Beautiful and Damned, The (B&N) by Fitzgerald F. Scott

Author:Fitzgerald, F. Scott [Fitzgerald, F. Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Classics, Novel
Publisher: Barnes&Noble
Published: 1922-01-01T02:00:00+00:00

One day early in July Anthony, returned from an afternoon in New York, called up-stairs to Gloria. Receiving no answer he guessed she was asleep and so went into the pantry for one of the little sandwiches that were always prepared for them. He found Tana seated at the kitchen-table before a miscellaneous assortment of odds and ends—cigar-boxes, knives, pencils, the tops of cans, and some scraps of paper covered with elaborate figures and diagrams.

“What the devil you doing?” demanded Anthony curiously.

Tana politely grinned.

“I show you,” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “I tell—”

“You making a dog-house?”

“No, sa.” Tana grinned again. “Make typewutta.”

“Typewriter?”

“Yes, sa. I think, oh all time I think, lie in bed think ’bout typewutta.”

“So you thought you’d make one, eh?”

“Wait. I tell.”

Anthony, munching a sandwich, leaned leisurely against the sink. Tana opened and closed his mouth several times as though testing its capacity for action. Then with a rush he began:

“I been think—typewutta—has, oh, many many many many thing. Oh many many many many.”

“Many keys. I see.”

“No-o? Yes—key! Many many many many lettah. Like so a-b-c.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Wait. I tell.” He screwed his face up in a tremendous effort to express himself: “I been think—many words—end same. Like i-n-g.”

“You bet. A whole raft of them.”

“So—I make—typewutta—quick. Not so many lettah—”

“That’s a great idea, Tana. Save time. You’ll make a fortune. Press one key and there’s ‘ing.’ Hope you work it out.”

Tana laughed disparagingly.

“Wait. I tell—”

“Where’s Mrs. Patch?”

“She out. Wait, I tell—” Again he screwed up his face for action. “My typewutta—”

“Where is she?”

“Here—I make.” He pointed to the miscellany of junk on the table.

“I mean Mrs. Patch.”

“She out.”Tana reassured him. “She be back five o’clock, she say.”

“Down in the village?”

“No. Went off be-fore lunch. She go Mr. Bloeckman.”

Anthony started.

“Went out with Mr. Bloeckman?”

“She be back five.”

Without a word Anthony left the kitchen with Tana’s disconsolate “I tell” trailing after him. So this was Gloria’s idea of excitement, by God! His fists were clenched; within a moment he had worked himself up to a tremendous pitch of indignation. He went to the door and looked out; there was no car in sight and his watch stood at four minutes of five. With furious energy he dashed down to the end of the path—as far as the bend of the road a mile off he could see no car—except—but it was a farmer’s flivver. Then, in an undignified pursuit of dignity, he rushed back to the shelter of the house as quickly as he had rushed out.

Pacing up and down the living-room he began an angry rehearsal of the speech he would make to her when she came in—

“So this is love!” he would begin—or no, it sounded too much like the popular phrase “So this is Paris!” He must be dignified, hurt, grieved. Anyhow—“So this is what you do when I have to go up and trot all day around the hot city on business. No wonder I can’t write! No wonder I don’t dare let you out of my sight!” He was expanding now, warming to his subject.

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