No.
AMORY: Don’t you want to kiss me?
ROSALIND: Tonight I want you to love me calmly and coolly.
AMORY: The beginning of the end.
ROSALIND: (With a burst of insight) Amory, you’re young. I’m young. People excuse us now for our poses and vanities, for treating people like Sancho and yet getting away with it. They excuse us now. But you’ve got a lot of knocks coming to you—
AMORY: And you’re afraid to take them with me.
ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere—you’ll say Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh—but listen:
“For this is wisdom—to love and live,
To take what fate or the gods may give,
To ask no question, to make no prayer,
To kiss the lips and caress the hair,
Speed passion’s ebb as we greet its flow,
To have and to hold, and, in time—let go.”
AMORY: But we haven’t had.
ROSALIND: Amory, I’m yours—you know it. There have been times in the last month I’d have been completely yours if you’d said so. But I can’t marry you and ruin both our lives.
AMORY: We’ve got to take our chance for happiness.
ROSALIND: Dawson says I’d learn to love him.
(AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life seems suddenly gone out of him.)
ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can’t do with you, and I can’t imagine life without you.
AMORY: Rosalind, we’re on each other’s nerves. It’s just that we’re both high-strung, and this week—
(His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his face in her hands, kisses him.)
ROSALIND: I can’t, Amory. I can’t be shut away from the trees and flowers, cooped up in a little flat, waiting for you. You’d hate me in a narrow atmosphere. I’d make you hate me.
(Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.)
AMORY: Rosalind—
ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go—Don’t make it harder! I can’t stand it—
AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what you’re saying? Do you mean forever?
(There is a difference somehow in the quality of their suffering.)
ROSALIND: Can’t you see—
AMORY: I’m afraid I can’t if you love me. You’re afraid of taking two years’ knocks with me.
ROSALIND: I wouldn’t be the Rosalind you love.
AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can’t give you up! I can’t, that’s all! I’ve got to have you!
ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You’re being a baby now.
AMORY: (Wildly) I don’t care! You’re spoiling our lives!
ROSALIND: I’m doing the wise thing, the only thing.
AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder?
ROSALIND: Oh, don’t ask me. You know I’m old in some ways—in others—well, I’m just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness—and I dread responsibility. I don’t want to think about pots and kitchens and brooms. I want to worry whether my legs will get slick and brown when I swim in the summer.
AMORY: And you love me.
ROSALIND: That’s just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. We can’t have any more scenes like this.
(She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their eyes blind again with tears.)
AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don’t! Keep it, please—oh, don’t break my heart!
(She presses the ring softly into his hand.)
ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You’d better go.
AMORY: Good-by—
(She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite sadness.)
ROSALIND: Don’t ever forget me, Amory—
AMORY: Good-by—
(He goes to the door, fumbles for the knob, finds it—she sees him throw back his head—and he is gone. Gone—she half starts from the lounge and then sinks forward on her face into the pillows.)
ROSALIND: Oh, God, I want to die! (After a moment she rises and with her eyes closed feels her way to the door. Then she turns and looks once more at the room. Here they had sat and dreamed: that tray she had so often filled with matches for him; that shade that they had discreetly lowered one long Sunday afternoon. Misty-eyed she stands and remembers; she speaks aloud.) Oh, Amory, what have I done to you?
(And deep under the aching sadness that will pass in time, Rosalind feels that she has lost something, she knows not what, she knows not why.)
Chapter II: Experiments in Convalescence
The Knickerbocker Bar, beamed upon by Maxfield Parrish’s jovial, colorful “Old King Cole,” was well crowded. Amory stopped in the entrance and looked at his wrist-watch; he wanted particularly to know the time, for something in his mind that catalogued and classified liked to chip things off cleanly. Later it would satisfy him in a vague way to be able to think “that thing ended at exactly twenty minutes after eight on Thursday, June 10, 1919.” This was allowing for the walk from her house—a walk concerning which he had afterward not the faintest recollection.
He was in rather grotesque condition: two days of worry and nervousness, of sleepless nights, of untouched meals, culminating in the emotional crisis and Rosalind’s abrupt decision—the strain of it had drugged the foreground of his mind into a merciful coma. As he fumbled clumsily with the olives at the free-lunch table, a man approached and spoke to him, and the olives dropped from his nervous hands.
“Well, Amory…”
It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the name.
“Hello, old boy—” he heard himself saying.
“Name’s Jim Wilson—you’ve forgotten.”
