my hand in a quick, shy clasp before turning back toward Scott. “Congratulations on your marriage.”
I recognized Ellis’s type. In my experience, there were two kinds of men. One type—no matter how plain or how poor he might be—is always willing to at least try his luck with an attractive girl. The other type looks upon all of those first types with envy. Ellis was among the second group. He probably wasn’t married, or if he was, I ungenerously figured he’d found a girl even less confident than himself, a pairing that was sure to perpetuate a race of timid, boring people you’d never invite to a party unless for some reason you’d taken a shine to them and wanted to lift them out of their misery.
While Scott sat, Ellis took out a notebook and turned to a page where he’d already written some notes. He pointed at the copy of This Side of Paradise that sat on the table between his chair and Scott’s. “I have to say, I read the novel and I fully agree with the Times: ‘As a picture of the daily existence of what we call loosely college men, this book is as nearly perfect as such a work could be.’ My sentiments exactly.”
Scott nodded his thanks. “I’m always especially interested in how it plays with fellow alums.”
“I wish my time there had been more like I hear yours was. I was a bit of a hermit.”
I said, “Oh, I can’t believe that. I’ll bet you were just a sensible fella.”
He glanced at me. Now his ears had gone red. He said to Scott, “What a thrill it must be to get a gold seal from the Times —and you being just twenty-three, first book…” Ellis shook his head with obvious envy.
I said, “He is impressive, isn’t he?”
“Why, thank you, darling.”
Ellis asked him, then, about how closely the experiences of Scott’s main character, Amory Blaine, reflected Scott’s own life.
Scott said, “Loosely. I’ve put a character into a version of my personal history, is what I’ve done.”
“So Blaine’s an alter ego.”
“A somewhat naïve one, yes.”
“Well, sure, of course, that makes sense; you couldn’t write him so wisely if you were him.”
Scott beamed.
“Now,” Ellis continued, “about the women in this book—”
“It’s a novel about flappers—you know the term? These independent, morally modern girls?—a flappers’ story, for philosophers.”
Ellis nodded and made a note. “And the selfish girl who breaks his heart—Rosalind. Is she…” He glanced at me again.
I said, “She bears me some resemblance, it’s true—but you see, I married my Amory.”
Scott added, “But only after her Amory proved he had a far better outlook and future than our poor hero here.” He thumped the book. “Zelda was used to the finer things in life, things I couldn’t provide until now. She wouldn’t have me until I’d proven myself capable and had a few dollars in my account.”
I said, “Actually, it wasn’t quite as—”
“Darling,” Scott said, opening his cigarette case, then snapping it shut, “I can’t believe it, but I’m out. Would you ring for some while I finish up with Mr. Ellis?”
“Sorry?” I said, surprised that he’d interrupted me.
“Cigarettes. And something for you, Ellis?”
“If they’ve got a ham sandwich. I missed lunch—”
“Sure,” I said, “but I just want to explain that I didn’t—”
“No one thinks the worse of you for making me wait, darling. Women have to be practical.”
I stood up and, in a tone suited to my supposed character, said coolly, “How about I just go find the concierge personally?”
Neither man replied, but I felt their eyes on me as I crossed the room. As I opened the door, I heard Scott saying, “These flapper girls, they’re like racehorses.” I slammed the door closed behind me. To hell with them, I thought. Let them find someone else to play fetch.
When I returned ninety minutes later, Ellis was gone and Scott was seated on the floor with half a dozen newspaper
I recognized Ellis’s type. In my experience, there were two kinds of men. One type—no matter how plain or how poor he might be—is always willing to at least try his luck with an attractive girl. The other type looks upon all of those first types with envy. Ellis was among the second group. He probably wasn’t married, or if he was, I ungenerously figured he’d found a girl even less confident than himself, a pairing that was sure to perpetuate a race of timid, boring people you’d never invite to a party unless for some reason you’d taken a shine to them and wanted to lift them out of their misery.
While Scott sat, Ellis took out a notebook and turned to a page where he’d already written some notes. He pointed at the copy of This Side of Paradise that sat on the table between his chair and Scott’s. “I have to say, I read the novel and I fully agree with the Times: ‘As a picture of the daily existence of what we call loosely college men, this book is as nearly perfect as such a work could be.’ My sentiments exactly.”
Scott nodded his thanks. “I’m always especially interested in how it plays with fellow alums.”
“I wish my time there had been more like I hear yours was. I was a bit of a hermit.”
I said, “Oh, I can’t believe that. I’ll bet you were just a sensible fella.”
He glanced at me. Now his ears had gone red. He said to Scott, “What a thrill it must be to get a gold seal from the Times —and you being just twenty-three, first book…” Ellis shook his head with obvious envy.
I said, “He is impressive, isn’t he?”
“Why, thank you, darling.”
Ellis asked him, then, about how closely the experiences of Scott’s main character, Amory Blaine, reflected Scott’s own life.
Scott said, “Loosely. I’ve put a character into a version of my personal history, is what I’ve done.”
“So Blaine’s an alter ego.”
“A somewhat naïve one, yes.”
“Well, sure, of course, that makes sense; you couldn’t write him so wisely if you were him.”
Scott beamed.
“Now,” Ellis continued, “about the women in this book—”
“It’s a novel about flappers—you know the term? These independent, morally modern girls?—a flappers’ story, for philosophers.”
Ellis nodded and made a note. “And the selfish girl who breaks his heart—Rosalind. Is she…” He glanced at me again.
I said, “She bears me some resemblance, it’s true—but you see, I married my Amory.”
Scott added, “But only after her Amory proved he had a far better outlook and future than our poor hero here.” He thumped the book. “Zelda was used to the finer things in life, things I couldn’t provide until now. She wouldn’t have me until I’d proven myself capable and had a few dollars in my account.”
I said, “Actually, it wasn’t quite as—”
“Darling,” Scott said, opening his cigarette case, then snapping it shut, “I can’t believe it, but I’m out. Would you ring for some while I finish up with Mr. Ellis?”
“Sorry?” I said, surprised that he’d interrupted me.
“Cigarettes. And something for you, Ellis?”
“If they’ve got a ham sandwich. I missed lunch—”
“Sure,” I said, “but I just want to explain that I didn’t—”
“No one thinks the worse of you for making me wait, darling. Women have to be practical.”
I stood up and, in a tone suited to my supposed character, said coolly, “How about I just go find the concierge personally?”
Neither man replied, but I felt their eyes on me as I crossed the room. As I opened the door, I heard Scott saying, “These flapper girls, they’re like racehorses.” I slammed the door closed behind me. To hell with them, I thought. Let them find someone else to play fetch.
When I returned ninety minutes later, Ellis was gone and Scott was seated on the floor with half a dozen newspaper
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