 Book 2, Chapter 5, Part 2 of This Side of Paradise. This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Book 2, Chapter 5, Second Part. Monsignor Amri kept thinking how Monsignor would have enjoyed his own funeral. It was magnificently Catholic and liturgical. Bishop O'Neill sang solemn high mass, and the Cardinal gave the final lab solutions. Thornton Hancock, Mrs. Lawrence, the British and Italian ambassadors, the papal delegate, and a host of friends and priests, were there, yet the inexorable sheers had cut through all these threads that Monsignor had gathered into his hands. To Amri it was a haunting grief to see him lying in his coffin, with closed hands upon his purple vestments. His face had not changed, and as he never knew he was dying it showed no pain or fear. It was Amri's dear old friend, his and the others, for the church was full of people with daft, staring faces, the most exalted seeming the most stricken. The Cardinal, like an archangel in cope and miter, sprinkled the holy water. The organ broke into sound. The choir began to sing the Requiem Eternum. All these people grieved because they had, to some extent, depended upon Monsignor. Their grief was more than sentiment for the crack in his voice, or a certain break in his walk, as Wells put it. These people had leaned on Monsignor's faith, his way of finding cheer, of making religion a thing of lights and shadows, making all light and shadow merely aspects of God. People felt safe when he was near. Of Amri's attempted sacrifice had been borne merely the full realization of his disillusion, but of Monsignor's funeral was borne the romantic elf who was to enter the labyrinth with him. He found something that he wanted, had always wanted, and always would want, not to be admired as he had feared, not to be loved as he had made himself believe, but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable. He remembered the sense of security he had found in Bern. Amri's opened up in one of its amazing bursts of radiance, and Amri suddenly and permanently rejected an old epigram that had been playing listlessly in his mind. Very few things matter and nothing matters very much. On the contrary, Amri felt an immense desire to give people a sense of security. The big man with goggles. On the day that Amri started on his walk to Princeton the sky was a colorless vault, cool, high and barren of the threat of rain. It was a gray day, that least fleshly of all weathers, a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity. The sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn. The day had put Amri in such a contemplative mood that he caused much annoyance to several motorists who were forced to slow up considerably or else run him down. So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he was scarcely surprised at that strange phenomenon, cordiality manifested within fifty miles of Manhattan, when a passing car slowed down beside him and a voice hailed him. He looked up and saw a magnificent locomobile in which that two middle-aged men, one of them small and anxious-looking, apparently an artificial growth on the other who was large and boggled and imposing. �Do you want a lift?� asked the apparently artificial growth, glancing from the corner of his eyes at the imposing man as if for some habitual silent corroboration. �You bet I do. Thanks.� The chauffeur swung open the door, and, climbing in, Amri settled himself in the middle of the back seat. He took in his companions curiously. The chief characteristic of the big man seemed to be a great confidence in himself, set off against a tremendous boredom with everything around him. That part of his face which protruded under the goggles was what is generally termed strong. Rolls of not undignified fat had collected near his chin. Somewhere above was a wide thin mouth and the rough model for a Roman nose, and below his shoulders collapsed without a struggle into the powerful bulk of his chest and belly. He was excellently and quietly dressed. Amri noticed that he was inclined to stare straight at the back of the chauffeur's head as if speculating steadily but hopelessly some baffling-hersuit problem. The smaller man was remarkable only for his complete submersion in the personality of the other. He was of that lower secretarial type, who at forty have engraved upon their business cards assistant to the president, and without a sigh consecrate the rest of their lives to second-hand mannerisms. �Going far?� asked the smaller man in a pleasant, disinterested way. Quite a stretch. �Hiking for exercise?� �No� reponded Amri succinctly. �I�m walking because I can�t afford to ride. �Oh!� Then again. �Are you looking for work?� �Because there�s lots of work� he continued rather testily. �All this talk of lack of work. The West is especially short of labor.� He expressed the West with a sweeping lateral gesture. Amri nodded politely. �Have you a trade?� �No�. Amri had no trade. �Clerk, eh?� �No�. Amri was not a clerk. �Whatever your line is� said the little man, seeming to agree wisely with something Amri had said. �Now is the time of opportunity and business openings�. He glanced again toward the big man as a lawyer grilling a witness glances involuntarily at the jury. Amri decided that he must say something and for the life of him could think of only one thing to say. �Of course I want a great lot of money�. The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. �That�s what everyone wants nowadays, but they don�t want to work for it.� �Have very natural, healthy desire. Almost all normal people want to be rich without great effort, except the financiers in problem-plays who want to crash their way through. Don�t you want easy money? �Of course not� said the secretary indignantly. �But� continued Amri, disregarding him, �being very poor at present I am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte.� Both men glanced at him curiously. �These bomb-throwers�. The little man ceased as words lurched pondrously from the big man�s chest. �If I thought you were a bomb-thrower, I�d run you over to the Newark jail. That�s what I think of socialists.� Amri laughed. �What are you?� asked the big man. �One of these parlor bolsheviks, one of these �idealists�. I must say I fail to see the difference. The idealist loaf around and write the stuff that stirs up the poor immigrants.� �Well� said Amri. �If being an idealist is both safe and lucrative, I might try it.� �What�s your difficulty? Lost your job? �Not exactly, but, well, call it that.� �What was it?�� �I�ll admit there�s money in it eventually. Talent doesn�t starve anymore. Even art gets enough to eat these days. Artists draw your magazine covers, write your advertisements, hash out ragtime for your theaters. By the great commercializing of printing you found a harmless, polite occupation for every genius who might have carved his own niche. But beware the artist who�s an intellectual also. The artist who doesn�t fit. The Rousseau, the Tolstoy, the Samuel Butler, the Amri Blaine. �Who�s he?� demanded the little man suspiciously. �Well� said Amri. �He�s an intellectual personage, not very well known at present.� The little man laughed his conscientious laugh and stopped rather suddenly as Amri�s burning eyes turned on him. �What are you laughing at?� �These intellectual people.� �Do you know what it means?� The little man�s eyes twitched nervously. �Why, it usually means� �It always means� �brainy� and �well educated� interrupted Amri. �It means having an active knowledge of the race�s experience.� Amri decided to be very rude. He turned to the big man. The young man, he indicated the secretary with his thumb, and said young man as one says bell-boy with no implication of youth, has the usual muddled connotation of all popular words. �You object to the fact that capital controls printing?� said the big man, fixing him with his goggles. �Yes, and I object to doing their mental work for them. It seemed to me that the root of all the business I saw around me consisted in overworking and underpaying a bunch of dubs who submitted to it. �Here now� said the big man. �You�ll have to admit that the laboring man is certainly highly paid. Five and six hour days. It�s ridiculous. You can�t buy an honest day�s work from a man in the trade�s unions.� �You�ve brought it on yourselves� insisted Amri. �You people never make concessions until they�re wrung out of you.� �What people?� �Your class, the class I belong to until recently, those who buy inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty, have become the moneyed class.� �Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he�d be any more willing to give it up?� �No, but what�s that got to do with it?� �The older man considered.� �No, I�ll admit it hasn�t. It rather sounds as if it had, though.� �In fact� continued Amri. �He�d be worse. The lower classes are narrower, less pleasant, and personally more selfish. Certainly more stupid. But all that has nothing to do with the question.� �Just exactly what is the question?� Here Amri had to pause to consider exactly what the question was. Amri coins the phrase. �When life gets hold of a brainy man of fair education� began Amri slowly. That is, when he marries he becomes, nine times out of ten, a conservative as far as existing social conditions are concerned. He may be unselfish, kind-hearted, even just in his own way, but his first job is to provide and to hold fast. His wife shoes him on, from ten thousand a year to twenty thousand a year, on and on in an enclosed treadmill that hasn�t any windows. He�s done. Life�s got him. He�s no help. He�s a spiritually married man. Amri paused and decided that it wasn�t such a bad phrase. �Some men� he continued, escaped the grip. Maybe their wives have no social ambitions. Maybe they�ve hit a sentence or two in a dangerous book that please them. Maybe they started on the treadmill as I did and were knocked off. Anyway, they�re the congressmen you can�t bribe. The presidents who aren�t politicians, the writers, speakers, scientists, who aren�t just popular grab-bags for a half-dozen women and children. �He�s the natural radical? �Yes,� said Amri. He may vary from the disillusioned critic like old Thornton Hancock all the way to Trotsky. Now this spiritually unmarried man hasn�t direct power, for unfortunately the spiritually married man, as a by-product of his money-chase, has garnered in the great newspaper, the popular magazine, the influential weekly, so that Mrs. Newspaper, Mrs. Magazine, Mrs. Weekly, can have a better limousine than those oil people across the street, or those cement people round the quarter. Why not? It makes wealthy men the keepers of the world�s intellectual conscience, and, of course, a man who has money under one set of social institutions quite naturally can�t risk his family�s happiness by letting the clamor for another appear in his newspaper. �But it appears,� said the big man. �Where?� in the discredited mediums, rotten cheap-papered weeklies. �All right, go on.� �Well, my first point is that, through a mixture of conditions of which the family is the first, there are these two sorts of brains. One sort takes human nature as it finds it, uses its timidity, its weakness, and its strength for its own ends. Opposed as the man who, being spiritually unmarried, continually seeks for new systems that will control or counteract human nature. His problem is harder. It is not life that�s complicated. It�s the struggle to guide and control life. That is his struggle. He is a part of progress. His spiritually married man is not. The big man produced three big cigars and proffered them on his huge palm. The little man took one. Amri shook his head and reached for a cigarette. �Go on talking� said the big man. �I�ve been wanting to hear one of you fellows.� Going faster. Modern life began Amri again. Changes no longer century by century, but year by year. Ten times faster than it ever has before. Populations doubling. Civilizations unified more closely with other civilizations. Economic interdependence. Racial questions. And we�re dawdling along. My idea is that we�ve got to go very much faster. He slightly emphasized the last words and the chauffeur unconsciously increased the speed of the car. Amri and the big man laughed. The little man laughed, too, after a pause. Every child, said Amri, should have an equal start. If his father can endow him with a good physique and his mother with some common sense in his early education, that should be his heritage. If the father can�t give him a good physique, if the mother is spent in chasing men the years in which she should have been preparing herself to educate her children, so much the worse for the child. He shouldn�t be artificially bolstered up with money, sent to these horrible tutoring schools, dragged through college. Every boy ought to have an equal start. �All right!� said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval nor objection. �Next I�d have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries. That�s been proven a failure. No, it merely failed. If we had government ownership we�d have the best analytical business minds in the government working for something besides themselves. We�d have McKays instead of Burleson�s. We�d have Morgan�s in the Treasury Department. We�d have Hills running interstate commerce. We�d have the best lawyers in the Senate. They wouldn�t give their best efforts for nothing. �Mekadu�? �No�� said Amri, shaking his head. �Money isn�t the only stimulus that brings out the best that�s in a man, even in America. �You said a while ago that it was.� It is right now, but if it were made illegal to have more than a certain amount the best men would all flock for the one other reward which attracts humanity. �Honor�� The big man made a sound that was very like �boo�. �That�s the silliest thing you�ve said yet. �No� it isn�t silly. It�s quite plausible. If you�d gone to college you�d have been struck by the fact that the men there would work twice as hard for any one of a hundred petty honors as those other men did who were earning their way through. �Kids, child�s play� scoffed his antagonist. Not by a darn sight, unless we�re all children. Did you ever see a grown man when he�s trying for a secret society, or a rising family whose name is up at some club? They�ll jump when they hear the sound of the word. The idea that to make a man work you�ve got to hold gold in front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom. We�ve done that for so long that we�ve forgotten there�s any other way. We�ve made a world where that�s necessary. �Let me tell you�� Emery became emphatic. If there were ten men insured against either wealth or starvation, and offered a green ribbon for five hours work a day, and a blue ribbon for ten hours work a day, nine out of ten of them would be trying for the blue ribbon. That competitive instinct only wants a badge. If the size of their house is the badge, they�ll sweat their heads off for that. If it�s only a blue ribbon, I damn near believe they�ll work just as hard. They have in other ages. I don�t agree with you. �I know it� said Emery, nodding sadly. It doesn�t matter any more, though. I think these people are going to come and take what they want pretty soon.� A fierce hiss came from the little man. �Machine guns! Ha! But you�ve taught them their use.� The big man shook his head. �In this country there are enough property owners not to permit that sort of thing.� Emery wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property owners. He decided to change the subject. But the big man was aroused. �When you talk of taking things away, you�re on dangerous ground.� How can they get it without taking it? For years people have been stalled off with promises. Socialism may not be progress, but the threat of the red flag is certainly the inspiring force of all reform. You�ve got to be sensational to get attention. �Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose.� �Quite possibly,� admitted Emery. �Of course it�s overflowing just as the French Revolution did, but I�ve no doubt that it�s really a great experiment and well worthwhile. �Don�t you believe in moderation?� You won�t listen to the moderates and it�s almost too late. The truth is that the public has done one of those startling and amazing things that they do about once in a hundred years. They�ve seized an idea. What is it? That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs are essentially the same. The little man gets his. �If you took all the money in the world,� said the little man with much profundity, �and divided it up in equal—oh, shut up!� said Emery briskly, �and paying no attention to the little man�s enraged stare, he went on with his argument. �The human stomach� he began, but the big man interrupted rather impatiently. �I�m letting you talk, you know,� he said. �But please avoid stomachs. I�ve been feeling mine all day. Anyway, I don�t agree with one half you�ve said. Government ownership is the basis of your whole argument, and it�s invariably a beehive of corruption. Men won�t work for blue ribbons. That�s all rot.� When he ceased, the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as if resolved this time to have his say out. �There are certain things which are human nature,� he asserted with an owl-like look. �Which always have been and always will be, which can�t be changed.� Emery looked from the small man to the big man helplessly. �Listen to that. That�s what makes me discouraged with progress. Listen to that. I can name offhand over one hundred natural phenomena that have been changed by the will of man, a hundred instincts of man that have been wiped out or are now held in check by civilization. What this man here just said has been, for thousands of years, the last refuge of the associated mutton heads of the world. It negates the efforts of every scientist, statesman, moralist, reformer, doctor, and philosopher that ever gave his life to humanity�s service. It�s a flat impeachment of all that�s worthwhile and human nature. Every person over twenty-five years old who makes that statement in cold blood ought to be deprived of the franchise.� The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage. Emery continued, addressing his remarks to the big man. �These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who think they think, every question that comes up, you�ll find his type in the usual ghastly muddle. One minute it�s the brutality and inhumanity of these Prussians. The next it�s �we ought to exterminate the whole German people.� They always believe that things are in a bad way now, but they haven�t any faith in these idealists. One minute they call Wilson just a dreamer, not practical. A year later they rail at him for making his dreams realities. They haven�t clear logical ideas on one single subject, except a sturdy, stale opposition to all change. They don�t think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they don�t see that if they don�t pay the uneducated people, their children are going to be uneducated too, and we�re going round and round in a circle. That is the great middle class.� The big man with a broad grid on his face leaned over and smiled at the little man. You�re catching it pretty heavy, Garvin. How do you feel? The little man made an attempt to smile and act as if the whole matter were so ridiculous as to be beneath notice, but Amri was not through. The theory that people are fit to govern themselves rests on this man. If he can be educated to think clearly, concisely, and logically, freed of his habit of taking refuge in platitudes, and prejudices, and sentimentalisms, then I�m a militant socialist. If he can�t, then I don�t think it matters much what happens to man or his systems now or hereafter. �I am both interested and amused,� said the big man. �You are very young.� Which may only mean that I have neither been corrupted nor made timid by a contemporary sense. I possess the most valuable experience, the experience of the race, for in spite of going to college I�ve managed to pick up a good education. You talk glibly. �It�s not all rubbish,� cried Amri passionately. �This is the first time in my life I�ve argued socialism. It�s the only panacea I know. I�m restless. My whole generation is restless. I�m sick of a system where the richest man gets the most beautiful girl if he wants her, where the artist without an income has to sell his talents to a button-manufacturer. Even if I had no talents, I�d not be content to work ten years, condemned either to celibacy or a furtive indulgence, to give some man�s son an automobile. �But if you�re not sure, that doesn�t matter,� exclaimed Amri. �My position couldn�t be worse. A social revolution might land me on top. Of course I�m selfish. It seems to me I�ve been a fish out of water in too many outworn systems. I was probably one of the two dozen men in my class at college who got a decent education. Still they�d let any well-tutored flathead play football, and I was ineligible, because some silly old men thought we should all profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed business. I�m in love with change, and I�ve killed my conscience. So you�ll go along crying that we must go faster. �That, at least, is true,� Amri insisted. �Reform won�t catch up to the needs of civilization unless it�s made to. A laissez faire policy is like spoiling a child by saying he�ll turn out all right in the end. He will if he�s made to. �But you don�t believe all this socialist patter you talk. �I don�t know. Until I talk to you I hadn�t thought seriously about it. I wasn�t sure half what I said. �You puzzle me,� said the big man. �But you�re all alike,� they say Bernard Shaw, in spite of his doctrines, is the most exacting of all dramatists about his royalties, to the last farthing. �Well� said Amri. �I simply state that I�m a product of a versatile mind in a restless generation. With every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals. Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all blind atoms and a world as limited as a stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against tradition. Try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones. I�ve thought I was right about life at various times, but faith is difficult. One thing I know, if living isn�t a seeking for the grail, it may be a damned amusing game. For a minute neither spoke, and then the big man asked, �What was your university?� Princeton. The big man became suddenly interested, the expression of his goggles altered slightly. �I sent my son to Princeton. Did you?� Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Farambay. He was killed last year in France. �I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends.� �He was, uh, quite a fine boy. We were very close.� Amri began to perceive a resemblance between the father and the dead son, and he told himself that there had been all along a sense of familiarity. Jesse Farambay, the man who in college had borne off the crown that he had aspired to. It was all so far away. What little boys they had been working for blue ribbons. The car slowed up at the entrance to a greatest state, ringed around by a huge hedge in a tall iron fence. �Won�t you come in for lunch?� Amri shook his head. �Thank you, Mr. Farambay, but I�ve got to get on.� The big man held out his hand. Amri saw that the fact that he had known Jesse more than outweighed any disfavor he had created by his opinions. What ghosts were people with which to work? Even the little man insisted on shaking hands. �Good-bye!� shouted Mr. Farambay, as the car turned the corner and started up the drive. �Good luck to you, and bad luck to your theories.� �Same to you, sir!� cried Amri, smiling and waving his hand. Out of the fire, out of the little room. Eight hours from Princeton Amri sat down by the Jersey Roadside and looked at the frost-bitten country. Nature is a rather coarse phenomenon composed largely of flowers that, when closely inspected, appeared moth-eaten and have ants that endlessly traverse blades of grass, was always disillusioning. Nature represented by skies and waters and far horizons was more likeable. Frost and the promise of winter thrilled him now, made him think of a wild battle between St. Regis and Groton ages ago, seven years ago, and of an autumn day in France twelve months before when he had lain in tall grass his platoon flattened down close around him, waiting to tap the shoulders of a Lewis Gunner. He saw the two pictures together with somewhat the same primitive exaltation. Two games he had played, differing in quality of a serbity, linked in a way that differed them from Rosalind or the subject of labyrinths which were, after all, the business of life. I am selfish, he thought. This is not a quality that will change when I see human suffering or lose my parents or help others. This selfishness is not only part of me, it is the most living part. It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that selfishness that I can bring poise and balance into my life. There is no virtue of unselfishness that I cannot use. I can make sacrifices, be charitable, give to a friend, endure for a friend, lay down my life for a friend. All because these things may be the best possible expression of myself, yet I have not one drop of the milk of human kindness. The problem of evil had solidified for Amory into the problem of sex. He was beginning to identify evil with the strong phallic worship in Brooke and the early Wells. Inseparably linked with evil was beauty. Beauty, still a constant rising tumult, soft in Eleanor's voice, in an old song at night, rioting deliriously through life like superimposed waterfalls, half rhythm, half darkness. Amory knew that every time he had reached toward it longingly it had leered out at him with the grotesque face of evil. Beauty of great art, beauty of all joy, most of all the beauty of women. After all, it had too many associations with license and indulgence. Weak things were often beautiful, weak things were never good, and in this new loneliness of his that had been selected for what greatness he might achieve, beauty must be relative or, itself a harmony, it would make only a discord. In a sense this gradual renunciation of beauty was the second step after his disillusion had been made complete. He felt that he was leaving behind him his chance of being a certain type of artist. It seemed so much more important to be a certain sort of man. His mind turned a corner suddenly and he found himself thinking of the Catholic Church. The idea was strong in him that there was a certain intrinsic lack in those to whom Orthodox religion was necessary, and religion to Amory meant the Church of Rome. Quite conceivably it was an empty ritual but it was seemingly the only assimilative, traditionary bulwark against the decay of morals. Until the great mobs could be educated into a moral sense, some one must cry, Thou shalt not! Yet any acceptance was for the present impossible. He wanted time and the absence of ulterior pressure. He wanted to keep the tree without ornaments. Realize fully the direction and momentum of this new start. The afternoon waned from the purging good of three o'clock to the golden beauty of four. Afterward he walked through the dull ache of a setting sun when even the clouds seemed bleeding and at twilight he came to a graveyard. There was a dusky, dreamy smell of flowers and the ghost of a new moon in the sky and shadows everywhere. On an impulse he considered trying to open the door of a rusty iron vault built into the side of a hill, a vault washed clean and covered with late blooming, weeping, watery blue flowers that might have grown from dead eyes, sticky to the touch with a sickening odor. Amory wanted to feel William Dayfield, 1864. He wondered that graves ever made people consider life in vain. Somehow he could find nothing hopeless in having lived. All the broken columns and clasped hands and doves and angels meant romances. He fancied that in a hundred years he would like having young people speculate as to whether his eyes were brown or blue, and he hoped quite passionately that his grave would have about it an air of many, many years ago. It seemed strange that out of a row of Union soldiers two or three made him think of dead loves and dead lovers when they were exactly like the rest, even to the yellowish moss. Long after midnight the towers and spires of Princeton were visible, with here and there a late-burning light, and suddenly out of the clear darkness the sound of bells. As an endless dream it went on, the spirit of the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the muddled, unchastened world still fed romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new generation shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a reverie of long days and nights. Destined finally to go out into that dirty gray turmoil to follow love and pride, a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success, grown up to find all God's dead, all wars fought, all faiths and men shaken. Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself. Art, politics, religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was safe now, free from all hysteria. He could accept what was acceptable, roam, grow, rebel, sleep deep through many nights. There was no God in his heart, he knew. His ideas were still in riot. There was ever the pain of memory, the regret for his lost youth. Yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility, and a love of life, the faint stirrings of old ambitions and unrealized dreams. But, oh Rosalind, Rosalind, it's all a poor substitute at best, he said sadly. And he could not tell why the struggle was worthwhile, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed. He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. I know myself, he cried. But that is all, end of chapter and of book. Thank you for listening.