Lentas caricias/Fantasías en el dormitorio (Pasión) (Spanish Edition)

So they proceeded with an infinite guile that would have horrified her parents. She was conscious that they were a handsome pair, and seemed to belong distinctively in this seclusion, while lesser lights fluttered and chattered downstairs. Boys who passed the door looked in enviously girls who passed only laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves.

They had now reached a very definite stage. They had traded accounts of their progress since they had met last, and she had listened to much she had heard before. He was a sophomore, was on the Princetonian board, hoped to be chairman in senior year. He learned that some of the boys she went with in Spanish accessible: A good half seemed to have already flunked out of various schools and colleges, but some of them bore athletic names that made him look at her admiringly. Such is the power of young contralto voices on sink-down sofas. She said there was a difference between conceit and self-confidence.

She adored self-confidence in men. However, he sized up several people for her. Then they talked about hands. Amory had stayed over a day to see her, and his train left at twelveeighteen that night. His trunk and suitcase awaited him at the station; his watch was beginning to hang heavy in his pocket.

Amory reached above their heads and turned out the electric light, so that they were in the dark, except for the red glow that fell through the door from the reading-room lamps. He continued a bit huskily: Isabelle was quite stirred; she wound her handkerchief into a tight ball, and by the faint light that streamed over her, dropped it deliberately on the floor.

Their hands touched for an instant, but neither spoke. Silences were becoming more frequent and more delicious. Outside another stray couple had come up and were experimenting on the piano in the next room. You do give a darn about me. As he swung the door softly shut, the music seemed quivering just outside. The future vista of her life seemed an unending succession of scenes like this: He took her hand softly.

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With a sudden movement he turned it and, holding it to his lips, kissed the palm. Her breath came faster. Suddenly the ring of voices, the sound of running footsteps surged toward them. Quick as a flash Amory reached up and turned on the light, and when the door opened and three boys, the wrathy and dance-craving Froggy among them, rushed in, he was turning over the magazines on the table, while she sat without moving, serene and unembarrassed, and even greeted them with a welcoming smile.

But her heart was beating wildly, and she felt somehow as if she had been deprived. There was a clamor for a dance, there was a glance that passed between them on his side despair, on hers regret, and then the evening went on, with the reassured beaux and the eternal cutting in. At quarter to twelve Amory shook hands with her gravely, in the midst of a small crowd assembled to wish him good-speed. For an instant he lost his poise, and she felt a bit rattled when a satirical voice from a concealed wit cried: Isabelle turned to her quietly.

In her eyes was the light of the idealist, the inviolate dreamer of Joan-like dreams. He had such a good-looking mouth would she ever? The minor snobs, finely balanced thermometers of success, warmed to him as the club elections grew nigh, and he and Tom were visited by groups of upper classmen who arrived awkwardly, balanced on the edge of the furniture and talked of all subjects except the one of absorbing interest.

Amory was amused at the intent eyes upon Spanish angels: Scott Fitzgerald 73 him, and, in case the visitors represented some club in which he was not interested, took great pleasure in shocking them with unorthodox remarks. There were fickle groups that jumped from club to club; there were friends of two or three days who announced tearfully and wildly that they must join the same club, nothing should separate them; there were snarling disclosures of long-hidden grudges as the Suddenly Prominent remembered snubs of freshman year. This orgy of sociability culminated in a gigantic party at the Nassau Inn, where punch was dispensed from immense bowls, and the whole down-stairs became a delirious, circulating, shouting pattern of faces and voices.

Tore over to Murray—Dodge on a bicycle—afraid it was a mistake. Hear you got a good crowd. His ideas were in tune with life as he found it; he wanted no more than to drift and dream and enjoy a dozen new-found friendships through the April afternoons. Alec Connage came into his room one morning and woke him up into the sunshine and peculiar glory of Campbell Hall shining in the window. Speed it up, kid! In fact, it was stolen from Asbury Park by persons unknown, who deserted it in Princeton and left for the West.

Heartless Humbird here got permission from the city council to deliver it. There was an emphatic negative chorus. We can sell the car. Some people have lived on nothing for years at a time. Read the Boy Scout Monthly. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow. I can see it in his eye. I ought to make up to-night; but I can telephone back, I suppose. It was a halcyon day, and as they neared the shore and the salt breezes scurried by, he began to picture the ocean and long, level stretches of sand and red roofs over blue sea.

Then they hurried through the little town and it all flashed upon his consciousness to a mighty pfan of emotion Oh, gentlefolk, stop the car! First, he realized that the sea was blue and that there was an Spanish begotten: Scott Fitzgerald 77 enormous quantity of it, and that it roared and roared really all the banalities about the ocean that one could realize, but if any one had told him then that these things were banalities, he would have gaped in wonder.

The food for one. Hand the rest around. When luncheon was over they sat and smoked quietly. Kerry, collect the small change. They sauntered leisurely toward the door, pursued in a moment by the suspicious Ganymede. At four there were refreshments in a lunch-room, and this time they paid an even smaller per cent on the total cost; something about the appearance and savoir-faire of the crowd made the thing go, and they were not pursued. Then Kerry saw a face in the crowd that attracted him and, rushing off, reappeared in a moment with one of the homeliest girls Amory had ever set eyes on.

Her pale mouth extended from ear to ear, her teeth projected in a solid wedge, and she had little, squinty eyes that peeped ingratiatingly over the side sweep of her nose. Kerry presented them formally. Let me present Messrs. Connage, Sloane, Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine. Poor creature; Amory supposed she had never before been noticed in her life possibly she was half-witted. While she accompanied them Kerry had invited her to supper she said nothing which could discountenance such a belief. Amory was content to sit and watch the by-play, thinking what a light touch Kerry had, and how he could transform the barest incident into a thing of curve and contour.

They all seemed to have the spirit of it more or less, and it was a relaxation to be with them. Amory usually liked men individually, yet feared Spanish bobbed: Scott Fitzgerald 79 them in crowds unless the crowd was around him. He wondered how much each one contributed to the party, for there was somewhat of a spiritual tax levied.

Alec and Kerry were the life of it, but not quite the centre. Somehow the quiet Humbird, and Sloane, with his impatient superciliousness, were the centre. Dick Humbird had, ever since freshman year, seemed to Amory a perfect type of aristocrat. He was slender but well-built black curly hair, straight features, and rather a dark skin.

Everything he said sounded intangibly appropriate. He possessed infinite courage, an averagely good mind, and a sense of honor with a clear charm and noblesse oblige that varied it from righteousness. He was not a snob, though he knew only half his class. Servants worshipped him, and treated him like a god. He seemed the eternal example of what the upper class tries to be. This present type of party was made possible by the surging together of the class after club elections as if to make a last desperate attempt to know itself, to keep together, to fight off the tightening spirit of the clubs.

It was a let-down from the conventional heights they had all walked so rigidly. After supper they saw Kaluka to the boardwalk, and then strolled back along the beach to Asbury. The evening sea was a new sensation, for all its color and Spanish aristocrat: They had suppered greatly on their last eleven cents and, singing, strolled up through the casinos and lighted arches on the boardwalk, stopping to listen approvingly to all band concerts.

In one place Kerry took up a collection for the French War Orphans which netted a dollar and twenty cents, and with this they bought some brandy in case they caught cold in the night. They finished the day in a moving-picture show and went into solemn systematic roars of laughter at an ancient comedy, to the startled annoyance of the rest of the audience. Their entrance was distinctly strategic, for each man as he entered pointed reproachfully at the one just behind him. Sloane, bringing up the rear, disclaimed all knowledge and responsibility as soon as the others were scattered inside; then as the irate ticket-taker rushed in he followed nonchalantly.

They reassembled later by the Casino and made arrangements for the night. Kerry wormed permission from the watchman to sleep on the platform and, having collected a huge pile of rugs from the booths to serve as mattresses and blankets, they talked until midnight, and then fell into a dreamless sleep, though Amory tried hard to stay awake and watch that marvellous moon settle on the sea. So they progressed for two happy days, up and down the shore by street-car or machine, or by shoe-leather on the crowded boardwalk; sometimes eating with the wealthy, more frequently dining frugally at the expense of an unsuspecting restaurateur.

They had their photos taken, eight poses, in a quickdevelopment store. The photographer probably has them yet at least, they never called for them. The weather was perfect, and Spanish annoyance: Scott Fitzgerald 81 again they slept outside, and again Amory fell unwillingly asleep. Sunday broke stolid and respectable, and even the sea seemed to mumble and complain, so they returned to Princeton via the Fords of transient farmers, and broke up with colds in their heads, but otherwise none the worse for wandering.

Even more than in the year before, Amory neglected his work, not deliberately but lazily and through a multitude of other interests. Co-ordinate geometry and the melancholy hexameters of Corneille and Racine held forth small allurements, and even psychology, which he had eagerly awaited, proved to be a dull subject full of muscular reactions and biological phrases rather than the study of personality and influence. That was a noon class, and it always sent him dozing. They all cut more classes than were allowed, which meant an additional course the following year, but spring was too rare to let anything interfere with their colorful ramblings.

All through the spring Amory had kept up an intermittent correspondence with Isabelle Borgi, punctuated by violent squabbles and chiefly enlivened by his attempts to find new words for love. He discovered Isabelle to be discreetly Spanish allurements: I mean the future, you know. I may not come back next year. I wish my girl lived here. But marry not a chance.

Scott Fitzgerald 83 But Amory sighed and made use of the nights. He had a snap-shot of Isabelle, enshrined in an old watch, and at eight almost every night he would turn off all the lights except the desk lamp and, sitting by the open windows with the picture before him, write her rapturous letters. Your last letter came and it was wonderful! Be cure and be able to come to the prom. I often think over what you said on that night and wonder how much you meant. For I am through with everything. And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them infinitely charming, infinitely new.

June came and the days grew so hot and lazy that they could not worry even about exams, but spent dreamy evenings on the court of Cottage, talking of long subjects until the sweep of country toward Stony Brook became a blue haze and Spanish afraid: Then down deserted Prospect and along McCosh with song everywhere around them, up to the hot joviality of Nassau Street.

Cabalgue, pret de ride. Princeton invariably gives the thoughtful man a social sense. I might have been a pretty fair poet. You chose to come to an Eastern college. They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to ride back. Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle! By noon the bright-costumed alumni crowded the streets with their bands and choruses, and in the tents there was great reunion under the orange-and-black banners that curled and strained in the wind.

It had been a gay party and different stages of sobriety were represented. Amory was in the car behind; they had taken the wrong road and lost the way, and so were hurrying to catch up. He had the ghost of two stanzas of a poem forming in his mind So the gray car crept nightward in the dark and there was no life stirred as it went by As the still ocean paths before the shark in starred and glittering waterways, beauty-high, the moon-swathed trees divided, pair on pair, while flapping night birds cried across the air A moment by an inn of lamps and shades, a yellow inn under a yellow moon then silence, where crescendo laughter fades Scott Fitzgerald 87 They jolted to a stop, and Amory peered up, startled.

A woman was standing beside the road, talking to Alec at the wheel. Afterward he remembered the harpy effect that her old kimono gave her, and the cracked hollowness of her voice as she spoke: Under the full light of a roadside arc-light lay a form, face downward in a widening circle of blood. Amory thought of the back of that head that hair— that hair The car turned over.

Sloane, with his shoulder punctured, was on another lounge. He was half delirious, and kept calling something about a chemistry lecture at 8: The doctor had arrived, and Amory went over to the couch, where some one handed him a sheet to put over the body. With a sudden hardness, he raised one of the hands and let it fall back inertly. The brow was cold but the face not Spanish calling: He looked at the shoe-laces—Dick had tied them that morning. He had tied them, and now he was this heavy white mass. All that remained of the charm and personality of the Dick Humbird he had known oh, it was all so horrible and unaristocratic and close to the earth.

All tragedy has that strain of the grotesque and squalid so useless, futile Amory was reminded of a cat that had lain horribly mangled in some alley of his childhood. Next day, by a merciful chance, passed in a whirl. When Amory was by himself his thoughts zigzagged inevitably to the picture of that red mouth yawning incongruously in the white face, but with a determined effort he piled present excitement upon the memory of it and shut it coldly away from his mind.

Isabelle and her mother drove into town at four, and they rode up smiling Prospect Avenue, through the gay crowd, to have tea at Cottage. The clubs had their annual dinners that night, so at seven he loaned her to a freshman and arranged to meet her in the gymnasium at eleven, when the upper classmen were admitted to the freshman dance. She was all he had expected, and he was happy and eager to make that night the centre of every dream.

At nine the upper classes stood in front of the clubs as the freshman torchlight parade rioted past, and Amory wondered if the dress-suited groups against the dark, stately backgrounds and under the flare of the torches made the night as brilliant to the staring, cheering freshmen as it had been to him the year before. The next day was another whirl. They lunched in a gay party of six in a private dining-room at the club, while Isabelle and Amory looked at each other Spanish alley: Scott Fitzgerald 89 tenderly over the fried chicken and knew that their love was to be eternal.

They danced away the prom until five, and the stags cut in on Isabelle with joyous abandon, which grew more and more enthusiastic as the hour grew late, and their wines, stored in overcoat pockets in the coat room, made old weariness wait until another day. The stag line is a most homogeneous mass of men.

It fairly sways with a single soul. A dark-haired beauty dances by and there is a half-gasping sound as the ripple surges forward and some one sleeker than the rest darts out and cuts in. Then when the six-foot girl brought by Kaye in your class, and to whom he has been trying to introduce you all evening gallops by, the line surges back and the groups face about and become intent on far corners of the hall, for Kaye, anxious and perspiring, appears elbowing through the crowd in search of familiar faces. For a delicious hour that passed too soon they glided the silent roads about Princeton and talked from the surface of their hearts in shy excitement.

Amory felt strangely ingenuous and made no attempt to kiss her. He was tempted to lean over and kiss away her tears, and she slipped her hand into his under cover of darkness to be pressed softly. As he put in his studs he realized that he was enjoying life as he would probably never enjoy it again. He had arrived, abreast of the best in his generation at Princeton. He was in love and his love was returned. Turning on all the lights, he looked at himself in the mirror, trying to find in his own face the qualities that made him see clearer than the great crowd of people, that made him decide firmly, and able to influence and follow his own will.

There was little in his life now that he would have changed Oxford might have been a bigger field. How conveniently well he looked, and how well a dinner coat became him. He stepped into the hall and then waited at the top of the stairs, for he heard footsteps coming. It was Isabelle, and from the top of her shining hair to her little golden slippers she had never seemed so beautiful. As in the story-books, she ran into them, and on that half-minute, as their lips first touched, rested the high point of vanity, the crest of his young egotism.

Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion. He became aware that he had not an ounce of real affection for Isabelle, but her coldness piqued him. He wanted to kiss her, kiss her a lot, because then he knew he could leave in the morning and not care. It would interfere vaguely with his idea of himself as a conqueror. Perhaps she suspected this. At any rate, Amory watched the night that should have been the consummation of romance glide by with great moths overhead and the heavy fragrance of roadside gardens, but without those broken words, those little sighs He had told her a lot of things.

You just sat and watched my eyes. He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. Scott Fitzgerald 95 They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room he thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent in her face. He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared—how much of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity whether he was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for romance.

The early wind stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was idly puzzled not to be in his room at Princeton with his school football picture over the bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite. He was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get out of the house before he saw Isabelle. What had seemed a melancholy happening, now seemed a tiresome anticlimax. He was dressed at half past, so he sat down by the window; felt that the sinews of his heart were twisted somewhat more than he had thought. What an ironic mockery the morning seemed!

There was a knock at the door. He took a sombre satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she had been nothing except what he had read Spanish anticlimax: Yet that was what she had objected to in him; and Amory was suddenly tired of thinking, thinking! It seemed a stupid way to commence his upper-class years, to spend four hours a morning in the stuffy room of a tutoring school, imbibing the infinite boredom of conic sections. Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the class and smoked innumerable Pall Malls as he drew diagrams and worked equations from six in the morning until midnight.

Scott Fitzgerald 97 The room was a study in stupidity—two huge stands for paper, Mr. Rooney in his shirt-sleeves in front of them, and slouched around on chairs, a dozen men: McDowell that Amory very nearly pushed him out of the open window when he said this Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that filled the room would come the inevitable helpless cry: He found it impossible to study conic sections; something in their calm and tantalizing respectability breathing defiantly through Mr.

Somehow, with the defection of Isabelle the idea of undergraduate success had loosed its grasp on his imagination, and he contemplated a possible failure to pass off his condition with equanimity, even though it would arbitrarily mean his removal from the Princetonian board and the slaughter of his chances for the Senior Council.

There was always his luck. He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered from the room. Your stock will go down like an elevator at the club and on the campus. Why rub it in? Amory returned the gaze pointedly. He was, of course, immediately sorry for what he had lost. His philosophy of success had tumbled down upon him, and he looked for the reasons. My own idleness was quite in accord with my system, but the luck broke. Get a better one quick, or just bum around for two more years as a has-been?

If his reactions to his environment could be tabulated, the chart would have appeared like this, beginning with his earliest years: Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. That had been his nearest approach to success through conformity. The fundamental Amory, idle, imaginative, rebellious, had been nearly snowed under. He had conformed, he had succeeded, but as his imagination was neither satisfied nor grasped by his own success, he had listlessly, half-accidentally chucked the whole thing and become again: The incongruity of death with either the beauties of Lake Geneva or with his Spanish appeared: He decided that burial was after all preferable to cremation, and he smiled at his old boyhood choice, slow oxidation in the top of a tree.

The day after the ceremony he was amusing himself in the great library by sinking back on a couch in graceful mortuary attitudes, trying to determine whether he would, when his day came, be found with his arms crossed piously over his chest Monsignor Darcy had once advocated this posture as being the most distinguished , or with his hands clasped behind his head, a more pagan and Byronic attitude. Barton, of Barton and Krogman, their lawyers, and himself, that took place several days after the funeral.

The total expenditure that year had come to something over one hundred and ten thousand dollars. The rest was fully taken care of, and there were invariably items which failed to balance on the right side of the ledger. In the volume for Amory was shocked to discover the decrease in the number of bond holdings and the great drop in the income.

Very little of the oil had been burned, but Stephen Blaine had been rather badly singed. The next year and the next and the next showed similar decreases, and Beatrice Spanish advocated: About the exact state of things Mr. Barton was quite vague and confused. There had been recent investments, the outcome of which was for the present problematical, and he had an idea there were further speculations and exchanges concerning which he had not been consulted.

In fact, Beatrice wrote that she was putting the money into railroad and street-car bonds as fast as she could conveniently transfer it. This Ford person has certainly made the most of that idea. So I am instructing Mr. Barton to specialize on such things as Northern Pacific and these Rapid Transit Companies, as they call the street-cars. I shall never forgive myself for not buying Bethlehem Steel. You must go into finance, Amory. You start as a messenger or a teller, I believe, and from that you go up almost indefinitely.

Before I get any farther I want to discuss something. Bispam, an over cordial little lady whom I met at a tea the other day, told me that her son, he is at Yale, wrote her that all the boys there wore their summer underwear all during the winter, and also went about with their heads wet and in low shoes on the coldest days. It not only inclines a young man to pneumonia and infantile paralysis, but to all forms of lung trouble, to which you are particularly inclined. You cannot Spanish bonds: Scott Fitzgerald experiment with your health. I have found that out. I will not make myself ridiculous as some mothers no doubt do, by insisting that you wear overshoes, though I remember one Christmas you wore them around constantly without a single buckle latched, making such a curious swishing sound, and you refused to buckle them because it was not the thing to do.

The very next Christmas you would not wear even rubbers, though I begged you. I warned you in my last that the lack of money to do the things one wants to makes one quite prosy and domestic, but there is still plenty for everything if we are not too extravagant. Monsignor was growing a trifle stouter and his personality had expanded even with that, and Amory felt both rest and security in sinking into a squat, cushioned chair and joining him in the middle-aged sanity of a cigar.

I want to hear the whole thing. Anyways, mother would hate not having me graduate. Kerry Holiday wants me to go over with him and join the Lafayette Esquadrille. If we can do the next thing, and have an hour a day to think in, we can accomplish marvels, but as far as any Spanish accomplish: I can do the one hundred things beyond the next thing, but I stub my toe on that, just as you stubbed your toe on mathematics this fall.

It never seems the sort of thing I should do. You brushed three or four ornaments down, and, in a fit of pique, knocked off the rest of them. The thing now is to collect some new ones, and the farther you look ahead in the collecting the better. But remember, do the next thing! It was a pose, I guess. I am afraid that I gave you too much assurance of your inevitable safety, and you must remember that I did that through faith in your springs of effort; not in the silly conviction that you will arrive without struggle.

Some nuances of character you will have to take for granted in yourself, though you must be careful in confessing them to others. You are unsentimental, almost incapable of affection, astute without being cunning and vain without being proud. An idealization of some such a man as Leonardo da Vinci would be a more valuable beacon to you at present. Do write me soon. Henry, John Fox, Jr. The undergraduate body itself was rather more interesting that year than had been the entirely Philistine Princeton of two years before.

Things had livened surprisingly, though at the sacrifice of much of the spontaneous charm of freshman year. In the old Princeton they would never have discovered Tanaduke Wylie. At least so Tom and Amory took him. So they surrendered Tanaduke to the futurists, deciding that he and his flaming ties would do better there. Scott Fitzgerald Amory rather scornfully avoided the popular professors who dispensed easy epigrams and thimblefuls of Chartreuse to groups of admirers every night. Well, here we are, your hundred sheep, Tune up, play on, pour forth Still, still I meet you here and there A radical comes down and shocks The atheistic orthodox?

And, sometimes, even chapel lures That conscious tolerance of yours, That broad and beaming view of truth Including Kant and General Booth And so from shock to shock you live, A hollow, pale affirmative Scott Fitzgerald That down the noisy aisle-ways beat Forget on narrow-minded earth The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth. The evening was so very young that they felt ridiculous with surplus energy, and burst into the cafi like Dionysian revellers. Axia and Amory, acquaintances of an hour, jostled behind a waiter to a table at a point of vantage; there they took seats and watched.

If you ask me, I want a double Daiquiri. They were mostly from the colleges, with a scattering of the male refuse of Broadway, and women of two types, the higher of which was the chorus girl. On the whole it was a typical crowd, and their party as typical as any. Their party was scheduled to be one of the harmless kind. But strange things are prepared even in the dead of night, and the unusual, which lurks least in the cafi, home of the prosaic and inevitable, was preparing to spoil for him the waning romance of Broadway.

The way it took was so inexpressibly terrible, so unbelievable, that afterward he never thought of it as experience; but it was a scene from a misty tragedy, played far behind the veil, and that it meant something definite he knew. Sloane had been drinking consecutively and was in a state of unsteady exhilaration, but Amory was quite tiresomely sober; they had run across none of those ancient, corrupt buyers of champagne who usually assisted their New York parties. They were just through dancing and were making their way back to their chairs when Amory became aware that some one at a near-by table was looking at him.

He turned and glanced casually Scott Fitzgerald watching their party intently. Amory turned to Fred, who was just sitting down. In fact, it would be, perhaps, the thing to do in order to keep an eye on Sloane, who was not in a state to do his own thinking. Never would he forget that street It was a broad street, lined on both sides with just such tall, white-stone buildings, dotted with dark windows; they stretched along as far as the eye could see, flooded with a bright moonlight that gave them a calcium pallor.

He imagined each one to have an elevator and a colored hall-boy and a key-rack; each one to be eight stories high and full of three and four room suites. He wondered if it sounded priggish. That was all; for at the second that his decision came, he looked up and saw, ten yards from him, the man who had been in the cafi, and with his jump of astonishment the glass fell from his uplifted hand. There the man half sat, half leaned against a pile of pillows on the corner divan. Amory looked him over carefully and later he could have drawn him after a fashion, down to the merest details.

His mouth was the kind that is called frank, and he had steady gray eyes that moved slowly from one to the other of their group, with just the shade of a questioning expression. Then, suddenly, Amory perceived the feet, and with a rush of blood to the head he realized he was afraid. The feet were all wrong It was like weakness in a good woman, or blood on satin; one of those terrible incongruities that shake little things in the back of the brain.

He wore no shoes, but, instead, a sort of half Spanish astonishment: Scott Fitzgerald moccasin, pointed, though, like the shoes they wore in the fourteenth century, and with the little ends curling up. They were a darkish brown and his toes seemed to fill them to the end They were unutterably terrible The man regarded Amory quizzically Then the human voices fell faintly on his ear: As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the sickly electric light of the paved hall.

Ten, fifteen steps away sounded the footsteps. They were like a slow dripping, with just the slightest insistence in their fall. With the instinct of a child Amory edged in under the blue darkness of the white buildings, cleaving the moonlight for haggard seconds, once bursting into a slow run with clumsy stumblings. After that he stopped suddenly; he must keep hold, he thought.

His lips were dry and he licked them. Was every one followed in the moonlight? When again the pale sheen skimmed the cornices, it was almost beside him, and Amory thought he heard a quiet breathing. Suddenly he realized that the footsteps were not behind, had never been behind, they were ahead and he was not eluding but following He began to run, blindly, his heart knocking heavily, his hands clinched. Far ahead a black dot showed itself, resolved slowly into a human shape.

But Amory was beyond that now; he turned off the street and darted into an alley, narrow and dark and smelling of old rottenness. He twisted down a long, sinuous blackness, where the moonlight was shut away except for tiny glints and patches The steps ahead stopped, and he could hear them shift slightly with a continuous motion, like waves around a dock. He put his face in his hands and covered eyes and ears as well as he could. During all this time it never occurred to him that he was delirious or drunk. He had a sense of reality such as material things could never give him.

His intellectual content seemed to submit passively to it, and it fitted like a glove Spanish blackness: Scott Fitzgerald everything that had ever preceded it in his life. It did not muddle him. It was like a problem whose answer he knew on paper, yet whose solution he was unable to grasp. He was far beyond horror. He had sunk through the thin surface of that, now moved in a region where the feet and the fear of white walls were real, living things, things he must accept.

Only far inside his soul a little fire leaped and cried that something was pulling him down, trying to get him inside a door and slam it behind him. After that door was slammed there would be only footfalls and white buildings in the moonlight, and perhaps he would be one of the footfalls. He remembered calling aloud: Oh, send some one stupid! When he called thus it was not an act of will at all will had turned him away from the moving figure in the street; it was almost instinct that called, just the pile on pile of inherent tradition or some wild prayer from way over the night.

Then something clanged like a low gong struck at a distance, and before his eyes a face flashed over the two feet, a face pale and distorted with a sort of infinite evil that twisted it like flame in the wind; but he knew, for the half instant that the gong tanged and hummed, that it was the face of Dick Humbird. Minutes later he sprang to his feet, realizing dimly that there was no more sound, and that he was alone in the graying alley.

It was cold, and he started on a steady run for the light that showed the street at the other end. Sloane was snoring heavily, his clothes in a pile by his bed. They dressed and ate breakfast in silence, and then sauntered out to get some air. If the morning had been cold and gray he could have grasped the reins of the past in an instant, but it was one of those days that New York gets sometimes in May, when the air on Fifth Avenue is a soft, light wine.

How much or how little Sloane remembered Amory did not care to know; he apparently had none of the nervous tension that was gripping Amory and forcing his mind back and forth like a shrieking saw. Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory. Old remorse getting you? His knees were shaking under him, and he knew that if he stayed another minute on this street he would keel over Spanish assimilate: Scott Fitzgerald where he stood.

In the doorway of his room a sudden blackness flowed around him like a divided river. When he came to himself he knew that several hours had passed. He pitched onto the bed and rolled over on his face with a deadly fear that he was going mad. He wanted people, people, some one sane and stupid and good. He lay for he knew not how long without moving. He could feel the little hot veins on his forehead standing out, and his terror had hardened on him like plaster.

He felt he was passing up again through the thin crust of horror, and now only could he distinguish the shadowy twilight he was leaving. He must have fallen asleep again, for when he next recollected himself he had paid the hotel bill and was stepping into a taxi at the door. It was raining torrents. The presence of a painted woman across the aisle filled him with a fresh burst of sickness and he changed to another car, tried to concentrate on an article in a popular magazine.

He found himself reading the same paragraphs over and over, so he abandoned this attempt and leaning over wearily pressed his hot forehead against the damp window-pane. Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting a cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing him. Amory threw his coat and hat on the floor, loosened his collar, and took a Wells novel at random from the shelf.

Outside the wind came up, and Amory started as the wet branches moved and clawed with their finger-nails at the window-pane. Tom was deep in his work, and inside the room only the occasional scratch of a match or the rustle of leather as they shifted in their chairs broke the stillness. Then like a zigzag of lightning came the change.

Amory sat bolt upright, frozen cold in his chair. Tom was looking at him with his mouth drooping, eyes fixed. He saw nothing but the dark window-pane. What face did you just see? Some of them had been freshmen, and wild freshmen, with Amory; some were in the class below; and it was in the beginning of his last year and around small tables at the Nassau Inn that they began questioning aloud the institutions that Amory and countless others before him had questioned so long in secret.

It was distinctly through the Spanish accident: Amory, through Kerry, had had a vague drifting acquaintance with him, but not until January of senior year did their friendship commence. Or another ship sunk? About one-third of the junior class are going to resign from their clubs. Burne Holiday is behind it.

Tempestad de deseo / Fantasías virtuales

The club presidents are holding a meeting to-night to see if they can find a joint means of combating it. Woodrow thought they should be abolished and all that. How do they feel up at Cap and Gown? They get one of the radicals in the corner and fire questions at him. This time it began as purely a mental interest. With other men of whom he had thought as primarily first-class, he had been attracted first by their personalities, and in Burne he missed that immediate magnetism to which he usually swore allegiance.

Burne stood vaguely for a land Amory hoped he was drifting toward and it was almost time that land was in sight. Tom and Amory and Alec had reached an impasse; never did they seem to have new experiences in common, for Tom and Alec had been as blindly busy with their committees and boards as Amory had been blindly idling, and the things they had for dissection college, contemporary personality and the like they had hashed and rehashed for many a frugal conversational meal.

Then Amory branched off and found that Burne was deep in other things as well. Economics had interested him and he was turning socialist. Pacifism played in the back of his mind, and he read the Masses and Lyoff Tolstoi faithfully. I have to pick and choose, of course, but mostly things to make me think. Whitman is the man that attracts me. How about you, Tom? They both look things in the face, and, somehow, different as they are, stand for somewhat the same things.

Burne Holiday was so evidently developing and Amory had considered that he was doing the same. He had fallen into a deep cynicism over what had crossed his path, plotted the imperfectability of man and read Shaw and Chesterton enough to keep his mind from the edges of decadence now suddenly all his mental processes of the last year and a half seemed stale and futile a petty consummation of himself He was not even a Catholic, yet that was the only ghost of a code that he had, the gaudy, ritualistic, paradoxical Catholicism whose prophet was Chesterton, whose claqueurs were such reformed rakes of literature as Huysmans and Bourget, whose American sponsor was Ralph Adams Cram, with his adulation of thirteenth-century cathedrals a Catholicism which Amory found convenient and ready-made, without priest or sacraments or sacrifice.

Being Burne was suddenly so much realler than being clever. Then he remembered an incident of sophomore year, in which Burne had been suspected of the leading role. Dean Hollister had been heard by a large group arguing with a taxi-driver, who had driven him from the junction. Bought and Paid for.

It took two expert mechanics half a day to dissemble it into its minutest parts and remove it, which only goes to prove the rare energy of sophomore humor under efficient leadership. Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensation. A certain Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom-trotter, had failed to get her yearly invitation to the Harvard-Princeton game. He was unversed in the arts of Phyllis, and was sure that this was merely a vapid form of kidding.

Before an hour had passed he knew that he was indeed involved. Phyllis had pinned him down and served him up, informed him the train she was arriving by, and depressed him thoroughly. Aside from loathing Phyllis, he had particularly wanted to stag that game and entertain some Harvard friends. What can you do against Phyllis?

There were Burne and Fred Sloane arrayed to the last dot like the lurid figures on college posters. They had bought flaring suits with huge peg-top trousers and gigantic padded shoulders. On their heads were rakish college hats, pinned up in front and sporting bright orange-and-black bands, while from their celluloid collars blossomed flaming orange ties.

On a clanking chain they led a large, angry tom-cat, painted to represent a tiger. She was vociferously greeted and escorted enthusiastically across the campus, followed by half a hundred village urchins to the stifled laughter of hundreds of alumni and visitors, half of whom had no idea that this was a practical joke, but thought that Burne and Fred were two varsity sports showing their girl a collegiate time.

She tried to walk a little ahead, she tried to walk a little behind but they stayed close, that there should be no doubt whom she was with, talking in loud voices of their friends on the football team, until she could almost hear her acquaintances whispering: From that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to orient with progress About a hundred juniors and seniors resigned from their clubs in a final fury of righteousness, and the clubs in helplessness turned upon Burne their finest weapon: Every one who knew him liked him but what he stood for and he began to stand for more all the time came under the lash of many tongues, until a frailer man than he would have been snowed under.

They had taken to exchanging calls several times a week. I suppose I have it coming. Burne had gone into the biology of this, and then: Well, I suppose only about thirty-five per cent of every class here are blonds, are really light yet two-thirds of every senior council are light. I worked the thing out with the Presidents of the United States once, and found that way over half of them were light-haired, yet think of the preponderant number of brunettes in the race. Call them remarkable-looking or anything you want but ugly they certainly are.

Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he persuaded Amory to accompany him. And this very walking at night is one of the things I was afraid about. There were the woods looming up ahead, just as they do now, there were dogs howling and the shadows and no human sound. Then I thought of my watch. There is no such thing as a strong, sane criminal. It seemed to him that life and history were rife with the strong criminal, keen, but often self-deluding; in politics and business one found him and among the old statesmen and kings and generals; but Burne never agreed and their courses began to split on that point.

Burne was drawing farther and farther away from the world about him. He resigned the vice-presidency of the senior class and took to reading and walking as almost his only pursuits. He voluntarily attended graduate lectures in philosophy and biology, and sat in all of them with a rather pathetically intent look in his eyes, as if waiting for something the lecturer would never quite come to.

Sometimes Amory would see him squirm in his seat; and his face would light up; he was on fire to debate a point. He grew more abstracted on the street and was even accused of becoming a snob, but Amory knew it was nothing of the sort, and once when Burne passed him four feet off, absolutely unseeingly, his mind a thousand miles away, Amory almost choked with the romantic joy of watching him.

Burne seemed to be climbing heights where others would be forever unable to get a foothold. Never enters the Philadelphian Society. He has no faith in that rot. Matthew attributes it to Christ. Amory wandered occasionally to New York on the chance of finding a new shining green auto-bus, that its stick-of-candy glamour might penetrate his disposition.

One day he ventured into a stock-company revival of a play whose name was faintly familiar. The curtain rose he watched casually as a girl entered. A few phrases rang in his ear and touched a faint chord of memory. Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very soft, vibrant voice: He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble rapidly: Yawning and wondering an evening through, I watch alone I can always outguess a ghost.

Take a bedroom, for example. If you use any discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom. Now, the first thing to do is to get the room cleared to do this you rush with your eyes closed into your study and turn on the lights next, approaching the closet, carefully run the stick in the door three or four times.

Then, if nothing happens, you can look in. Always, always run the stick in viciously first never look first! If you still have doubts pull the blanket over your head. The sense of going forward in a direct, determined line had come back; youth was stirring and shaking out a few new feathers. He had even stored enough surplus energy to sally into a new pose.

Monsignor took him several times to see Thornton Hancock, and once or twice to the house of a Mrs. Lawrence, a type of Rome-haunting American whom Amory liked immediately. Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an interesting P. Scott Fitzgerald She was immemorial Her goodness was above the prosy morals of the husband-seeker, apart from the dull literature of female virtue. She was alone in the world, with two small children, little money, and, worst of all, a host of friends.

He saw her that winter in Philadelphia entertaining a houseful of men for an evening, when he knew she had not a servant in the house except the little colored girl guarding the babies overhead. What a twist Clara had to her mind!

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She could make fascinating and almost brilliant conversation out of the thinnest air that ever floated through a drawing-room. He arrived in Philadelphia expecting to be told that Ark Street was in a miserable lane of hovels. He was even disappointed when it proved to be nothing of the sort. So no wild-haired woman with a hungry baby at her breast and a sad Amelia-like look greeted him.

Instead, Amory would have thought from his reception that she had not a care in the world. A calm virility and a dreamy humor, marked contrasts to her level-headedness into these moods she slipped sometimes as a refuge. Deepest of all in her personality was the golden radiance that she diffused around her. As an open fire in a dark room throws romance and pathos into the quiet faces at its edge, so she cast her lights and shadows around the rooms that Spanish appealed: At first this quality of hers somehow irritated Amory.

He considered his own uniqueness sufficient, and it rather embarrassed him when she tried to read new interests into him for the benefit of what other adorers were present. He felt as if a polite but insistent stage-manager were attempting to make him give a new interpretation of a part he had conned for years. People tried afterward to repeat her anecdotes but for the life of them they could make them sound like nothing whatever. I'll fight for France. Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, To weep their intermissive miseries.

Lords, view these letters full of bad mischance. France is revolted from the English quite, Except some petty towns of no import: The Dauphin crowned king! O, whither shall we fly from this reproach? We will not fly, but to our enemies' throats. Bedford, if thou be slack, I'll fight it out. Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness? An army have I muster'd in my thoughts, Wherewith already France is overrun.

My gracious lords, to add to your laments, Wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse, I must inform you of a dismal fight Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown: The circumstance I'll tell you more at large. The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, Spanish add: No leisure had he to enrank his men; He wanted pikes to set before his archers; Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges They pitched in the ground confusedly, To keep the horsemen off from breaking in.

More than three hours the fight continued; Where valiant Talbot above human thought Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him; Here, there, and every where, enrag'd he slew: The French exclaim'd, the devil was in arms; All the whole army stood agaz'd on him. His soldiers spying his undaunted spirit A Talbot! Here had the conquest fully been seal'd up, If Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward. He, being in the vaward, plac'd behind With purpose to relieve and follow them, Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.

Hence grew the general wreck and massacre; Enclosed were they with their enemies: A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace, Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back; Whom all France with their chief assembled strength Durst not presume to look once in the face. Most of the rest slaughter'd or took likewise.

His ransom there is none but I shall pay: I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne: His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours. Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, Whose bloody deeds shall make an Europe quake. So you had need; for Orleans is besieg'd; The English army is grown weak and faint: The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply, And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, Since they, so few, watch such a multitude.

Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. I do remember it, and here take my leave To go about my preparation. I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can, To view the artillery and munition; And then I will proclaim young Henry king. To Eltham will I, where the young King is, Being ordain'd his special governor; And for his safety there I'll best devise. Each hath his place and function to attend: I am left out; for me nothing remains.

But long I will not be Jack out of office: The King from Eltham I intend to steal, And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens So in the earth, to this day is not known: Late did he shine upon the English side; Now we are victors; upon us he smiles. What towns of any moment but we have? At pleasure here we lie near Orleans; Spanish artillery: They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves Either they must be dieted like mules, And have their provender tied to their mouths, Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice.

Let's raise the siege: Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear: Remaineth none but mad-brain'd Salisbury; And he may well in fretting spend his gall, Nor men nor money hath he to make war. Now for the honour of the forlorn French! Him I forgive my death that killeth me When he sees me go back one foot or flee. Who ever saw the like? I would ne'er have fled, But that they left me 'midst my enemies. Salisbury is a desperate homicide; He fighteth as one weary of his life. The other lords, like lions wanting food, Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.

Froissart, a countryman of ours, records, England all Olivers and Rowlands bred During the time Edward the Third did reign. More truly now may this be verified; For none but Samsons and Goliases It sendeth forth to skirmish. Let's leave this town; for they are hare-brain'd slaves, And hunger will enforce them to be more eager: Of old I know them; rather with their teeth The walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege. I think by some odd gimmors or device Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on; Else ne'er could they hold out so as they do.

By my consent, we'll even let them alone. Where's the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd: Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence? Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand: The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome: What's past and what's to come she can descry.

Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words, For they are certain and unfallible. Go, call her in.

By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats? Reignier is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me? Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind; I know thee well, though never seen before.

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Be not amazed, there's nothing hid from me. In private will I talk with thee apart. Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. She takes upon her bravely at first dash. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter, My wit untrain'd in any kind of art. Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks, God's mother deigned to appear to me, And in a vision full of majesty Will'd me to leave my base vocation, And free my country from calamity: Her aid she promised and assured success: In complete glory she reveal'd herself; And, whereas I was black and swart before, With those clear rays which she infused on me That beauty am I bless'd with which you may see.

Ask me what question thou canst possible, And I will answer unpremeditated: My courage try by combat, if thou dar'st, And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate, If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. Thou hast astonish'd me with thy high terms; Only this proof I 'll of thy valour make, In single combat thou shalt buckle with me, And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true; Otherwise I renounce all confidence.

Then come, o' God's name; I fear no woman. And while I live, I 'll ne'er fly from a man. Here they fight, and Joan La Pucelle overcomes. Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon, And fightest with the sword of Deborah. Christ's Mother helps me, else I were too weak. Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me: Impatiently I burn with thy desire; My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued. Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, Let me thy servant and not sovereign be: I must not yield to any rites of love, For my profession's sacred from above: When I have chased all thy foes from hence, Then will I think upon a recompense.

Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock; Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean? He may mean more than we poor men do know: These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues. My lord, where are you? Shall we give over Orleans, or no? Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants! Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard. What she says I'll confirm: Assign'd am I to be the English scourge.

This night the siege assuredly I 'll raise: Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days, Since I have entered into these wars. Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. With Henry's death the English circle ends; Dispersed are the glories it included. Now am I like that proud insulting ship Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? Thou with an eagle art inspired then. Helen, the mother of great Constantine, Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters, were like thee.

Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honors; Drive them from Orleans and be immortalized. Presently we 'll try: No prophet will I trust, if she prove false. I am come to survey the Tower this day: Since Henry's death, I fear, there is conveyance. Where be these warders that they wait not here?

Open the gates; 'tis Gloucester that calls. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester. Villains, answer you so the lord protector? We do no otherwise than we are will'd. There's none protector of the realm but I. Break up the gates, I 'll be your warrantize: Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms?

What noise is this? Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear? Open the gates; here's Gloucester that would enter. Have patience, noble duke; I may not open; The Cardinal of Winchester forbids: From him I have express commandment That thou nor none of thine shall be let in.

Faint-hearted Woodville, prizest him 'fore me? Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook? Thou art no friend to God or to the King. Open the gates, or I 'll shut thee out shortly. Open the gates unto the lord protector, Or we 'll burst them open, if that you come not quickly. How now, ambitious Humphry! Peel'd priest, dost thou command me to be shut out? I do, thou most usurping proditor, And not protector, of the king or realm. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, Thou that contrivedst to murder our dead lord; Thou that givest whores indulgences to sin: I 'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat, If thou proceed in this thy insolence.

Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot: This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain, To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. I will not slay thee, but I 'll drive thee back: Thy scarlet robes as a child's bearing-cloth I 'll use to carry thee out of this place. Do what thou darest; I beard thee to thy face. William Shakespeare 21 Draw, men, for all this privileged place; Blue coats to tawny coats. Priest, beware your beard; I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly: Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal's hat: In spite of pope or dignities of church, Here by the cheeks I 'll drag thee up and down.

Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the pope. Winchester goose, I cry, a rope! Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay? Thee I 'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array. Here Gloucester's men beat out the Cardinal's men, and enter in the hurlyburly the Mayor of London and his Officers.

Here's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor king, Hath here distrain'd the Tower to his use. Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens, One that still motions war and never peace, O'ercharging your free purses with large fines, That seeks to overthrow religion, Because he is protector of the realm, And would have armour here out of the Tower, To crown himself king and suppress the prince.

I will not answer thee with words, but blows. Here they skirmish again. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous strife But to make open proclamation: Come, officer; as loud as e'er thou canst: All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against God's peace and the king's, we charge and command you, in his highness' name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death.

Cardinal, I 'll be no breaker of the law; But we shall meet, and break our minds at large. Gloucester, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure; Thy heart-blood I will have for this day's work. I 'll call for clubs, if you will not away. This Cardinal's more haughty than the devil.

Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head; For I intend to have it ere long. See the coast clear'd, and then we will depart. Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear! I myself fight not once in forty year. Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleans is besieged, And how the English have the suburbs won. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them, Howe'er unfortunate I miss'd my aim.

But now thou shalt not. Be thou ruled by me: Chief master-gunner am I of this town; Something I must do to procure me grace. The prince's espials have informed me How the English, in the suburbs close intrench'd, Wont through a secret grate of iron bars In yonder tower to overpeer the city, And thence discover how with most advantage They may vex us with shot or with assault. To intercept this inconvenience, A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have placed; And even these three days have I watch'd, If I could see them.

If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word; And thou shalt find me at the governor's. Father, I warrant you; take you no care; I'll never trouble you, if I may spy them. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd! How wert thou handled being prisoner? Or by what means got'st thou to be releas'd? Discourse, I prithee, on this turret's top.

But with a baser man of arms by far Once in contempt they would have barter'd me: Which I disdaining scorn'd, and craved death Rather than I would be so vile-esteem'd. In fine, redeem'd I was as I desired. Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertain'd. In open market-place produced they me, To be a public spectacle to all: Here, said they, is the terror of the French, The scarecrow that affrights our children so. Then broke I from the officers that led me, And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground To hurl at the beholders of my shame; My grisly countenance made others fly; None durst come near for fear of sudden death.

In iron walls they deem'd me not secure; So great fear of my name 'mongst them was spread That they supposed I could rend bars of steel, And spurn in pieces posts of adamant: Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had, That walk'd about me every minute while; And if I did but stir out of my bed, Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. I grieve to hear what torments you endured, But we will be revenged sufficiently. Now it is supper-time in Orleans: Here, through this grate, I count each one, And view the Frenchmen how they fortify: Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee.

I think, at the north gate; for there stand lords. And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge. For aught I see, this city must be famish'd, Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners! O Lord, have mercy on me, woful man! What chance is this that suddenly hath cross'd us? How farest thou, mirror of all martial men? One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off! In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame; Henry the Fifth he first train'd to the wars; Whilst any trump did sound, or drum struck up, His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field.

Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive, If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands! Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it, Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort, Thou shalt not die whiles-He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, As who should say 'When I am dead and gone, Remember to avenge me on the French.

Whence cometh this alarum and the noise? My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd head: The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join'd, A holy prophetess new risen up, Is come with a great power to raise the siege. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan! It irks his heart he cannot be revenged. Frenchmen, I 'll be a Salisbury to you: Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish, Your hearts I 'll stamp out with my horse's heels, And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.

Convey me Salisbury into his tent, And then we 'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare. Where is my strength, my valor, and my force? Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them: A woman clad in armour chaseth them. I 'll have a bout with thee; Devil or devil's dam, I 'll conjure thee: Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch, And straightway give thy soul to him thou servest.

Come, come, 'tis only I that must disgrace thee. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? My breast I 'll burst with straining of my courage, And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come: I must go victual Orleans forthwith. Go, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men; Spanish bout: This day is ours, as many more shall be. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am, nor what I do; A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal, Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists.

So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. They call'd us for our fierceness English dogs; Now, like to whelps, we crying run away. Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf, Or horse or oxen from the leopard, As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves. You all consented unto Salisbury's death, For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.

Pucelle is ent'red into Orleans, In spite of us or aught that we could do. O, would I were to die with Salisbury! The shame hereof will make me hide my head. Advance our waving colours on the walls; Rescued is Orleans from the English: Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her word. Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter, How shall I honour thee for this success?

Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens That one day bloom'd and fruitful were the next. France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess! Recover'd is the town of Orleans. More blessed hap did ne'er befall our state. Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the town? Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires And feast and banquet in the open streets, To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. All France will be replete with mirth and joy, When they shall hear how we have play'd the men. William Shakespeare In memory of her when she is dead, Her ashes, in an urn more precious Than the rich-jewel'd coffer of Darius, Transported shall be at high festivals Before the kings and queens of France.

Come in, and let us banquet royally After this golden day of victory. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant: If any noise or soldier you perceive Near to the walls, by some apparent sign Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, Spanish apparent: William Shakespeare 33 By whose approach the regions of Artois, Wallon and Picardy are friends to us, This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day caroused and banqueted: Embrace we then this opportunity, As fitting best to quittance their deceit Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery.

Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame, Despairing of his own arm's fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell! Traitors have never other company. But what 's that Pucelle whom they term so pure? A maid, they say. Pray God she prove not masculine ere long, If underneath the standard of the French She carry armour as she hath begun. Well, let them practice and converse with spirits: God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.

Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. I 'll to yond corner. And I to this. And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave. Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right Of English Henry, shall this night appear How much in duty I am bound to both. How now, my lords! Of all exploits since first I follow'd arms, Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than this.

I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favor him. I marvel how he sped. Tut, holy Joan was his defensive guard. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame? Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, Make us partakers of a little gain, That now our loss might be ten times so much?

Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend? At all times will you have my power alike? Sleeping or waking must I still prevail, Or will you blame and lay the fault on me? Duke of Alencon, this was your default, That, being captain of the watch to-night, Did look no better to that weighty charge. Had all your quarters been as safely kept As that whereof I had the government, We had not been thus shamefully surprised. And so was mine, my lord.

And, for myself, most part of all this night, Within her quarter and mine own precinct I was employ'd in passing to and fro, About relieving of the sentinels: Then how or which way should they first break in? Question, my lords, no further of the case, How or which way: And now there rests no other shift but this; To gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispersed, And lay new platforms to endamage them.

I 'll be so bold to take what they have left. The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword; For I have loaden me with many spoils, Using no other weapon but his name. The day begins to break, and night is fled, Whose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth. Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury, And here advance it in the market-place, The middle centre of this cursed town. Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night. And that hereafter ages may behold What ruin happen'd in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I 'll erect A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr'd; Upon the which, that every one may read, Shall be engraved the sack of Orleans, The treacherous manner of his mournful death And what a terror he had been to France.

But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace, His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, Nor any of his false confederates. Myself, as far as I could well discern For smoke and dusky vapors of the night, Am sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull, When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves That could not live asunder day or night.

After that things are set in order here, We'll follow them with all the power we have. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts So much applauded through the realm of France? Here is the Talbot: The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where she lies, That she may boast she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the world with loud report. Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars Will turn into a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encount'red with.

You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men Spanish admiring: William Shakespeare 39 Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman's kindness over-ruled: And therefore tell her I return great thanks, And in submission will attend on her. Will not your honors bear me company?

No, truly; it is more than manners will: And I have heard it said, unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. Well then, alone, since there 's no remedy, I mean to prove this lady's courtesy. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. Porter, remember what I gave in charge; And when you have done so, bring the keys to me. The plot is laid: Great is the rumor of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account: Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears, To give their censure of these rare reports.

Madam, According as your ladyship desired, By message craved, so is Lord Talbot come. And he is welcome. Is this the scourge of France? Is this the Talbot, so much fear'd abroad That with his name the mothers still their babes? I see report is fabulous and false: I thought I should have seen some Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect, And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies.

Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at leisure, I 'll sort some other time to visit you. What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves To know the cause of your abrupt departure. Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief, I go to certify her Talbot's here. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.

To me, blood-thirsty lord; And for that cause I train'd thee to my house. Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, For in my gallery thy picture hangs: But now the substance shall endure the like, And I will chain these legs and arms of thine, That hast by tyranny these many years Wasted our country, slain our citizens, And sent our sons and husbands captivate.

Thy mirth shall turn to moan. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond Spanish abrupt: Why, art not thou the man? Then have I substance too. No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here; For what you see is but the smallest part And least proportion of humanity: I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, It is of such a spacious lofty pitch, Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce; He will be here, and yet he is not here: How can these contrarieties agree?

That will I show you presently. These are his substance, sinews, arms and strength, With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, Razeth your cities and subverts your towns, And in a moment makes them desolate. I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited, And more than may be gather'd by thy shape.

Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath; For I am sorry that with reverence I did not entertain thee as thou art. Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconstrue The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake The outward composition of his body. What you have done hath not offended me; Nor other satisfaction do I crave, But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of your wine and see what cates you have; For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well. With all my heart, and think me honored To feast so great a warrior in my house. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence?

Dare no man answer in a case of truth? Within the Temple-hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. Then say at once if I maintain'd the truth; Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error? Faith, I have been a truant in the law, And never yet could frame my will to it; And therefore frame the law unto my will. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch; Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; Between two blades, which bears the better temper: Between two horses, which doth bear him best; Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye; I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment: But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.

Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance: The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out. And on my side it is so well apparell'd, So clear, so shining and so evident, That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts: Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honor of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.

Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. I love no colours, and without all colour Of base insinuating flattery I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset, And say withal I think he held the right.

Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more, Till you conclude that he, upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree Shall yield the other in the right opinion. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected: If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. Then for the truth and plainness of the case, Spanish base: Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, And fall on my side so, against your will.

If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on the side where still I am. Well, well, come on: Now, Somerset, where is your argument? Here in my scabbard, meditating that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The truth on our side.

No, Plantagenet, 'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks Spanish anger: William Shakespeare 47 Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset? Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth; Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. Well, I 'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses, That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.

Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat. Away, away, good William de la Pole! We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root? He bears him on the place's privilege, Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus. By Him that made me, I'll maintain my words On any plot of ground in Christendom.

Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge, For treason executed in our late king's days? And, by his treason, stand'st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; And, till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman. My father was attached, not attainted, Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor; And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripen'd to my will. For your partaker Pole and you yourself, I'll note you in my book of memory, To scourge you for this apprehension: Look to it well and say you are well warn'd.

Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still; And know us by these colors for thy foes, For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Will I for ever and my faction wear, Until it wither with me to my grave, Or flourish to the height of my degree. And so farewell until I meet thee next. Have with thee, Pole.

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How I am braved and must perforce endure it! This blot that they object against your house Shall be wiped out in the next parliament Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester; And if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, Against proud Somerset and William Pole, Will I upon thy party wear this rose: And here I prophesy: Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you, That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. In your behalf still will I wear the same. And so will I. Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say This quarrel will drink blood another day.

Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. Even like a man new haled from the rack, So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; And these gray locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.

These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent; Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, And pithless arms, like to a wither'd vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground: Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this lump of clay, Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have.

But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come? Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come: Bloqueos, pelo, cerradura, cabellos, bloquear. William Shakespeare 51 We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber; And answer was return'd that he will come. Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, Before whose glory I was great in arms, This loathsome sequestration have I had; And even since then hath Richard been obscured, Deprived of honour and inheritance.

But now the arbitrator of despairs, Just Death, kind umpire of men's miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence: I would his troubles likewise were expired, That so he might recover what was lost. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come? Aye, noble uncle, thus ignobly used, Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck, And in his bosom spend my latter gasp: O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss.

And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock, Why didst thou say of late thou wert despised? First, lean thine aged back against mine arm; And, in that case, I'll tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me; Among which terms he used his lavish tongue And did upbraid me with my father's death: Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, Else with the like I had requited him.

Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake, In honor of a true Plantagenet And for alliance sake, declare the cause My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison'd me And hath detain'd me all my flowering youth Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his decease. Discover more at large what cause that was, For I am ignorant and cannot guess. I will, if that my fading breath permit, And death approach not ere my tale be done.

Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, Deposed his nephew Richard, Edward's son, The first-begotten and the lawful heir Of Edward king, the third of that descent; During whose reign the Percies of the north, Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour'd my advancement to the throne. Levied an army, weening to redeem And have install'd me in the diadem: But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl And was beheaded.

Thus the Mortimers, In whom the title rested, were suppress'd.

Of which, my lord, your honor is the last. True; and thou seest that I no issue have, And that my fainting words do warrant death: Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather: But yet be wary in thy studious care. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me: But yet, methinks, my father's execution Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. With silence, nephew, be thou politic: Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster, And like a mountain not to be removed.

But now thy uncle is removing hence; As princes do their courts, when they are cloy'd With long continuance in a settled place. O, uncle, would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your age! Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; Only give order for my funeral: And so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes, And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!

And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, And like a hermit overpass'd thy days. Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast; And what I do imagine let that rest. Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself Will see his burial better than his life. And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, Which Somerset hath offer'd to my house, I doubt not but with honour to redress; And therefore haste I to the parliament, Either to be restored to my blood, Or make my ill the advantage of my good.

Comest thou with deep premeditated lines, With written pamphlets studiously devised, Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse, Or aught intend'st to lay unto my charge. Do it without invention, suddenly; As I with sudden and extemporal speech Purpose to answer what thou canst object. Think not, although in writing I preferr'd The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, Spanish answer: William Shakespeare 57 That therefore I have forged, or am not able Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen: No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness, Thy lewd, pestiferous and dissentious pranks, As very infants prattle of thy pride.

Thou art a most pernicious usurer, Froward by nature, enemy to peace; Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems A man of thy profession and degree; And for thy treachery, what's more manifest In that thou laid'st a trap to take my life, As well at London-bridge as at the Tower. Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts are sifted The king, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt From envious malice of thy swelling heart. Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe To give me hearing what I shall reply. If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse, As he will have me, how am I so poor? Or how haps it I seek not to advance Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling?

And for dissension, who preferreth peace More than I do? No, my good lords, it is not that offends; It is not that that hath incensed the duke: It is, because no one should sway but he; No one but he should be about the king; And that engenders thunder in his breast, And makes him roar these accusations forth.

But he shall know I am as good-- Spanish accusations: Thou bastard of my grandfather!

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Aye, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray, But one imperious in another's throne? Am I not protector, saucy priest? And am not I a prelate of the church? Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps And useth it to patronage his theft. Thou art reverent Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life. Rome shall remedy this. My lord, it were your duty to forbear.

Ay, see the bishop be not overborne. Methinks my lord should be religious, And know the office that belongs to such. Methinks his lordship should be humbler; It fitteth not a prelate so to plead. Yes, when his holy state is touch'd so near. State holy or unhallow'd, what of that? Is not his grace protector to the king? Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?

Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester, The special watchmen of our English weal, I would prevail, if prayers might prevail, To join your hearts in love and amity. O, what a scandal is it to our crown, That two such noble peers as ye should jar! Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. An uproar, I dare warrant, Begun through malice of the bishop's men. O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry, Pity the city of London, pity us!

The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester's men, Forbidden late to carry any weapon, Have fill'd their pockets full of pebble stones, And banding themselves in contrary parts Do pelt so fast at one another's pate That many have their giddy brains knock'd out: Our windows are broke down in every street, And we for fear compell'd to shut our shops.

We charge you, on allegiance to ourself, To hold your slaughtering hands and keep the peace. Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we 'll fall to it with our teeth.