Book 2, Chapter 2, Part 1 of 3 of THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED. THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Book 2, Chapter 2, Symposium, Part 1 of 3. Gloria had lulled Anthony's mind to sleep. She who seemed of all women the wisest and the finest hung like a brilliant curtain across his doorways, shutting out the light of the sun. In those first years what he believed bore invariably the stamp of Gloria. He saw the sun always through the pattern of the curtain. It was a sort of lassitude that brought them back to Marietta for another summer. Through a golden, innervating spring they had loitered, restive and lazily extravagant along the California coast, joining other parties intermittently and drifting from Pasadena to Coronado, from Coronado to Santa Barbara, with no purpose more apparent than Gloria's desire to dance by different music or catch some infinitesimal variant among the changing colors of the sea. Out of the Pacific there rose to greet them savage rocklands and equally barbaric hostelaries built that, at tea-time, one might drowse into a languid wicker bazaar glorified by the polo costumes of Southampton and Lake Forest and Newport and Palm Beach, and, as the waves met and splashed and glittered in the most placid of the bays, so they joined this group and that and with them shifted stations, murmuring ever of those strange, unsubstantial gayities in wait, just over the next green and fruitful valley. A simple, healthy leisure class it was, the best of the men not unpleasantly undergraduate, they seemed to be on a perpetual candidate's list for some etherealized porcelain, or scullin' bones extended out indefinitely into the world, the women, of more than average beauty, fragilely athletic, somewhat idiotic as hostesses, but charming and infinitely decorative as guests. Sedately and gracefully they danced the steps of their selection in the balmy tea hours, accomplishing with a certain dignity the movement so horribly burlesqued by clerk and chorus girl the country over. It seemed ironic that in this lone and discredited offspring of the arts, Americans should excel unquestionably. Having danced and splashed through a lavish spring, Anthony and Gloria found that they had spent too much money, and for this must go into retirement for a certain period. There was Anthony's work, they said. Almost before they knew it, they were back in the Grey House, more aware now that other lovers had slept there, other names had been called over the banisters, other couples had sat upon the porch steps, watching the grey-green fields in the black bulk of woods beyond. It was the same Anthony, more restless, inclined to quicken only under the stimulus of several highballs, faintly, almost imperceptibly apathetic toward Gloria, but Gloria, she would be twenty-four in August, and was in an attractive but sincere panic about it. Six years to thirty. Had she been less in love with Anthony, her sense of the flight of time would have expressed itself in a reawakened interest in other men, in a deliberate intention of extracting a transient gleam of romance from every potential lover who glanced at her with lowered brows over a shining dinner-table. She said to Anthony one day, How I feel is that if I wanted anything I'd take it. That's what I've always thought all my life, but it happens that I want you, and so I just haven't room for any other desires. They were bound eastward through a parched and lifeless Indiana, and she had looked up from one of her beloved moving-picture magazines to find a casual conversation suddenly turned grave. Anthony frowned out the car window. As the track crossed the country road, a farmer appeared momentarily in his wagon. He was chewing on a straw, and was apparently the same farmer they had passed a dozen times before, sitting in silent and malignant symbolism. As Anthony turned to Gloria, his frown intensified. You worry me, he objected. I can imagine wanting another woman under certain transitory circumstances, but I can't imagine taking her. But I don't feel that way, Anthony. I can't be bothered resisting things I want. My way is not to want them, to want nobody but you.  This emphatically closed the conversation. Anthony's unfailing appreciation made her happier in his company than in anyone's else. She definitely enjoyed him. She loved him. So the summer began very much as had the one before. There was, however, one radical change in menage. The icy-hearted Scandinavian, whose austere cooking and sardonic manner of waiting on table had so depressed Gloria, gave way to an exceedingly efficient Japanese whose name was Tenalahaka, but who confessed that he heeded any summons which included the disillable Tana. Tana was unusually small, even for a Japanese, and displayed a somewhat naive conception of himself as a man of the world. On the day of his arrival from R. Gugimoniki, Japanese reliable employment agency, he called Anthony into his room to see the treasures of his trunk. These included a large collection of Japanese postcards, which he was all for explaining to his employer at once, individually and at great length. Among them were a half a dozen of pornographic intent and plainly of American origin, though the makers had modestly omitted both their names and the form for mailing. He next brought out some of his own handiwork, a pair of American pants, which he had made himself, and two suits of solid silk underwear. He informed Anthony confidentially as to the purpose for which these latter were reserved. The next exhibit was a rather good copy of an etching of Abraham Lincoln, to whose face he had given an unmistakable Japanese cast. Last came a flute. He had made it himself, but it was broken. He was going to fix it soon. After these polite formalities, which Anthony conjectured must be native to Japan, Tana delivered a long harangue in splintered English on the relation of master and servant, from which Anthony gathered that he had worked on large estates, but had always quarreled with the other servants because they were not honest. They had a great time over the word honest, and in fact became rather irritated with each other, because Anthony persisted stubbornly that Tana was trying to say hornets, and even went to the extent of buzzing in the manner of a bee and flapping his arms to imitate wings. After three-quarters of an hour Anthony was released with the warm assurance that they would have other nice chats in which Tana would tell how we do in my country. Which was Tana's garrulous premiere in the Grey House, and he fulfilled its promise. Though he was conscientious and honourable, he was unquestionably a terrific bore. He seemed unable to control his tongue, sometimes continuing from paragraph to paragraph with a look akin to pain in his small brown eyes. Sunday and Monday afternoons he read the comic section of the newspapers. One cartoon which contained a facetious Japanese butler diverted him enormously, though he claimed that the protagonist, who to Anthony appeared clearly oriental, had really an American face. The difficulty with the funny paper was that when, aided by Anthony, he had spelled out the last three pictures and assimilated their context with a concentration surely adequate for Kant's critique, he had entirely forgotten what the first pictures were about. In the middle of January, Anthony and Gloria celebrated their first anniversary by having a date. Anthony knocked at the door and she ran to let him in. Then they sat together on the couch, calling over those names they had made for each other, new combinations of Endearment's ages old. Yet to this date was appended no attenuated good night with its ecstasy of regret. Later in June, horror leered out at Gloria, struck at her and frightened her bright soul back half a generation. Then slowly it faded out, faded back into that impenetrable darkness once it had come, taking relentlessly its modicum of youth. With an infallible sense of the dramatic, it chose a little railroad station in a wretched village near Port Chester. The station platform lay all day bare as a prairie, exposed to the dusty yellow sun and to the glance of that most obnoxious type of countryman who lives near a metropolis and has attained its cheap smartness without its urbanity. A dozen of these yokels, red-eyed, cheerless as scarecrows, saw the incident. Dimly it passed across their confused and uncomprehending minds, taken at its broadest for a coarse joke, at its subtlest for a shame. Meanwhile there upon the platform a measure of brightness faded from the world. With Eric Merriam, Anthony had been sitting over a decanter of scotch all the hot summer afternoon, while Gloria and Constance Merriam swam and sunned themselves at the beach-club, the latter under a striped parasol awning. Gloria stretched sensuously upon the soft, hot sand, tanning her inevitable legs. Later they had all four played within consequential sandwiches, then Gloria had risen, tapping Anthony's knee with her parasol to get his attention. We've got to go, dear. Now? He looked at her unwillingly. At that moment nothing seemed of more importance than to idle on that shady porch drinking mellowed scotch while his host reminisced interminably on the bi-play of some forgotten political campaign. We've really got to go, repeated Gloria. We can get a taxi to the station. Come on, Anthony. She commended a bit more imperiously. Now see here. Merriam, his yarn cut off, made conventional objections, meanwhile provocatively filling his guest's glass with a high ball that should have been sipped through ten minutes. But at Gloria's annoyed, we really must. Anthony drank it off, got to his feet, and made an elaborate bow to his hostess. "'It seems we must,' he said, with little grace. In a minute he was following Gloria down a garden walk between tall rose-bushes, her parasol brushing gently the dune blooming leaves. Most inconsiderate,' he thought, as they reached the road. He felt with injured naivete that Gloria should not have interrupted such innocent and harmless enjoyment. The whisky had both soothed and clarified the restless things in his mind. It occurred to him that she had taken this same attitude several times before. Was he always to retreat from pleasant episodes at a touch of her parasol or a flicker of her eye? His unwillingness blurred to ill-will, which rose within him like a resistless bubble. He kept silent, perversely inhibiting a desire to reproach her. They found a taxi in front of the inn, rode silently to the little station. Then Anthony knew what he wanted, to assert his will against this cool and impervious girl, to obtain with one magnificent effort a mastery that seemed infinitely desirable. "'Let's go over to see the Barneses,' he said, without looking at her. "'I don't feel like going home.'" Mrs. Barnes, nay Rachel Gerald, had a summer place several miles for Redgate. "'We went there the day before yesterday,' she answered shortly. "'I'm sure they'd be glad to see us.'" He felt that that was not a strong enough note, braced himself stubbornly and added, "'I want to see the Barneses. I haven't any desire to go home.'" "'Well, I haven't any desire to go to the Barneses.'" Suddenly they stared at each other. "'Why, Anthony,' she said with annoyance, "'this is Sunday night, and they probably have guests for supper. Why should we go in at this hour? Then why couldn't we have stayed at the Marriams?' he burst out. "'Why go home when we were having a perfectly decent time? They asked us to supper. They had to. Give me the money, and I'll get the railroad tickets. I certainly will not.  Gloria stamped her foot on the platform. "'Anthony, you act as if you're tight.'" On the contrary, I'm perfectly sober. But his voice had slipped into a husky key, and she knew with certainty that this was untrue. "'If you're sober, you'll give me the money for the tickets.' But it was too late to talk to him that way. In his mind was but one idea, that Gloria was being selfish, that she was always being selfish, and would continue to be, unless here and now he asserted himself as her master. This was the occasion of all occasions, since, for a whim, she had deprived him of a pleasure. His determination solidified, approached momentarily a dull and sullen hate. "'I won't go in the train,' he said, his voice trembling a little with anger. We're going to the barns's.' "'I'm not,' she cried. "'If you go, I'm going home alone.' "'Go on, then.' Without a word she turned toward the ticket office. Simultaneously he remembered that she had some money with her, and that this was not the sort of victory he wanted, the sort he must have. He took a step after her and seized her arm. "'See here,' he muttered. "'You're not going alone.' "'I certainly am. Why, Anthony!' This exclamation, as she tried to pull away from him, and he only tightened his grasp. He looked at her with narrowed and malicious eyes. "'Let go!' Her cry had a quality of fierceness. "'If you have any decency, you'll let go.' "'Why?' He knew why. But he took a confused and not quite confident pride in holding her there. "'I'm going home. Do you understand, and you're going to let me go?' "'No, I'm not.' Her eyes were burning now. "'Are you going to make a scene here?' "'I say you're not going. I'm tired of your eternal selfishness.' "'I only want to go home.' Two wrathful tears started from her eyes. "'This time you're going to do what I say.' Slowly her body straightened. Her head went back at a gesture of infinite scorn. "'I hate you.' Her low words were expelled like venom through her clenched teeth. "'Oh, let me go.     At Gloria's fury his uncertainty returned, but he felt that now he had gone too far to give in. It seemed that he had always given in and that in her heart she had despised him for it. Ah, she might hate him now, but afterward she would admire him for his dominance. The approaching train gave out a premonitory siren that tumbled melodramaticly toward them down the glistening blue tracks. Gloria tugged and strained to free herself, and words older than the book of Genesis came to her lips. "'Oh, you brute!' she sobbed. "'Oh, you brute!  Oh, you brute! Oh!' On the station platform other prospective passengers were beginning to turn and stare. The drone of the train was audible. It increased to a clamour. Gloria's efforts redoubled, then ceased altogether, and she stood there, trembling in hot-eyed at this helpless humiliation, as the engine roared and thundered into the station. Low, below the flood of steam and the grinding of the brakes came her voice. "'Oh, if there was one man here, you couldn't do this! You couldn't do this! You coward! You coward! Oh, you coward!' Anthony, silent, trembling himself, gripped her rigidly, aware that faces, dozens of them, curiously unmoved, shadows of a dream, were regarding him. Then the bells distilled metallic crashes that were like physical pain. The smokestacks voluied in slow acceleration at the sky, and in a moment of noise and gray, gaseous turbulence, the line of faces ran by, moved off, became indistinct, until suddenly there was only the sun slanting east across the tracks and a volume of sound decreasing far off like a train made out of tin thunder. He dropped her arms. He had won. Now, if he wished, he might laugh. The test was done, and he had sustained his will with violence. Let Leon see walk in the wake of victory. "'We'll hire a car here and drive back to Marietta,' he said with fine reserve. For answer, Gloria seized his hand with both of hers and raising it to her mouth bit deeply into his thumb. He scarcely noticed the pain. Seeing the blood spurt, he absentmindedly drew out his handkerchief and wrapped the wound. That, too, was part of the triumph, he supposed. It was inevitable that defeat should thus be resented, and, as such, was beneath notice. She was sobbing, almost without tears, profoundly and bitterly. "'I won't go. I won't go. You can't make me go. You've killed any love I ever had for you and any respect. But all that's left in me would die before I knew from this place. Oh, if I thought you'd lay your hands on me. You're going with me,' he said brutally, if I have to carry you. He turned, beckoned to a taxi cab, told the driver to go to Marietta. The man dismounted and swung the door open. Anthony faced his wife and said between his clenched teeth, will you get in or will I put you in? With a subdued cry of infinite pain and despair, she yielded herself up and got into the car. All the long ride, through the increasing dark of twilight, she sat huddled in her side of the car, her silence broken by an occasional dry and solitary sob. Anthony stared out the window, his mind working dullly on the slowly changing significance of what had occurred. Something was wrong. That last cry of glories had struck a chord which echoed posthumously and with incongruous disquiet in his heart. He must be right.  The sleeves of her dress were torn, her parasol was gone, forgotten on the platform. It was a new costume, he remembered, and she had been so proud of it that very morning when they had left the house, he began wondering if anyone they knew had seen the incident. And persistently they recurred to him, her cry. All that's left in me would die. This gave him a confused and increasing worry. It fitted so well with the Gloria who lay in the corner, no longer a proud Gloria, nor any Gloria he had known. He asked himself if it were possible. While he did not believe she would cease to love him, this, of course, was unthinkable. It was yet problematical whether Gloria, without her arrogance, her independence, her virginal confidence and courage would be the girl of his glory, the radiant woman who was precious and charming because she was ineffably, triumphantly herself. He was very drunk even then, so drunk as to not realize his own drunkenness. When they reached the gray house, he went to his own room and his mind still wrestling helplessly and somberly with what he had done, fell into a deep stupor on his bed. It was after one o'clock and the hall seemed extraordinarily quiet when Gloria, wide-eyed and sleepless, traversed it and pushed open the door of his room. He had been too befuddled to open the windows and the air was stale and thick with whiskey. She stood for a moment by his bed, a slender, exquisitely graceful creature in her boyish silk pajamas. Then, with abandon, she flung herself upon him, half waking him in the frantic emotion of her embrace, dropping her warm tears upon his throat. Oh, Anthony, she cried passionately. Oh, my darling, you don't know what you did. Yet in the morning, coming early into her room, he knelt down by her bed and cried like a little boy, as though it was his heart that had been broken. It seemed, last night, she said gravely, her fingers playing in his hair, that all the part of me you loved, the part that was worth knowing, all the pride and fire was gone. I knew that what was left of me would always love you, but never in quite the same way. Nevertheless, she was aware even then that she would forget in time, and that it is the manner of life seldom to strike but always to wear away. After that morning, the incident was never mentioned, and its deep wound healed with Anthony's hand, and if there was triumph, some darker force than theirs possessed it, possessed the knowledge and the victory. Nietzschean incident. Gloria's independence, like all sincere and profound qualities, had begun unconsciously, but once brought to her attention by Anthony's fascinated discovery of it, it assumed more nearly the proportions of a formal code. From her conversation, it might be assumed that all her energy and vitality went into a violent affirmation of the negative principle, never give a damn. Not for me or anybody, she said, except myself, and by implication, for Anthony. That's the rule of all life, and if it weren't, I'd be that way anyhow. Nobody would do anything for me if it didn't gratify them to, and I'd do as little for them. She was on the front porch of the nicest lady in Marietta when she said this, and as she finished, she gave a curious little cry and sank in a dead faint to the porch floor. The lady brought her to and drove her home in her car. It had occurred to the estimable, Gloria, that she was probably with child. She lay upon the long lounge downstairs. Day was slipping warmly out the window, touching the late roses on the porch pillars. All I think of ever is that I love you, she wailed. I value my body because you think it's beautiful, and this body of mine, of yours, to have it grow ugly and shapeless, it's simply intolerable. Oh, Anthony, I'm not afraid of the pain. He consoled her desperately, but in vain, she continued. And then afterward I might have wide hips and be pale with all my freshness gone and no radiance in my hair. He paced the floor with his hands in his pockets, asking, is it certain? I don't know anything. I've always hated obstrics or whatever you call them. I thought I'd have a child sometime, but not now. Well, for God's sake, don't lie there and go to pieces. Her sobs lapsed. She drew down a merciful silence from the twilight which filled the room. Turn on the lights, she pleaded. These days seem so short. June seemed to have longer days when I was a little girl. The light snapped on and it was as though blue drapes of softest silk had been dropped behind the windows in the door. Her pallor, her immobility without grief now, or joy awoke his sympathy. Do you want me to have it? She asked listlessly, I'm indifferent. That is, I'm neutral. If you have it, I'll probably be glad. If you don't, well, that's all right too. I wish you'd make up your mind one way or the other. Suppose you make up your mind? She looked at him contemptuously, scorning to answer. You'd think you'd been singled out of all the women in the world for this crowning indignity. What if I do, she cried angrily. It isn't an indignity for them. It's their one excuse for living. It's the one thing they're good for. It is an indignity for me. See here, Gloria, I'm with you whatever you do, but for God's sakes, be a sport about it. Oh, don't fuss at me, she wailed. They exchanged a mute look of no particular significance, but of much stress. Then Anthony took a book from the shelf and dropped into a chair. Half an hour later, her voice came out of the intense stillness that pervaded the room and hung like incense on the air. I'll drive over and see Constance Mariam tomorrow. All right, and I'll go to Tarrytown and see Grandpa. You see, she added, it isn't that I'm afraid of this or anything else. I'm being true to me, you know. I know, he agreed. The Practical Men. Adam Patch, in a pious rage against the Germans, subsisted on the war news. Pinmaps plastered his walls. Atlases were piled deep on tables convenient to his hand, together with photographic histories of the World War, official explain-alls, and the personal impressions of war correspondence and of privates X, Y, and Z. Several times during Anthony's visit, his grandfather's secretary, Edward Shettleworth, the one-time accomplished jinn physician of Pat's Place in Hoboken, now shod with righteous indignation, would appear with an extra. The old man attacked each paper with untiring fury, tearing out those columns which appeared to him of sufficient pregnancy for preservation and thrusting them into one of his already bulging files. Well, what have you been doing? He asked Anthony blandly. Nothing? Well, I thought so. I've been intending to drive over and see you all summer. I've been writing. Don't you remember the essay I sent you, the one I sold to the Florentine last winter? Essay? You never sent me any essay. Oh yes, I did. We talked about it. Adam Pat shook his head mildly. Oh no, you never sent me any essay. You may have thought you sent it, but it never reached me. Why, you read it, grandpa, insisted Anthony, somewhat exasperated. You read it and disagreed with it. The old man suddenly remembered, but this was made apparent only by a partial falling open of his mouth, displaying rows of gray gums. Eyeing Anthony with a green and ancient stare, he hesitated between confessing his error and covering it up. So you're writing, he said quickly. Well, why don't you go over and write about these Germans? Write something real, something about what's going on, something people can read. Anybody can't be a war correspondent, objected Anthony. You have to have some newspaper willing to buy your stuff, and I can't spare the money to go over as a freelance. I'll send you over, suggested his grandfather surprisingly. I'll get you over as an authorized correspondent of any newspaper you pick out. Anthony recoiled from the idea. Almost simultaneously, he bounded toward it. I don't know. He would have to leave Gloria, whose whole life yearned toward him and unfolded him. Gloria was in trouble. Oh, the thing wasn't feasible, yet he saw himself in cocky, leaning as all war correspondents lean upon a heavy stick, portfolio at shoulder, trying to look like an Englishman. I'd like to think it over, he confessed. It's certainly very kind of you. I'll think it over and I'll let you know. Thinking it over absorbed him on the journey to New York. He had had one of the sudden flashes of illumination vouchsafed to all men who are dominated by a strong and beloved woman, which showed them a world of harder men, more fiercely trained and grappling with the abstractions of thought and war. In that world, the arms of Gloria would exist only as the hot embrace of a chance mistress, coolly sought and quickly forgotten. These unfamiliar phantoms were crowding closely about him when he boarded his train for Marietta in the Grand Central Station. The car was crowded. He secured the last vacant seat and it was only after several minutes that he gave even a casual glance to the man beside him. When he did, he saw a heavy lay of jaw and nose, a curved chin and small puffed under eyes. In a moment, he recognized Joseph Blockman. Simultaneously, they both half rose, were half embarrassed and exchanged what amounted to a half handshake. Then, as though to complete the matter, they both half laughed. Well, remarked Anthony without inspiration, I haven't seen you for a long time. Immediately he regretted his words and started to add, I didn't know you lived out this way. But Blockman anticipated him by asking pleasantly, how's your wife? She's very well, how have you been? Excellent. His tone amplified the grandeur of the word. It seemed to Anthony that during the last year Blockman had grown tremendously in dignity. The boiled look was gone. He seemed done at last. In addition, he was no longer over dressed. The inappropriate facetiousness he had affected in ties had given way to a sturdy dark pattern and his right hand, which had formerly displayed two heavy rings, was now innocent of ornament and even without the raw glow of a manicure. This dignity appeared also in his personality. The last aura of the successful traveling man had faded from him. That deliberate ingratiation of which the lowest form is the body joke in the Pullman Smoker. One imagine that, having been fond upon financially, he had attained aloofness. Having been stubbed socially, he had acquired reticence. But whatever had given him weight instead of bulk, Anthony no longer felt a correct superiority in his presence. Do you remember Caramel, Richard Caramel? I believe you met him one night. I remember, he was writing a book. Well, he sold it to the movies. Then they had some scenario man named Jordan work on it. Well, Dick subscribes to a clipping bureau and he's furious because about half of the movie reviewers speak of the power and strength that William Jordan's demon lover didn't mention old Dick at all. You'd think this fellow Jordan had actually conceived and developed the thing. Blockman nodded comprehensively. Most of the contracts state that the original writer's name goes into all the paid publicity. Is Caramel still writing? Oh yes, writing hard, short stories. Well, that's fine, that's fine. You on this train often? About once a week, we live in Marietta. Is that so? Well, well, I live near Coss Cobb myself, but a place there only recently, we're only five miles apart. You'll have to come and see us. Anthony was surprised at his own courtesy. I'm sure Gloria'd be delighted to see an old friend. Anybody'll tell you where the house is, it's our second season there. Thank you. Then as though returning a complimentary politeness, how was your grandfather? He's been well, I had lunch with him today. A great character, said Blockman severely, a fine example of an American. The triumph of lethargy. Anthony found his wife deep in the porch hammock voluptuously engaged with a lemonade and a tomato sandwich and carrying on an apparently cheery conversation with Tana upon one of Tana's complicated themes. In my country, Anthony recognized his invariable preface. All time, peoples eat rice because haven't got, cannot eat would no have got. Had his nationality not been desperately apparent, one would have thought he had acquired his knowledge of his native land from American primary school geographies. When the Oriental had been squelched and dismissed to the kitchen, Anthony turned questioningly to Gloria. It's all right, she announced smiling broadly and it surprised me more than it does you. There's no doubt, none couldn't be.  Then he told her of his opportunity to go abroad and that he was almost ashamed to reject it. What do you think, just tell me frankly? Why, Anthony, her eyes were startled. Do you want to go without me? His face fell, yet he knew with his wife's question that it was too late. Her arms, sweet and strangling, were around him, for he had made all such choices back in that room in the plaza the year before. This was an anachronism from an age of such dreams. Gloria, he lied in a great burst of comprehension. Of course I don't. I was thinking you might go as a nurse or something. He wondered doubly if his grandfather would consider this. As she smiled, he realized again how beautiful she was, a gorgeous girl of miraculous freshness and sheerly honorable eyes. She embraced the suggestion with luxurious intensity, holding it aloft like a son of her own making and basking in its beams. She strung together an amazing synopsis for an extravaganza of marital adventure. After supper, surfeited with the subject, she yawned. She wanted not to talk but only to read penrod, stretched upon the lounge until at midnight she fell asleep.  What am I going to do? He began at breakfast. Here we've been married a year and we've just bore it around without even being efficient people of leisure. Yes, he ought to do something, she admitted, being in an agreeable and locations humor. This was not the first of these discussions, but as they usually developed Anthony in the role of protagonist, she had come to avoid them. It's not that I have any moral compunctions about work, he continued, but grandpa may die tomorrow or he may live for 10 years. Meanwhile, we're living above our income and all we've got to show for it is a farmer's car and a few clothes. We keep an apartment that we've only lived in three months and a little old house way off in nowhere. We're frequently bored and yet we won't make any effort to know anyone except the same crowd who drift around California all summer wearing sports clothes and waiting for their families to die. How you've changed, remarked Gloria. Once you told me you didn't see why an American couldn't loaf gracefully. Well, damn it, I wasn't married and the old mind was working at top speed and now it's going round and round like a cogwheel with nothing to cash it. As a matter of fact, I think that if I hadn't met you I would have done something but you make leisure so subtly attractive. Oh, it's all my fault. I didn't mean that and you know I didn't but here I'm almost 27 and oh, she interrupted in vexation. You make me tired talking as though I were objecting or hindering you. I was just discussing it, Gloria, can't I discuss? I should think you'd be strong enough to settle something with you without your own problems without coming to me. You talk a lot about going to work. I could use more money very easily but I'm not complaining. Whether you work or not, I love you. Her last words were as gentle as fine snow upon hard ground but for the moment neither was attending to the other. They were each engaged in polishing and perfecting his own attitude. I have worked some. This, by Anthony, was an imprudent bringing up of raw reserves. Gloria laughed, torn between delight and division. She resented his sophistry as at the same time she admired his nonchalance. She would never blame him for being the ineffectual idler so long as he did it sincerely from the attitude that nothing much was worth doing. Work, she scoffed.  Work, that means a great arranging of the desk and the lights, a great sharpening of pencils and Gloria, don't sing and please keep that damn tana away from me and let me read you my opening sentence and I won't be through for a long time, Gloria, so don't stay up for me and a tremendous consumption of tea or coffee and that's all. In just about an hour, I hear the old pencil stop scratching and look over. You've got out of the book and you're looking up something. Then you're reading.  Two weeks later, the whole performance over again. With much difficulty, Anthony retained a scanty breech clout of dignity. Now, that's a slight exaggeration. You know darn well I sold an essay to the Florentine and it attracted a lot of attention considering the circulation of the Florentine and what's more, Gloria, you know I sat up till five o'clock in the morning finishing it. She lapsed into silence, giving him rope and if he had not hanged himself, he had certainly come to the end of it. At least, he concluded feebly, I'm perfectly willing to be a war correspondent but so was Gloria. They were both willing, anxious, they assured each other of it. The evening ended on a note of tremendous sentiment, the majesty of leisure, the ill health of Adam Pat, love at any cost. Anthony, she called over the banister one afternoon, a week later, there's someone at the door. Anthony, who had been lolling in the hammock on the sun speckled south porch, strolled around to the front of the house. A foreign car, large and impressive, crouched like an immense and Saturnine bug at the foot of the path. A man in a soft Pongee suit with capped match hailed him. Hello there, Patch, ran over to call on you. It was Blockman, as always, infinitesimally improved, of subtler intonation, of more convincing ease. I'm awfully glad you did. Anthony raised his voice to a vine-covered window. Gloria, we've got a visitor. I'm in the tub, wailed Gloria politely. With a smile, the two men acknowledged a triumph for her alibi. She'll be down.  Gloria's always in the tub, a good third of every day. Pity she doesn't live on the sound, can't afford it. As coming from Adam Patch's grandson, Blockman took this as a form of pleasantry. After 15 minutes filled with estimable brilliancies, Gloria appeared, fresh and starched yellow, bringing atmosphere and an increase of vitality. I want to be a successful sensation in the movies, she announced. I hear that Mary Pickford makes a million dollars annually. You could, you know, said Blockman. I think you'd film very well. Would you let me, Anthony, if I only play unsophisticated roles? As the conversation continued in stilted commas, Anthony wondered that to him and Blockman both, this girl had once been the most stimulating, the most tonic personality they had ever known. And now the three sat like over-oiled machines, without conflict, without fear, without elation, heavily enameled little figures, secure beyond enjoyment, in a world where death and war, dull emotion and noble savagery were covering a continent with the smoke of terror. In a moment he would call Tana and they would pour into themselves a gay and delicate poison, which would restore them momentarily to the pleasurable excitement of childhood, when every face in a crowd had carried a suggestion of splendid and significant transactions taking place somewhere to some magnificent and illimitable purpose. Life was no more than the summer afternoon, a faint wind stirring the lace collar of Gloria's dress, the slow baking drowsiness of the veranda. Intolerably unmoved they all seemed, removed from any romantic imminency of action. Even Gloria's beauty needed wild emotions, needed poignancy, needed death. Any day next week, Bachmann was saying to Gloria, here, take this card. What they do is give you a test of about 300 feet of film and they can tell pretty accurately from that. How about Wednesday? Wednesday's fine, just phone me and I'll go around with you. He was on his feet, shaking hands briskly, then his car was a wraith of dust down the road. Anthony turned to his wife in bewilderment. Why, Gloria? You don't mind if I have a child, Anthony, just a trial? I've got to go to town Wednesday anyhow. But it's so silly. You don't wanna go into the movies, moon around the studio all day with a lot of cheap chorus people. A lot of mooning around Mary Pickford does. Everybody isn't a Mary Pickford. Well, I can't see how you'd object to my trying.  Oh, you make me tired.  You wouldn't mind if you loved me. Of course I love you, she said impatiently, making out a quick case for herself.   It's just you're craving for excitement, that's all it is. Maybe it is, it's a perfectly natural craving, isn't it? Well, I'll tell you one thing. If you go to the movies, I'm going to Europe.  To show she was not stopping him, she melted into melancholy tears. Together they marshaled the armies of sentiment, words, kisses, endearments, self-approaches. They attained nothing. Inevitably they attained nothing. Finally, in a burst of gargantuan emotion, each of them sat down and wrote a letter. Anthony's was to his grandfather, Gloria's was to Joseph Blockman. It was a triumph of lethargy. One day, early in July, Anthony, returned from an afternoon in New York, called upstairs to Gloria. Receiving no answer, he guessed she was asleep, and so went into the pantry for one of the little sandwiches that were always prepared for them. He found Tana seated at the kitchen table before a miscellaneous assortment of odds and ends, cigar boxes, knives, pencils, the tops of cans, and some scraps of paper covered with elaborate figures and diagrams.  Tana politely grinned. I show you, he exclaimed enthusiastically. I tell, you making a doghouse? No, sir. Tana grinned again, make type water. Typewriter? Yes, sir.  So you thought you'd make one, eh? Wait, I tell. Anthony, munching a sandwich, leaned leisurely against the sink. Tana opened and closed his mouth several times as though testing its capacity for action. Then in a rush he began, I then think type water has, oh, many, many, many, many thing. Oh, many, many, many, many keys, I see. No, yes, key. Many, many, many, many letter, like so, ABC. Yes, you're right. Wait, I tell. He screwed his face up in a tremendous effort to express himself. I then think, many words end same, like I-N-G. You bet, a whole raft of them. So I make type water quick, not so many letter. That's a great idea, Tana. Save time, you'll make a fortune. Press one key and there's ink. Hope you work it out. Tana laughed disparagingly. Wait, I tell. Where's Mrs. Patch? She out. Wait, I tell.  My type water. Where is she? Here, I make. He pointed to the miscellany of junk on the table. I mean Mrs. Patch. She out, Tana reassured him. She'd be back five o'clock, she say. Down in the village? No, went off before lunch. She go, Mr. Blockman. Anthony started. Went out with Mr. Blockman. She'd be back five. Without a word, Anthony left the kitchen with Tana's disconsolate. I tell, trailing after him. So this was Gloria's idea of excitement by God. His fists were clenched. Within a moment he had worked himself up to a tremendous pitch of indignation. He went to the door and looked out. There was no car in sight and his watch stood at four minutes of five. With furious energy he dashed down to the end of the path. As far as the bend of the road a mile off he could see no car, except, but it was a farmer's fliver. Then in an undignified pursuit of dignity he rushed back to the shelter of the house as quickly as he had rushed out. Pacing up and down the living room he began an angry rehearsal of the speech he would make to her when she came in. So this is love, he would begin. Or no, it sounded too much like the popular phrase. So this is Paris. He must be dignified, hurt, grieved. Anyhow, so this is what you do when I have to go up and trot all day around the hot city on business. No wonder I can't write.  He was expanding now, warming to his subject. I'll tell you, he continued, I'll tell you. He paused, catching a familiar ring in the words. Then he realized, it was Tana's, I tell. Yet Anthony neither laughed nor seemed absurd to himself. To his frantic imagination, it was already six, seven, eight and she was never coming. Blockman, finding her bored and unhappy had persuaded her to go to California with him. There was a great to-do out in front, a joyous, yo-ho, Anthony. And he rose, trembling, weakly happy to see her fluttering up the path. Blockman was following, cap in hand. Dearest, she cried, we've just been for the best jaunt all over New York State. I'll have to be starting home, said Blockman, almost immediately. Wish you'd both been here when I came. I'm sorry I wasn't, answered Anthony dryly. When he had departed, Anthony hesitated. The fear was gone from his heart, yet he felt that some protest was ethically apropos. Gloria resolved his uncertainty. I knew you wouldn't mind. He came just before lunch and said he had to go to Garrison on business and wouldn't I go with him? He looked so lonesome, Anthony, and I drove his car all the way. Listlessly, Anthony dropped into a chair, his mind tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, with the world's weight he had never chosen to bear. He was ineffectual and vaguely helpless here as he had always been. One of those personalities who, in spite of all their words, are inarticulate, he seemed to have inherited only the vast tradition of human failure, that and the sense of death. I suppose I don't care, he answered. One must be broad about these things, and Gloria, being young, being beautiful, must have reasonable privileges. Yet it worried him that he failed to understand. End of book two, chapter two, part one of three. Book two, chapter two, part two of three of the beautiful and damned. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Beautiful and Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Book two, chapter two, Symposium. Part two of three, Winter. She rolled over on her back and lay still for a moment in the great bed, watching the February sun suffer one last attenuated refinement in its passage through the leaded panes into the room. For a time she had no accurate sense of her whereabouts or of the events of the day before or the day before that. Then, like a suspended pendulum, memory began to beat out its story, releasing with each swing a burdened quota of time until her life was given back to her. She could hear now Anthony's troubled breathing beside her. She could smell whiskey and cigarette smoke. She noticed that she lacked complete muscular control when she moved, it was not a sinuous motion with the resultant strain distributed easily over her body. It was a tremendous effort of her nervous system as though each time she were hypnotizing herself into performing an impossible action. She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth to get rid of that intolerable taste. Then back by the bedside, listening to the rattle of bounds' key in the outer door. Wake up, Anthony, she said sharply. She climbed into bed beside him and closed her eyes. Almost the last thing she remembered was a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lacey. Mrs. Lacey had said, sure you don't want us to get you a taxi? And Anthony had replied that he guessed they could walk over to Fifth Allright. Then they had both attempted, imprudently, to bow and collapsed absurdly into a battalion of empty milk bottles just outside the door. There must have been two dozen milk bottles standing open-mouthed in the dark. She could conceive of no plausible explanation of those milk bottles. Perhaps they had been attracted by the singing in the Lacey house and had hurried over a gape with wonder to see the fun. Well, they'd had the worst of it, though it seemed that she and Anthony never would get up that perverse things rolled so. Still, they had found a taxi. My meter's broken and it'll cost you a dollar and a half to get home, said the taxi driver.  At that point the men had driven off without them. They must have found another taxi, for they were in the apartment. What time is it? Anthony was sitting up in bed, staring at her with owlish precision. This was obviously a rhetorical question. Gloria could think of no reason why she should be expected to know the time. Golly, I feel like the devil, muttered Anthony dispassionately, relaxing, he tumbled back upon his pillow. Bring on your grim reaper. Anthony, how'd we finally get home last night? Taxi. Oh, then after a pause, did you put me to bed? I don't know, seems to me you put me to bed. What day is it? Tuesday. Tuesday? I hope so. If it's Wednesday I've got to start work at that idiotic place, supposed to be down at nine or some such ungodly hour. Ask Bounds, suggested Gloria feebly. Bounds, he called. Sprightly, sober, a voice from a world that it seemed in the past two days they had left for ever. Bounds sprang in short steps down the hall and appeared in the half darkness of the door. What day, Bounds? February the 22nd, I think, sir. I mean day of the week. Tuesday, sir. Thanks. After a pause, are you ready for breakfast, sir? Yes, and Bounds, before you get it, will you make a pitcher of water and set it here beside the bed? I'm a little thirsty. Yes, sir. Bounds retreated in sober dignity down the hall. Lincoln's birthday, affirmed Anthony without enthusiasm or St. Valentine's or somebody's. When did we start on this insane party? Sunday night. After prayers, he suggested sardonically. We raced all over town in those handsums and Maury sat up with his driver. Don't you remember? Then we came home and he tried to cook some bacon, came out of the pantry with a few blacken remains insisting it was fried to the proverbial crisp. Both of them laughed, spontaneously, but with some difficulty and lying there side by side reviewed the chain of events that had ended in this rusty and chaotic dawn. They had been in New York for almost four months since the country had grown too cool in late October. They had given up California this year, partly because of lack of funds, partly with the idea of growing abroad should this interminable war persisting now into its second year end during the winter. Of late their income had lost elasticity. No longer did it stretch to cover gay whims and pleasant extravagances. And Anthony had spent many puzzled and unsatisfactory hours over a densely-figured pad, making remarkable budgets that left huge margins for amusements, trips, et cetera, and trying to apportion, even approximately, their past expenditures. He remembered a time when, in going on a party with his two best friends, he and Maury had invariably paid more than their share of the expenses. They would buy the tickets for the theater or squabble between themselves for the dinner check. It had seemed fitting. Dick, with his naivete and his astonishing fund of information about himself, had been a diverting, almost juvenile figure, court jester to their royalty. But this was no longer true. It was Dick who always had money. It was Anthony who entertained within limitations, always accepting occasional, wild, wine-inspired, check-cashing parties. And it was Anthony who was solemn about it the next morning and told the scornful and disgusted Gloria that they'd have to be more careful next time. In the two years since the publication of The Demon Lover, Dick had made over $25,000, most of it lately, when the reward of the author of fiction had begun to swell unprecedentedly as a result of the voracious hunger of the motion pictures for plots. He received $700 for every story. At that time a large emolument for such a young man. He was not quite thirty. And for everyone that contained enough action, kissing, shooting, and sacrificing for the movies, he obtained an additional thousand. His stories varied. There was a measure of vitality and a sort of instinctive technique in all of them, but none attained the personality of the Demon Lover. And there were several that Anthony considered downright cheap.  Wasn't it true that men who had attained real permanence from Shakespeare to Mark Twain had appealed to the many as well as to the elect? Though Anthony and Maury disagreed, Gloria told him to go ahead and make as much money as he could. That was the only thing that counted anyhow. Maury, a little stouter, faintly mellower, and more complacent, had gone to work in Philadelphia. He came to New York once or twice a month, and on such occasions the four of them traveled the popular routes from dinner to the theater, thence to the frolic, or perhaps at the urging of the ever-curious Gloria, to one of the sellers of Greenwich Village, notorious through the furious but shortly vogue of the new poetry movement. In January, after many monologues directed at his reticent wife, Anthony determined to get something to do for the winter at any rate. He wanted to please his grandfather and even in a measure to see how he liked it himself. He discovered during several tentative semi-social calls that employers were not interested in a young man who was only going to try it for a few months or so. As the grandson of Adam Patch, he was received everywhere with marked courtesy, but the old man was a back number now. The heyday of his fame as first an oppressor and then an uplifter of the people had been during the 20 years preceding his retirement. Anthony even found several of the younger men who were under the impression that Adam Patch had been dead for some years. Eventually, Anthony went to his grandfather and asked his advice, which turned out to be that he should enter the bond business as a salesman, a tedious suggestion to Anthony, but one that in the end he determined to follow. Sheer money and deft manipulation had fascinations under all circumstances while almost any side of manufacturing would be insufferably dull. He considered newspaper work but decided that the hours were not ordered for a married man and he lingered over pleasant fancies of himself either as editor of a brilliant Weekly of Opinion and American Mercurial de France or as scintillant producer of satiric comedy and Parisian musical review. However, the approaches to these latter guilds seemed to be guarded by professional secrets. Men drifted into them by the devious highways of writing and acting. It was palpably impossible to get on a magazine unless you had been on one before. So in the end, he entered by way of his grandfather's letter that Sanctum Americanum were sat at the president of Wilson, Heimer, and Hardy at his cleared desk and issued their from employed. He was to begin work on the 23rd of February. In tribute to the momentous occasion this two-day revel had been planned since he said after he began working he'd have to get to bed early during the week. Mori Noble had arrived from Philadelphia on a trip that had to do with seeing some man in Wall Street, whom, incidentally, he failed to see, and Richard Caramel had been half persuaded, half tricked into joining them. They had condescended to a wet and fashionable wedding on Monday afternoon and in the evening had occurred the dénuement. Gloria, going beyond her accustomed limit of four precisely timed cocktails, led them on as gay and joyous as Bacchanal as they had ever known, disclosing an astonishing knowledge of ballet steps and singing songs which she confessed had been taught her by her cook when she was innocent in 17. She repeated these by requested intervals throughout the evening with such frank conviviality that Anthony, far from being annoyed, was gratified at this fresh source of entertainment. The occasion was memorable in other ways, a long conversation between Mori and a defunct crab which he was dragging around on the end of a string as to whether the crab was fully conversant in the applications of the binomial theorem and the aforementioned race in two handsome cabs with a sedate and impressive shadows of Fifth Avenue for audience, ending in a labyrinthine escape into the darkness of Central Park. Finally, Anthony and Gloria had paid a call on some wild young married people, the Lacy's, and collapsed in the empty milk bottles. Morning now, theirs to add up the Czech's cash here and there in clubs, stores, restaurants. There's to air the dank staleness of wine and cigarettes out of the tall blue front room to pick up the broken glass and brush at the stained fabric of chairs and sofas to give bounds, suits, and dresses for the cleaners. Finally, to take their smothery, half feverish bodies and faded depressed spirits out into the chill air of February that life might go on and Wilson, Heimer, and Hardy obtained the services of a vigorous man at nine the next morning. Do you remember, called Anthony from the bathroom, when Moria got out at the corner of 110th Street and acted as a traffic cop, beckoning cars forward and motioning them back, they must have thought he was a private detective. After each reminiscence, they both laughed inordinately. Their overwrought nerves responding as acutely and janglingly to mirth as to depression. Gloria at the mirror was wondering at the splendid color and freshness of her face. It seemed she had never looked so well, though her stomach hurt her and her head was aching furiously. The day passed slowly. Anthony, riding in a taxi to his brokers to borrow money on a bond, found that he had only two dollars in his pocket. The fare would cost all of that, but he felt that on this particular occasion he could not have endured the subway. When the taxi meter reached his limit, he must get out and walk. With this, his mind drifted off into one of its characteristic daydreams. In this dream, he discovered that the meter was going too fast. The driver had dishonestly adjusted it. Calmly, he reached his destination and then nonchalantly handed the man what he justly owed him. The man showed fight, but almost before his hands were up, Anthony had knocked him down with one terrific blow, and when he rose, Anthony quickly sidestepped and floored him definitely with a crack in the temple. He was in court now. The judge had fined him five dollars and he had no money. Would the court take his check? Ah, but the court did not know him. Well, he could identify himself by having them call his apartment. They did so. Yes, it was Mrs. Anthony Patch speaking, but how did she know that this man was her husband? How could she know? Let the police sergeant ask her if she remembered the milk bottles. He leaned forward hurriedly and tapped at the glass. The taxi was only at Brooklyn Bridge, but the meter showed a dollar and 80 cents and Anthony would never have admitted the 10% tip. Later in the afternoon, he returned to the apartment. Gloria had also been out, shopping, and was asleep, curled in the corner of the sofa with her purchase locked securely in her arms. Her face was as untroubled as a little girl's and the bundle she pressed tightly to her bosom was a child's doll, a profound and infinitely healing balm to her disturbed and childish heart. Destiny. It was with this party, more especially with Gloria's part in it, that a decided change began to come over their way of living. The magnificent attitude of not giving a damn altered overnight. From being a mere tenant of Gloria's, it became the entire solace and justification for what they chose to do and what consequence it brought. Not to be sorry, not to lose one cry of regret, to live according to a clear code of honor toward each other and to seek the moment's happiness as fervently and persistently as possible. No one cares about us but ourselves, Anthony, she said one day. It'd be ridiculous for me to go about pretending I felt any obligations toward the world and as for worrying what people think about me, I simply don't, that's all. Since I was a little girl in dancing school, I've been criticized by the mothers of all the little girls who weren't as popular as I was and I've always looked on criticism as a sort of envious tribute. This was because of a party in the Bull Mitch one night where Constance Mariam had seen her as one of a highly stimulated party of four. Constance Mariam, as an old school friend, had gone to the trouble of inviting her to lunch the next day in order to inform her how terrible it was. I told her I couldn't see it, Gloria told Anthony. Eric Mariam is a sort of sublimated Percy Walcott. You remember that man in Hot Springs I told you about? His idea of respecting Constance is to leave her at home with her sewing and her baby and her book at such innocuous amusements whenever he's going on a party that promises to be anything but deathly dull. Did you tell her that? I certain did and I told her that what she really objected to was that I was having a better time than she was. Anthony applauded her. He was tremendously proud of Gloria, proud that she never failed to eclipse whatever other women might be in the party, proud that men were always glad to revel with her in great rowdy groups, without any attempt to do more than enjoy her beauty and the warmth of her vitality. These parties gradually became their chief source of entertainment. Still in love, still enormously interested in each other, they yet found a spring junior that staying at home in the evening palled on them. Books were unreal. The old magic of being alone had long since vanished.  A scattering of younger married people who had been their friends in school or college, as well as a varied assortment of single men began to think instinctively of them whatever color and excitement were needed, so there was scarcely a day without its phone call. It's wondered what you were doing this evening. Wives, as a rule, were afraid of Gloria, her facile attainment of the center of the stage, her innocent but nevertheless disturbing way of becoming a favorite with husbands. These things drove them instinctively into an attitude of profound distrust, heightened by the fact that Gloria was largely unresponsive to any intimacy shown her by a woman. On the appointed Wednesday in February, Anthony had gone to the imposing offices of Wilson, Heimer, and Hardy and listened to many vague instructions delivered by an energetic young man of about his own age, named Coller, who wore a defiant yellow pompadour and in announcing himself as an assistant secretary gave the impression that it was a tribute to exceptional ability. There's two kinds of men here you'll find, he said.  And there's the man who gets his name there at 45.  How about the man who gets it there at 30? In quiet Anthony politely.  He pointed to a list of assistant vice presidents upon the folder. Or maybe he gets to be president or secretary or treasurer. And what about these over here? Those? Oh, those are the trustees, the men with capital. I see. Now some people, continued Coller, think that whether a man gets started early or late depends on whether or not he's got a college education, but they're wrong. I see. I had one. I was Buckley, class of 1911. But when I came down to the street, I soon found that the things that would help me here weren't the fancy things I learned in college. In fact, I had to get a lot of fancy stuff out of my head. Anthony could not help wondering what possible fancy stuff he had learned at Buckley in 1911. An irrepressible idea that it was some sort of needlework recurred to him throughout the rest of the conversation. See that fellow over there? Coller pointed to a youngish-looking man with handsome gray hair, sitting at a desk inside a mahogany railing. That's Mr. Elinger, the first vice president. Been everywhere, seen everything, got a fine education. In vain did Anthony try to open his mind to the romance of finance. He could think of Mr. Elinger only as one of the buyers of the handsome leather sets of Thackeray, Balsak, Hugo, and Gibbon that lined the walls of the big bookstores. Through the damp and uninspiring month of March, he was prepared for salesmanship. Locking enthusiasm, he was capable of viewing the turmoil and bustle that surrounded him only as a fruitless, circumambient, striving toward an incomprehensible goal, tangibly evidenced only by the rival mansions of Mr. Frick and Mr. Carnegie on Fifth Avenue, that these pretentious vice presidents and trustees should actually be the fathers of the best men he had known at Harvard, seemed to him incongruous. He ate in an employee's lunchroom upstairs with an uneasy suspicion that he was being uplifted, wandering through that first week if the dozens of young clerks, some of them alert and immaculate and just out of college, lived in flamboyant hope of crowding onto that narrow slip of cardboard before the catastrophic thirties. The conversation that interwoven with the pattern of the day's work was all much of a piece. One discussed how Mr. Wilson had made his money, what method Mr. Heimer had employed, and the means resorted to by Mr. Hardy. One related age-old but eternally breathless anecdotes of the fortunes stumbled on precipitously in the street by a butcher or a bartender or a darned messenger boy by a golly. And then one talked of the current gambles and whether it was best to go out for 100,000 a year or be content with 20. During the preceding year, one of the assistant secretaries had invested all his savings in Bethlehem Steel. The story of his spectacular magnificence of his haughty resignation in January and of the triumphal palace he was now building in California was the favorite office subject. The man's very name had acquired a magic significance, symbolizing, as he did, the aspirations of all good Americans. Anecdotes were told about him, how one of the presidents had advised him to sell, but by golly he had hung on, even bought on margin, and now look where he is. Such, obviously, was the stuff of life, a dizzy triumph dazzling the eyes of all of them, a gypsy siren to content them with meager wages and with the arithmetical improbability of their eventual success. To Anthony the notion became appalling. He felt that to succeed here, the idea of success must grasp and limit his mind. It seemed to him that the essential element in these men at the top was their faith that their affairs were the very core of life. All other things being equal, self-assurance and opportunism went out over technical knowledge. It was obvious that the more expert work went on near the bottom, and so, with appropriate efficiency, the technical experts were kept there. His determination to stay in at night during the week did not survive, and a good half of the time he came to work with a splitting, sickish headache and the crowded horror of the morning subway rigging in his ears like an echo of hell. Then, abruptly, he quit. He had remained in bed all one Monday and late in the evening, overcome by one of those attacks of moody despair to which he periodically succumbed, he wrote and mailed a letter to Mr. Wilson, confessing that he considered himself ill-adapted to the work. Gloria, coming in from the theater with Richard Caramel, found him on the lounge, silently staring at the high ceiling, more depressed and discouraged than he had been at any time since their marriage. She wanted him to whine. If he had, she would have approached him bitterly, for she was not a little annoyed, but he only lay there so utterly miserable that she felt sorry for him, and kneeling down, she stroked his head, saying how little it mattered, how little anything mattered so long as they loved each other. It was like their first year in Anthony reacting to her cool hand, to her voice that was soft as breath itself upon his ear became almost cheerful and talked with her of his future plans. He even regretted, silently, before he went to bed, that he had so hastily mailed his resignation. Even when everything seems rotten, you can't trust that judgment, Gloria had said. It's the sum of all your judgments that counts. In mid-April came a letter from the real estate agent in Marietta, encouraging them to take the gray house for another year at a slightly increased rental and enclosing a lease made out for their signatures. For a week, lease and letter lay carelessly neglected on Anthony's desk. They had no intention of returning to Marietta. They were weary of the place and had been bored most of the preceding summer. Besides, their car had deteriorated to a rattling mess of hyperchondriacal metal and a new one was financially inadvisable. But because of another wild revel, enduring through four days and participated in at one time or another by more than a dozen people, they did sign the lease. To their utter horror, they signed and sent it and immediately it seemed as though they heard the gray house, drably malevolent at last, licking its white chops and waiting to devour them. Anthony, where's that lease? She called in high alarm one Sunday morning, sick and sober to reality. Where did you leave it? It was here. Then she knew where it was. She remembered the house party they had planned on the crest of their exuberance.  And Anthony's boast of the transcendent merit and seclusion of the gray house, that it was so isolated that it didn't matter how much noise went on there. Then Dick, who had visited them, cried enthusiastically that it was the best little house imaginable and that they were idiotic not to take it for another summer. It had been easy to work themselves up to a sense of how hot and deserted the city was getting, of how cool and ambrosial were the charms of Marietta. Anthony had picked up the lease and waved it wildly, found Gloria happily acquiescent, and with one last burst of garrulous decision during which all the men agreed with solemn handshakes that they would come out for a visit. Anthony, she cried, we've signed and sent it. What? The lease. What, the devil? Oh, Anthony.  For the summer, for eternity, they had built themselves a prison. It seemed to strike at the last roots of their stability. Anthony thought they might arrange it with the real estate agent. They could no longer afford the double rent, and going to Marietta meant giving up his apartment, his reproachless apartment, with the exquisite bath and the rooms for which he had bought his furniture and hangings. It was the closest to a home that he had ever had, familiar with memories of four colorful years. But it was not arranged with the real estate agent, nor was it arranged at all. Despiritedly, without even any talk of making the best of it, without even Gloria's all-sufficing, I don't care, they went back to the house that they now knew heeded neither youth nor love, only those austere and incommunicable memories that they could never share. The sinister summer. There was a horror in the house that summer. It came with them and settled itself over the place like a somber paw, pervasive through the lower rooms, gradually spreading and climbing up the narrow stairs until it oppressed their very sleep. Anthony and Gloria grew to hate being there alone. Her bedroom, which had seemed so pink and young and delicate, appropriate to her pastel-shaded lingerie, tossed here and there, on chair and bed, seemed now to whisper with its rustling curtains, ah, my beautiful young lady, yours is not the first daintiness and delicacy that has faded here under the summer suns. Generations of unloved women have adored themselves by that glass for rustic lovers who pay no heed. Youth has come into this room in palest blue and left it in the gray sediments of despair, and through long nights, many girls have lain awake where that bed stands, pouring out waves of misery into the darkness. Gloria finally tumbled all her clothes and ungeons and Gloria is the out of it, declaring that she had come to live with Anthony and making the excuse that one of her screens was rotten and admitted bugs. So her room was abandoned to insensitive guests and they dressed and slept in her husband's chamber, which Gloria considered somehow good, as though Anthony's presence there had acted as exterminator of any uneasy shadows of the past that might have hovered about its walls. The distinction between good and bad, ordered early and summarily out of both their lives, had been reinstated in another form. Gloria insisted that anyone invited to the gray house must be good, which, in the case of a girl, meant that she must be either simple and reproachless or, if otherwise, must possess a certain solidity and strength. Always intensely skeptical of her sex, her judgments were now concerned with the question of whether women were or were not clean. By uncleanliness, she meant a variety of things, a lack of pride, a slackness in fiber and, most of all, the unmistakable aura of promiscuity. Women soil easily, she said, far more easily than men. Unless a girl's very young and brave, it's almost impossible for her to go downhill without a certain hysterical animality, the cutting dirty sort of animality. A man's different, and I suppose that's why one of the commonest characters of romance is a man going gallantly to the devil. She was disposed to like many men, preferably those who gave her frank homage and unfailing entertainment, but often, with a flash of insight, she told Anthony that some one of his friends was merely using him and consequently had best be left alone. Anthony customarily demurred, insisting that the accused was a good one, but he found that his judgment was more fallible than hers, memorably when, as had happened on several occasions, he was left with a succession of restaurant checks for which to render a solitary account. More from their fear of solitude than from any desire to go through the fuss and bother of entertaining, they filled the house with guests every weekend and off and on through the week. The weekend parties were much the same. When the three or four men invited had arrived, drinking was more or less in order, followed by a hilarious dinner and a ride to the Cradle Beach Country Club, which they had joined because it was inexpensive, lively if not fashionable, and almost a necessity for such occasions as these. Moreover, it was of no great moment what one did there, and so long as the patch party were reasonably inaudible, it mattered little whether or not the social dictators of Cradle Beach saw the gay Gloria and biving cocktails in the supper room at frequent intervals during the evening. Saturday ended in a glamorous confusion, it proving often necessary to assist a muddled guest to bed. Sunday brought the New York Papers and a quiet morning of recuperating on the porch, and Sunday afternoon meant goodbye to the one or two guests who must return to the city and a great revival of drinking among the one or two who remained until the next day, concluding in a convivial if not hilarious evening. The faithful Tana, pedagogue by nature, and man of all work by profession, had returned with them. Among their more frequent guests, a tradition had sprung up about him. Mori Noble remarked one afternoon that his real name was Tenenbaum and that he was a German agent kept in this country to disseminate Teutonic propaganda through Westchester County. And after that, mysterious letters began to arrive from Philadelphia addressed to the bewildered Oriental as Lieutenant Emil Tenenbaum, containing a few cryptic messages signed General Staff and adorned with an atmospheric double column of facetious Japanese. Anthony always handed them to Tana without a smile. Hours afterward, the recipient could be found puzzling over them in the kitchen and declaring earnestly that the perpendicular symbols were not Japanese nor anything resembling Japanese. Gloria had taken a strong dislike to their man ever since the day when, returning unexpectedly from the village, she had discovered him reclining on Anthony's bed, puzzling out a newspaper. It was the instinct of all servants to be fond of Anthony and to detest Gloria and Tana was no exception to the rule. But he was thoroughly afraid of her and made plain his aversion only in his moodier moments by subtly addressing Anthony with remarks intended for her ear. What Ms. Patts want dinner? He would say, looking at his master. Or else he would comment about the bitter selfishness of American peoples in such manner that there was no doubt who were the peoples referred to. But they dared not dismiss him. Such a step would have been abhorrent to their inertia. They endured Tana as they endured ill weather and sickness of the body and the estimable will of God as they endured all things, even themselves. End of book two, chapter two, part two of three.


It's LinkedIn Learning author Monica Wahee with today's data science makeover. Watch while Monica Wahee demonstrates how to add error bars to a bar plot using the GG Plot 2 package in R. Alright, the only point of this video is to show you how to add error bars to the bar plot I showed you how to make before. If you missed that, do not worry. Just look in the description to this video and you can watch the prequels. That way, you will better understand the total excitement going on in this video. But first, I want to remind you what I said in one of the videos I linked you to in the description, which is that R package GG Plot, well actually GG Plot 2, likes it when you format the data a certain way before you plot. So let's go look at I already read in this data frame. But let's run this plot data frame I made to look at it again, because I want to show you something. Okay, see these columns? Group is going to be the color of the bar. And that will be in the legend. Measure is going to be our x axis. Basically, those will be the labels of the bars on the x axis. And mean is the value being graph. But look, see that se is standard error. So you need these ingredients in your plot data set to be able to do the error bars, because remember, the error bars are made out of mean and se. And we will refer to these values in our plot code. So let's go back and look at that. Okay, if you watch the other videos, or if you're just a big GG plot fan already, you get what's going on here with this GG plot code. I saved a bunch of hexadecimal colors in a character vector string up here called cool underscore colors. Then I made this bar plot in GG Plot 2, that plotted the measure mean and group. You can see in the AES argument. And then I declare the geome underscore bar, coloring all of the bars black. I specify x and y axis labels, and then declare scale underscore fill underscore manual, and call up my cool underscore colors. This overwrites the black and uses a hexadecimal colors specified in the vector. Okay, that's exciting enough. But then look, this is what this video is all about, this geome underscore error bar line. So notice that the AES argument has a y min and a y max. This is where you specify your interval. As you can see, I just put one se as the error bar. See that y min equals mean minus se. And then y max equals mean plus se. I could have done y min equals mean minus two se or three se. You can actually put arithmetic in there. It's easy to understand this because I named the variables mean and se. But let's say I wanted a 95% confidence interval, I would have needed to cook up an ME, a margin of error, and then put that in my plot data. Or if I actually was good at math, maybe I'd have all the ingredients, the z score, the standard deviation. But actually, I wouldn't do that. Even if I was good at math, you know, in SAS, you want to just plot directly from your big data set. But in R, I think you should just prep cook your plot data sets with all the calculations done offline. So you can make sure they're right, and then just plot it. So if you wanted a 95% confidence interval, just calculate the ME offline, and then put it here and use this kind of code to specify the error bar, just replace se with ME. In fact, I might even just do the two se or the three se offline first. Okay, back to the code. So the width here just specifies the width of the whisker. You know, the horizontal line that goes across the error bar. Is that called a whisker? I can't remember. Okay, and then we need this position dodge, because the chart is not stacked. Okay, everyone ready? Let's highlight and run this plot. Amazing. I just have to say totally amazing. That light blue one is totally significant. Oh, I forgot. This is from a real paper. Here it is. Go read this paper. My friend wrote it. It's pretty good. I linked to it in the description. And my friend has good taste. His data are gorgeous. Thank you for watching this data science makeover with LinkedIn Learning author, Monica Wahee. Remember to check out Monica's data science courses on LinkedIn Learning. Click on the link in the description.


Sometimes the effects that humans have on populations are good especially when we do conservation actions and these have often been the places where we get to witness things called a trophic cascade or a cascading effect which is where you impact one part of the system and that has flow on to multiple parts of the system and even other systems that are connected to that and the classic example of a trophic cascade happened in Yellowstone National Park in the United States. Wolves, gray wolves went extinct in the park in the 1920s or 30s because humans got rid of them. We feared them, we thought they were ordained to us in our livestock so we got rid of them and this happens to lots of predators around the world. So in 1995 scientists put wolves back into the park knowing that the park needed that predator but what ended up happening was a rippling effect through the system. So the wolves they controlled populations of elk directly by killing the elk and eating them but also indirectly because having a predator makes prey items fearful. So even when they weren't hunting the elk the elk would stick to the forest they wouldn't come out in risky places like the open grasslands and therefore the elk ate less of some types of trees and that allowed trees like aspens, olders and willows to re-establish these important forest types and that had flow on effects. The willows and the olders on the riverbank stabilized the streams and provided habitats for beavers and the beavers have been bouncing back and the wolves killing and eating things provided carrion and this provided food for coyotes, ravens and other birds of prey. So one animal, one action the wolves ended up changing the entire system and the fundamental composition and makeup of it and those kind of cascades can happen whether we mean to in a conservation effect and whether we don't just because of human behaviors, trade and commercialization. Disturbance is a natural part of ecosystems. You need little changes and movement in order to make the system complex and like a mosaic. So around me here we're seeing that we have some open grasslands, some closed woodlands, some small shrubs coming up, acacias who have died and these little tiny pieces make the system diverse and beautiful but in the same way that systems have evolved to have disturbance, they also have a threshold at which they cannot handle it and the reason that human activities are bad and we're in this anthropogenic extinction is because humans are pushing the envelope of what natural systems can survive. So in Australia the main actions that are causing the extinction and collapse of ecosystems at the moment are climate change, changed fire regimes, introduced species, especially foxes and cats and rabbits and cantoes, introduced pathogens like kittred and overabundant grazes, whether these are introduced species like bison and pigs or even overabundant native macropods like kangaroos and also clearing and logging which are causing habitat loss. So all of these things are pushing the resilience of natural systems.  So in order to allow systems to recover we have to take a step back and make sure we're taking within the limit, living within the proverbial donut of what humanity needs but what ecosystems can sustain.


Okay because factoring just just so you know what factoring is a lot of people have a hard time understanding what factoring is right and Factoring is us taking something and breaking something down right if you're a kid How many of you when you were kids you took something and you broke it apart Just to see how it worked or what was in it what made it like even even Even toys right you would take the limbs apart or what not and then put it back together Take the limbs of this person over here of this soldier or this Character over here this doll over here and put it on the other one right you you open up radios I've gone through one my encyclopedia so I still remember radios right or jute boxes jute boxes who misses jute boxes Did you ever have a jute box man? Did you ever carry a? Boom box like this We had them okay, but you take things apart Right just to see what they're made from and that's what factoring is just imagine It doesn't have to be an equation in mouth. Why there could be anything right? This is what they do with Biology and chemistry right they have something here. They have something here right here's a here's B Right you break a down You break a down you break a down you break a down It is made up of all these things right B's made up of this This this This and this right hmm interesting. That's what a is made of that's what B is made of Right think of it each tool each to oh Each to and oh and each and each you got each each and oh makes up each tool Which is water right this could be on the same level. This could be a function. This could be a compound this could be people This could be genetic. They could anything right and then you decide to make something called C This happens in comic books a lot mad scientists do this right? Mad scientists come along and say wow. I Really like this trait. I really like this trait and I really like this trait. I'm gonna take these three and Make see What is C? Who knows what C is what are these guys if you combine these traits? Right and make up C. Does that mean what these three traits of A and B? The dominant traits or whatever the traits were that you're interested in Do they really make C powerful and are they able to work together? right Do they make what you thought they were gonna make or is this just? Junk right? Crittin All the gods says building muscles All right, really that's what this is all about. That's what factoring is For us we take functions. We break them down to smaller functions, right? f of x could be made made up of g of x Oops, let's put the arrow down property h of x and h of x could be k of x and m of x That's what they're made from well Analyze these functions individually and see if you can use them, right? It's cool stuff. That's what factoring is.  What have you done in your life that worked out well? Break it down. First of all, why did it work out? Well, was it just luck or Was it because of all the factors in play? It's cool.


My name is Fabian, I live in Berlin, I study history and work here at the Topography of Terror as a receptionist at the information desk and also just I know there is a day remembering the liberation of Auschwitz in January and there is also a day in August for the victims of Nazism and Stalinism, I know them, but I'm not sure if memorial days forced from above are helpful for strengthening remembrance, memory of what it is supposed to remember. I did an internship here at the Gedenkstettenreferat, which is an essential point for networking for the cause of a better communication of centers and sites of remembrance in Europe and also worldwide. In Germany, the Nazi era, the Third Reich, National Socialism, the 12 years are a very important topic starting at school. The first time I learned about the Holocaust was when I watched the documentary on television with my parents and then my mother explained to me what the Holocaust actually was, explained it to an eight year old child, which I was, and I was overwhelmed by what she said and even though she explained it in very easy language to me, from this day on it has been part of my memory I guess because I could not believe that human beings were able to do so.  You talk about National Socialism in every subject except for sciences probably, but it's treated in history of course, and in German, when you do religious, religion, which is also a subject, you always talk about anything that is connected with the Nazis. I remember also, that's a memory I can recall, I was even younger than eight, I was still going to kindergarten, I remember images in my head of Theresienstadt in Czech Republic. My grandparents all died when I was still very young, so when I was eight I didn't have any grandparents left so I couldn't ask questions myself anymore, but of course I asked my parents about my grandparents' role in that time. And also I got some letters that my grand-grandmother wrote when Theresienstadt was bombed, she lived there. So it's important for me to have these family-related sources, to have them, to study them, to think about that. I think there's a tendency for young people, people that are teenagers now to say, okay, we have talked about that a lot and we can move on, I think it's important for every generation to learn about the 20th century history again. Because otherwise it will be forgotten. We should watch what's happening starting with Europe, we should not banalize political events. For me it's really hard to draw comparisons, I don't think that's right, we should just take history, we should approach history scientifically and what's happening now is that's political. The best way to conserve the memory is to transport it via education. I think memorials, remembering the paths, are a good idea because even people that are not very well-informed, passed by, for example here at Topografia Terror, they come here, they enter, they read and see what is shown here in the permanent exhibition. No, I don't think there can be too many memorials. I mean, each memorial is for another cause, for another thing, so these are different topics, memorial addresses. These days are commemorated, but not by the common people, it's set up in a frame of rights, so that's what it is. Well, I think that national memorial days are more important than the European ones. In Germany, November 9th is far more known, important for remembrance than January 27th is. So I think that in Europe every nation has its own memorial days that are more important than these newer memorial days that try to have a universal European approach. I don't think that the European Union should create a great memorial for what happened in the last century. I think it's more important to have a decentralized structure with so many sites of remembrance we have in Europe. I think that official memory is always influenced by the current political situation by the current government. That's just how memory works. It is always a thing from now that our values, our intentions that make use of history and make it to memory. I think every European nation has its own national narratives that are still very present nowadays and there is no common European narrative found yet that could substitute these national narratives. We have a left party that remembers the day when Liebknecht and Luxembourg were shot. Every party has its own memory but the traditional German parties have a very European approach to memory. I think of course if you look at right-wing parties they have different memorial causes. I think if one can say that one is influenced by history it would probably be the time of the 1930s and 1940s because that is really history and what has happened after 1989 now is only becoming subject of history.


Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome here to the grand opening of the Skin House here in the Five Points District of Famously Hot Columbia, where you don't get more famously hot than a 4PM business opening on an August Friday. My name is Ryan Coleman. I'm the Economic Development Director, and it is my honor today to welcome our speakers and guest of honor to this event. First of all, we will have Councilwoman Dr. Aditi Bussells making her welcoming remarks on behalf of the City of Columbia. She will be followed by Meredith Covert, Assistant Director of the Five Points Association. And then finally, our guest of honor, Paul and Brooke Gillesi owners, or Julesi, I'm sorry, still working on that. I'm Southern, forgive me, owners of the Skin House. With that, I would like to turn it over to you, Dr. Bussells. Awesome, thank you, Ryan. Hello, everyone. I am Councilman Aditi Bussells. I am your at-large Councilman, and I have the honor of representing Five Points along with the rest of the city. But most importantly, today, I am also a client of Brooke and her other business, The Boutique. So to be here and to be able to support the opening of Skin House means so much to me. I've known of Brooke for many, many years, and I'm always attracted to the energy of people that are outspoken, have big ideas and dreams for our city, and aren't afraid to ruffle a couple feathers to get what they need. And I absolutely love that Brooke had this concept. She brought it to life, and here we are with a space that women, and I'm assuming men, because Paul gets facials too, I'm sure, can come and enjoy all of the great services and the ambiance with their loved ones and friends. And in terms of the grand scheme of things, I think businesses like Skin House really contribute to what city council has been working on, and that is improving the quality of life here in Columbia, having more things to do on the weekends and keeping young people here, and it's great to see so many young people here to support the business. So I wanna take a moment and say congratulations to both of you for your hard work, to your team for putting together such a beautiful event, and we're just really excited to welcome another business to Five Points, a neighborhood that is really flourishing with a combination of different things for people to do for all walks of life, and that's exactly what we had envisioned. So on behalf of the City of Columbia, congratulations to all of you, and I'm very excited to come visit the Skin House. Good afternoon, everybody. My name's Meredith Cover, and I'm the assistant director of the Five Points Association, and I started here just about three months ago in June, and through that time, I've already had an opportunity to welcome so many businesses to the neighborhood, and we feel so lucky to have you guys be a part of our neighborhood, and congratulations to you guys on a beautiful space and a beautiful entrance that is such a warm, welcoming spot for the Five Points neighborhood. So with that, on behalf of the Five Points Association, congratulations, and I will turn the video off. Welcome. Hello, everyone. Thank you all so much for coming. If you know me, you know I'm not keen on public speaking, but I'm gonna make this short and sweet because it's hot, and I'm pretty sure most of you haven't reapplied to your SPF today. I'm so thankful to be in Five Points. You know, we have a business two miles down the street, so it's not ideal to open up another one this close, but we had a vision for social interactive skincare, and Five Points is really a part of that. We just love the vibe. We love the new businesses coming into town, and we wanted to be on the front end of that, and we're so thankful to be here, and so thankful for all of you, and so thankful for our staff who stuck around because this has taken much longer than any of us anticipated it taking, so cheers to that, cheers to y'all. Paul, do you have anything to say? No, you nailed it. We were going back and forth on who was gonna speak all day, and she's not one with words on the mic, but I think you did amazing, so no, there's nothing else to say, so let's get out of this heat. We appreciate everyone being here, and let's get this ribbon cutting started. We got two girls here that are eager to cut some red tape here.