed a dozen miscellaneous question-marks. There were
three or four inconspicuous and quite startled boys from Lawrenceville,
two amateur wild men from a New York private school (Kerry Holiday
christened them the "plebeian drunks"), a Jewish youth, also from New
York, and, as compensation for Amory, the two Holidays, to whom he took
an instant fancy.

The Holidays were rumored twins, but really the dark-haired one, Kerry,
was a year older than his blond brother, Burne. Kerry was tall, with
humorous gray eyes, and a sudden, attractive smile; he became at once the
mentor of the house, reaper of ears that grew too high, censor of conceit,
vendor of rare, satirical humor. Amory spread the table of their future
friendship with all his ideas of what college should and did mean.
Kerry, not inclined as yet to take things seriously, chided him gently
for being curious at this inopportune time about the intricacies of the
social system, but liked him and was both interested and amused.

Burne, fair-haired, silent, and intent, appeared in the house only as
a busy apparition, gliding in quietly at night and off again in the
early morning to get up his work in the library--he was out for the
Princetonian, competing furiously against forty others for the coveted
first place. In December he came down with diphtheria, and some one
else won the competition, but, returning to college in February, he
dauntlessly went after the prize again. Necessarily, Amory's
acquaintance with him was in the way of three-minute chats, walking
to and from lectures, so he failed to penetrate Burne's one absorbing
interest and find what lay beneath it.

Amory was far from contented. He missed the place he had won at
St. Regis', the being known and admired, yet Princeton stimulated him,
and there were many things ahead calculated to arouse the Machiavelli
latent in him, could he but insert a wedge. The upper-class clubs,
concerning which he had pumped a reluctant graduate during the
previous summer, excited his curiosity: Ivy, detached and breathlessly
aristocratic; Cottage, an impressive milange of brilliant adventurers
and well-dressed philanderers; Tiger Inn, broad-shouldered and athletic,
vitalized by an honest elaboration of prep-school standards; Cap and Gown,
anti-alcoholic, faintly religious and politically powerful; flamboyant
Colonial; literary Quadrangle; and the dozen others, varying in age and

Anything which brought an under classman into too glaring a light was
labelled with the damning brand of "running it out." The movies thrived
on caustic comments, but the men who made them were generally running
it out; talking of clubs was running it out; standing for anything very
strongly, as, for instance, drinking parties or teetotalling, was running
it out; in short, being personally conspicuous was not tolerated, and the
influential man was the non-committal man, until at club elections in
sophomore year every one should be sewed up in some bag for the rest of
his college career.

Amory found that writing for the Nassau Literary Magazine would get him
nothing, but that being on the board of the Daily Princetonian would get
any one a good deal. His vague desire to do immortal acting with the
English Dramatic Association faded out when he found that the most
ingenious brains and talents were concentrated upon the Triangle Club,
a musical comedy organization that every year took a great Christmas
trip. In the meanwhile, feeling strangely alone and restless in Commons,
with new desires and ambitions stirring in his mind, he let the first
term go by between an envy of the embryo successes and a puzzled fretting
with Kerry as to why they were not accepted immediately among the elite
of the class.

Many afternoons they lounged in the windows of 12 Univee and watched
the class pass to and from Commons, noting satellites already attaching
themselves to the more prominent, watching the lonely grind with his
hurried step and downcast eye, envying the happy security of the big
school groups.

"We're the damned middle class, that's what!" he complained to Kerry one
day as he lay stretched out on the sofa, consuming a family of Fatimas
with contemplative precision.

"Well, why not? We came to Princeton so we could feel that way toward
the small colleges--have it on 'em, more self-confidence, dress better,
cut a swathe--"

"Oh, it isn't that I mind the glittering caste system," admitted Amory.
"I like having a bunch of hot cats on top, but gosh, Kerry, I've got to
be one of them."

"But just now, Amory, you're only a sweaty bourgeois."

Amory lay for a moment without speaking.

"I won't be--long," he said finally. "But I hate to get anywhere by
working for it. I'll show the marks, don't you know."

"Honorable scars." Kerry craned his neck suddenly at the street.
"There's Langueduc, if you want to see what he looks like--and Humbird
just behind."

Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows.

"Oh," he said, scrutinizing these worthies, "Humbird looks like a
knock-out, but this Langueduc--he's the rugged type, isn't he? I
distrust that sort. All diamonds look big in the rough."

"Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, "you're a literary
genius. It's up to you."

"I wonder"--Amory paused--"if I could be. I honestly think so sometimes.
That sounds like the devil, and I wouldn't say it to anybody except you."

"Well--go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy
D'Invilliers in the Lit."

Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table.

"Read his latest effort?"

"Never miss 'em. They're rare."

Amory glanced through the issue.

"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he?"


"Listen to this! My God!

"'A serving lady speaks:
Black velvet trails its folds over the day,
White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames,
Wave their thin flames like shadows in the wind,
Pia, Pompia, come--come away--'

"Now, what the devil does that mean?"

"It's a pantry scene."

"'Her toes are stiffened like a stork's in flight;
She's laid upon her bed, on the white sheets,
Her hands pressed on her smooth bust like a saint,
Bella Cunizza, come into the light!'

"My gosh, Kerry, what in hell is it all about? I swear I don't get him
at all, and I'm a literary bird myself."

"It's pretty tricky," said Kerry, "only you've got to think of hearses
and stale milk when you read it. That isn't as pash as some of them."

Amory tossed the magazine on the table.

"Well," he sighed, "I sure am up in the air. I know I'm not a regular
fellow, yet I loathe anybody else that isn't. I can't decide whether to
cultivate my mind and be a great dramatist, or to thumb my nose at the
Golden Treasury and be a Princeton slicker."

"Why decide?" suggested Kerry. "Better drift, like me. I'm going to
sail into prominence on Burne's coat-tails."

"I can't drift--I want to be interested. I want to pull strings, even
for somebody else, or be Princetonian chairman or Triangle president.
I want to be admired, Kerry."

"You're thinking too much about yourself."

Amory sat up at this.

"No. I'm thinking about you, too. We've got to get out and mix around
the class right now, when it's fun to be a snob. I'd like to bring a
sardine to the prom in June, for instance, but I wouldn't do it unless
I could be damn debonaire about it--introduce her to all the prize
parlor-snakes, and the football captain, and all that simple stuff."

"Amory," said Kerry impatiently, "you're just going around in a circle.
If you want to be prominent, get out and try for something; if you don't,
just take it easy." He yawned. "Come on, let's let the smoke drift off.
We'll go down and watch football practice."

* * * *

Amory gradually accepted this point of view, decided that next fall would
inaugurate his career, and relinquished himself to watching Kerry extract
joy from 12 Univee.

They filled the Jewish youth's bed with lemon pie; they put out the gas
all over the house every night by blowing into the jet in Amory's room,
to the bewilderment of Mrs. Twelve and the local plumber; they set up
the effects of the plebeian drunks--pictures, books, and furniture--in
the bathroom, to the confusion of the pair, who hazily discovered the
transposition on their return from a Trenton spree; they were
disappointed beyond measure when the plebeian drunks decided to take it
as a joke; they played red-dog and twenty-one and jackpot from dinner
to dawn, and on the occasion of one man's birthday persuaded him to buy
sufficient champagne for a hilarious celebration. The donor of the party
having remained sober, Kerry and Amory accidentally dropped him down two
flights of stairs and called, shame-faced and penitent, at the infirmary
all the following week.

"Say, who are all these women?" demanded Kerry one day, protesting at
the size of Amory's mail. "I've been looking at the postmarks lately--
Farmington and Dobbs and Westover and Dana Hall--what's the idea?"

Amory grinned.

"All from the Twin Cities." He named them off. "There's Marylyn De Witt--
she's pretty, got a car of her own and that's damn convenient; there's
Sally Weatherby--she's getting too fat; there's Myra St. Claire, she's an
old flame, easy to kiss if you like it--"

"What line do you throw 'em?" demanded Kerry. "I've tried everything,
and the mad wags aren't even afraid of me."

"You're the 'nice boy' type," suggested Amory.

"That's just it. Mother always feels the girl is safe if she's with me.
Honestly, it's annoying. If I start to hold somebody's hand, they laugh
at me, and let me, just as if it wasn't part of them. As soon as I get
hold of a hand they sort of disconnect it from the rest of them."

"Sulk," suggested Amory. "Tell 'em you're wild and have 'em reform you--
go home furious--come back in half an hour--startle 'em."

Kerry shook his head.

"No chance. I wrote a St. Timothy girl a really loving letter last year.
In one place I got rattled and said: 'My God, how I love you!' She took
a nail scissors, clipped out the 'My God' and showed the rest of the
letter all over school. Doesn't work at all. I'm just 'good old Kerry'
and all that rot."

Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as "good old Amory." He failed

February dripped snow and rain, the cyclonic freshman mid-years passed,
and life in 12 Univee continued interesting if not purposeful. Once a
day Amory indulged in a club sandwich, cornflakes, and Julienne potatoes
at "Joe's," accompanied usually by Kerry or Alec Connage. The latter was
a quiet, rather aloof slicker from Hotchkiss, who lived next door and
shared the same enforced singleness as Amory, due to the fact that his
entire class had gone to Yale. "Joe's" was unaesthetic and faintly
unsanitary, but a limitless charge account could be opened there, a
convenience that Amory appreciated. His father had been experimenting
with mining stocks and, in consequence, his allowance, while liberal,
was not at all what he had expected.

"Joe's" had the additional advantage of seclusion from curious upper-
class eyes, so at four each afternoon Amory, accompanied by friend or
book, went up to experiment with his digestion. One day in March,
finding that all the tables were occupied, he slipped into a chair
opposite a freshman who bent intently over a book at the last table.
They nodded briefly. For twenty minutes Amory sat consuming bacon buns
and reading "Mrs. Warren's Profession" (he had discovered Shaw quite
by accident while browsing in the library during mid-years); the other
freshman, also intent on his volume, meanwhile did away with a trio of
chocolate malted milks.

By and by Amory's eyes wandered curiously to his fellow-luncher's book.
He spelled out the name and title upside down--"Marpessa," by Stephen
Phillips. This meant nothing to him, his metrical education having
been confined to such Sunday classics as "Come into the Garden, Maude,"
and what morsels of Shakespeare and Milton had been recently forced upon

Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book for a
moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily:

"Ha! Great stuff!"

The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial

"Are you referring to your bacon buns?" His cracked, kindly voice
went well with the large spectacles and the impression of a voluminous
keenness that he gave.

"No," Amory answered. "I was referring to Bernard Shaw." He turned the
book around in explanation.

"I've never read any Shaw. I've always meant to." The boy paused and
then continued: "Did you ever read Stephen Phillips, or do you like

"Yes, indeed," Amory affirmed eagerly. "I've never read much of Phillips,
though." (He had never heard of any Phillips except the late David

"It's pretty fair, I think. Of course he's a Victorian." They sallied
into a discussion of poetry, in the course of which they introduced
themselves, and Amory's companion proved to be none other than "that
awful highbrow, Thomas Parke D'Invilliers," who signed the passionate
love-poems in the Lit. He was, perhaps, nineteen, with stooped shoulders,
pale blue eyes, and, as Amory could tell from his general appearance,
without much conception of social competition and such phenomena of
absorbing interest. Still, he liked books, and it seemed forever since
Amory had met any one who did; if only that St. Paul's crowd at the
next table would not mistake _him_ for a bird, too, he would enjoy the
encounter tremendously. They didn't seem to be noticing, so he let
himself go, discussed books by the dozens--books he had read, read about,
books he had never heard of, rattling off lists of titles with the
facility of a Brentano's clerk. D'Invilliers was partially taken in
and wholly delighted. In a good-natured way he had almost decided that
Princeton was one part deadly Philistines and one part deadly grinds,

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