Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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Then there was his sister—Eleanor’s words still rang in his ear. “They either put on trousers and act as chauffeurs all day or put on paint and dance with officers all night.” He felt perfectly sure that Clara was still, well—virtuous. Virtuous—what a ridiculous word it seemed, and how odd to be using it about his sister. Clara had always been so painfully good. At fourteen she had sent to Boston for a souvenir picture of Louisa M. Alcott to hang over her bed. His favorite amusement had been to replace it by some startling soubrette in tights, culled from the pages of the “Pink Un.” Well Clara, Eleanor, Dick, he himself, were all in the same boat, no matter what the actuality of their innocence or guilt. If he ever got back—

The Irishman, evidently sinking fast, was talking rapidly.

“Put your wishy-washy pretty clothes on everythin’, but it ain’t no disguise. If I get drunk it’s the flesh and the devil; if you get drunk it’s your wild oats. But you ain’t disguisin’ death, not to me you ain’t. It’s a damn serious affair. I may get killed for me flag, but I’m goin’ to die for meself. ‘I die for England’ he says. ‘Settle up with God, you’re through with England’ I says.”