Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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Lamarque—Often he lived on liquor alone for weeks at a time.

Destage—He was much in jail toward the end.

Chandelle—(calling) Pitou! More wine!

François—(excitedly) And me! He used to like me best. He used to say that I was a child and he would train me. He died before he began. (Pitou enters with another bottle of wine; François siezes it eagerly and pours himself a glass.)

Destage—And then that cursed Lafouquet—stuck him with a knife.

François—But I fixed Lafouquet. He stood on the Seine bridge drunk and—

Lamarque—Shut up, you fool you—

François—I pushed him and he sank—down—down—and that night Chandelle came in a dream and thanked me.

Chandelle—(shuddering) How long—for how many years did he come here?

Destage—Six or seven. (gloomily) Had to end—had to end.

Chandelle—And he’s forgotten. He left nothing. He’ll never be thought of again.

Destage—Remembered! Bah! Posterity is as much a charlatan as the most prejudiced tragic critic that ever boot-licked an actor. (He turns his glass nervously round and round.) You don’t realize—I’m afraid—how we feel about Jean Chandelle, François and Lamarque and I—he was more than a genius to be admired—