Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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In his house on upper Fifth Avenue, young Dodson Garland lay on a divan in the billiard room and consumed oceans of mint juleps, as he grumbled at the polo that had kept him in town, the cigarettes, the butler, and occasionally breaking the Second Commandment. The butler ran back and forth with large consignments of juleps and soda and finally, on one of his dramatic entrances, Garland turned toward him and for the first time that evening perceived that the butler was a human being, not a living bottle-tray.

“Hello, Allen,” he said, rather surprised that he had made such a discovery. “Are you hot?”

Allen made an expressive gesture with his handkerchief, tried to smile but only succeeded in a feeble, smothery grin.

“Allen,” said Garland struck by an inspiration, “what shall I do tonight?” Allen again essayed the grin but, failing once more, sank into a hot, undignified silence.

“Get out of here,” exclaimed Garland petulantly, “and bring me another julep and a plate of ice.”

“Now,” thought the young man, “what shall I do? I can go to the theatre and melt. I can go to a roof garden and be sung to by a would-be prima donna, or—or go calling.” “Go calling,” in Garland’s vocabulary meant but one thing: to see Mirabel. Mirabel Walmsley was his fiancee since some three months, and was in the city to receive some nobleman or other who was to visit her father. The lucky youth yawned, rolled over, yawned again and rose to a sitting position where he yawned a third time and then got to his feet.