Main  Contacts  
Table of contents
AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE
SPIRES AND GARGOYLES
THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS
NARCISSUS OFF DUTY
THE DEBUTANTE
EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE
YOUNG IRONY
THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE
THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE

 

"Rotten, rotten old world," broke out Eleanor suddenly, "and the 

wretchedest thing of all is me--oh, _why_ am I a girl? Why am I not a 

stupid--? Look at you; you're stupider than I am, not much, but some, 

and you can lope about and get bored and then lope somewhere else, 

and you can play around with girls without being involved in meshes of 

sentiment, and you can do anything and be justified--and here am I with 

the brains to do everything, yet tied to the sinking ship of future 

matrimony. If I were born a hundred years from now, well and good, but 

now what's in store for me--I have to marry, that goes without saying. 

Who? I'm too bright for most men, and yet I have to descend to their 

level and let them patronize my intellect in order to get their 

attention. Every year that I don't marry I've got less chance for a 

first-class man. At the best I can have my choice from one or two cities 

and, of course, I have to marry into a dinner-coat. 

 

"Listen," she leaned close again, "I like clever men and good-looking 

men, and, of course, no one cares more for personality than I do. Oh, 

just one person in fifty has any glimmer of what sex is. I'm hipped on 

Freud and all that, but it's rotten that every bit of _real_ love in 

the world is ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of 

jealousy." She finished as suddenly as she began. 

 

"Of course, you're right," Amory agreed. "It's a rather unpleasant 

overpowering force that's part of the machinery under everything. It's 

like an actor that lets you see his mechanics! Wait a minute till I 

think this out...." 

 

He paused and tried to get a metaphor. They had turned the cliff and 

were riding along the road about fifty feet to the left. 

 

"You see every one's got to have some cloak to throw around it. The 

mediocre intellects, Plato's second class, use the remnants of romantic 

chivalry diluted with Victorian sentiment--and we who consider ourselves 

the intellectuals cover it up by pretending that it's another side of 

us, has nothing to do with our shining brains; we pretend that the fact 


Page 14 from 18:  Back   1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   13  [14]  15   16   17   18   Forward