 Part one of Bernice Bob's Her Hair. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden. Bernice Bob's Her Hair by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Part one. After dark on Saturday night, one could stand on the first tee of the golf course and see the country club windows as the yellow expands over a very black and wavy ocean. The waves of this ocean, so to speak, were the heads of many curious caddies, a few of the more ingenious chauffeurs, the golf professional's deaf sister, and there were usually several stray, diffident waves who might have rolled inside had they so desired. This was the gallery. The balcony was inside. It consisted of the circle of wicker chairs that lined the wall of the combination clubroom and ballroom. At these Saturday night dances it was largely feminine, a great babble of middle-aged ladies with sharp eyes and icy hearts behind lornettes and large bosoms. The main function of the balcony was critical. It occasionally showed grudging admiration, but never approval, for it is well known among ladies over thirty-five that when the younger set dance in the summertime it is with the very worst intentions in the world. And if they are not bombarded with stony eyes stray couples will dance weird barbaric interludes in the corners and the more popular, more dangerous girls will sometimes be kissed in the parked limousines of unsuspecting dowagers. But after all this critical circle is not close enough to the stage to see the actor's faces and catch the subtler by-play. It can only frown and lean, ask questions and make satisfactory deductions from its set of postulates, such as the one which states that every young man with a large income leads the life of a hunted partridge. It never really appreciates the drama of the shifting semi-cruel world of adolescence. No, boxes, orchestra circle, principles and chorus are represented by the medley of faces and voices that sway to the plaintive African rhythm of Dyer's dance orchestra. From sixteen-year-old Otis Ormond who has two more years at Hill School to G. Reese Stoddard over whose bureau at home hangs a Harvard law diploma. From little Madeleine Hogue whose hair still feels strange and uncomfortable on top of her head to Bessie McCrae who has been the life of the party a little too long, more than ten years. The medley is not only the center of the stage but contains the only people capable of getting an unobstructed view of it. With a flourish and a bang the music stops. The couples exchange artificial, effortless smiles, facetiously repeat la-di-da-da-dum-dum, and then the clatter of young feminine voices soars over the burst of clapping. A few disappointed stags caught in mid-floor as they had been about to cut in subsided listlessly back to the walls because this was not like the riotous Christmas dances. These summer hops were considered just pleasantly warm and exciting where even the younger marrieds rose and performed ancient waltzes and terrifying foxtrot to the tolerant amusement of their younger brothers and sisters. Warren McIntyre who casually attended Yale, being one of the unfortunate stags, felt in his dinner-coat pocket for a cigarette and strolled out onto the wide, semi-dark veranda where couples were scattered at tables filling the lantern-hung night with vague words and hazy laughter. He nodded here and there at the less absorbed and as he passed each couple some half-forgotten fragment of a story played in his mind, for it was not a large city and everyone was who's who to everyone else's past. There, for example, were Jim Strain and Ethel DeMarist who had been privately engaged for three years. Everyone knew that as soon as Jim managed to hold a job for more than two months, she would marry him. Yet how bored they both looked and how wearily Ethel regarded Jim sometimes, as if she wondered why she had trained the vines of her affection on such a wind-shaken poplar. Warren was nineteen and rather pitying with those of his friends who hadn't gone east to college. But like most boys he bragged tremendously about the girls of his city when he was away from it. There was Genevieve Ormond who regularly made the rounds of dances, house parties and football games at Princeton, Yale, Williams and Cornell. There was Black-eyed Roberta Dillon who was quite as famous to her own generation as Hiram Johnson or Ty Cobb. And of course there was Marjorie Harvey who besides having a fairy-like face and a dazzling bewildering tongue was already justly celebrated for having turned five cartwheels in succession during the last pump and slipper dance at New Haven. Warren, who had grown up across the street from Marjorie, had long been crazy about her. Sometimes she seemed to reciprocate his feeling with a faint gratitude, but she had tried him by her infallible test and informed him gravely that she did not love him. Her test was that when she was away from him she forgot him and had affairs with other boys. Warren found this discouraging, especially as Marjorie had been making little trips all summer and for the first two or three days after each arrival home he saw great heaps of mail on the Harvey's Hall table addressed to her in various masculine handwritings. To make matters worse, all during the month of August she had been visited by her cousin Bernice from Eau Claire and it seemed impossible to see her alone. It was always necessary to hunt round and find someone to take care of Bernice. As August waned, this was becoming more and more difficult. Much as Warren worshipped Marjorie, he had to admit that cousin Bernice was sort of dopless. She was pretty with dark hair and high color, but she was no fun on a party. Every Saturday night he danced a long, arduous duty dance with her to please Marjorie, but he had never been anything but bored in her company. Warren, a soft voice at his elbow, broke in upon his thoughts and he turned to see Marjorie flushed and radiant as usual. She laid a hand on his shoulder and a glow settled almost imperceptibly over him. Warren, she whispered, do something for me, dance with Bernice. She's been stuck with little Otis Ormond for almost an hour. Warren's glow faded. Quite sure, he answered half-heartedly. You don't mind, do you? I'll see that you don't get stuck. It's all right. Marjorie smiled. That smile was thanks enough. You're an angel and I'm obliged loads. With a sigh the angel glanced round the veranda, but Bernice and Otis were not in sight. He wandered back inside and there in front of the women's dressing room and found Otis in the center of a group of young men who were convulsed with laughter. Otis was brandishing a piece of timber he had picked up and discoursing volubly. She's gone in to fix her hair, he announced wildly. I'm waiting to dance another hour with her. Their laughter was renewed. Why don't some of you cut in? cried Otis resentfully. She likes more variety. Why, Otis suggested a friend. You've just barely got used to her. Why, the two-by-four, Otis, inquired Warren, smiling. The two-by-four? Oh, this. This is a club. When she comes out, I'll hit her on the head and knock her in again. Warren collapsed on a settee and howled with glee. Never mind, Otis, he articulated finally. I'm relieving you this time. Otis simulated a sudden fainting attack and handed the stick to Warren. If you need it, old man, he said hoarsely. No matter how beautiful or brilliant a girl may be, the reputation of not being frequently cut in on makes her position at a dance unfortunate. Perhaps boys prefer her company to that of the butterflies with whom they dance a dozen times an evening. But youth in this jazz-nourished generation is temperamentally restless, and the idea of foxtrotting more than one full foxtrot with the same girl is distasteful, not to say odious. When it comes to several dances in the intermissions between, she can be quite sure that a young man, once relieved, will never tread on her wayward toes again. Warren danced the next full dance with Bernice, and finally, thankful for the intermission, he led her to a table on the veranda. There was a moment's silence while she did unimpressive things with her fan. It's hotter here than in Eau Claire, she said. Warren stifled a sigh and nodded. It might be for all he knew or cared. He wondered idly whether she was a poor conversationalist because she got no attention, or got no attention because she was a poor conversationalist. You going to be here much longer? He asked, and then turned rather red. She might suspect his reasons for asking. Another week, she answered, and stared at him as if to lunge at his next remark when it left his lips. Warren fidgeted. Then, with a sudden charitable impulse, he decided to try part of his line on her. He turned and looked at her eyes. You've got an awfully kissable mouth. He began quietly. This was a remark that he sometimes made to girls at college proms when they were talking in just such half-dark as this. Bernice distinctly jumped. She turned an ungraceful red and became clumsy with her fan. No one had ever made such a remark to her before. Fresh! The word had slipped out before she realized it, and she bit her lip. Too late, she decided to be amused and offered him a flustered smile. Warren was annoyed, though not accustomed to have that remark taken seriously. Still, it usually provoked a laugh or a paragraph of sentimental banter. And he hated to be called fresh except in a joking way. His charitable impulse died, and he switched the topic. Jim Strain and Ethel DeMarst, sitting out as usual, he commented. This was more in Bernice's line, but a faint regret mingled with her relief as the subject changed. Men did not talk to her about kissable mouths, but she knew that they talked in some such way to other girls. Oh yes, she said, and laughed. I hear they've been mooning round for years without a red penny. Isn't it silly? Warren's disgust increased. Jim Strain was a close friend of his brothers, and anyway he considered it bad form to sneer at people for not having money. But Bernice had had no intention of sneering. She was merely nervous. CHAPTER II When Marjorie and Bernice reached home at half-after midnight they said good night at the top of the stairs. Though cousins they were not intimates. As a matter of fact, Marjorie had no female intimates. She considered girls stupid. Bernice, on the contrary, all through this parent-arranged visit, had rather long to exchange those confidences flavored with giggles and tears that she considered an indispensable factor in all feminine intercourse. But in this respect she found Marjorie rather cold. Felt somehow the same difficulty in talking to her that she had in talking to men. Marjorie never giggled, was never frightened, seldom embarrassed, and in fact had very few of the qualities which Bernice considered appropriately and blessedly feminine. As Bernice busied herself with toothbrush and paste this night, she wondered for the hundredth time why she never had any attention when she was away from home. That her family were the wealthiest in Eau Claire, that her mother entertained tremendously, gave little dinners for her daughter before all dances, and bought her a car of her own to drive round in, never occurred to her as factors in her hometown social success. Like most girls she had been brought up on the warm milk prepared by Annie Fellows-Johnston, and on novels in which the female was beloved because of certain mysterious womanly qualities, always mentioned but never displayed. Bernice felt a vague pain that she was not at present engaged in being popular. She did not know that had it not been for Marjorie's campaigning she would have danced the entire evening with one man. But she knew that even in Eau Claire other girls with less position and less polkretude were given a much bigger rush. She attributed this to something subtly unscrupulous in those girls. It had never worried her, and if it had her mother would have assured her that the other girls cheapened themselves, and that men really respected girls like Bernice. She turned out the light in her bathroom, and on an impulse decided to go in and chat for a moment with her Aunt Josephine, whose light was still on. Her soft slippers bore her noiselessly down the carpeted hall, but hearing voices inside she stopped near the partly open door. Then she caught her own name, and without any definite intention of eavesdropping lingered, and the thread of the conversation going on inside pierced her consciousness sharply as if it had been drawn through with a needle. She's absolutely hopeless. It was Marjorie's voice. Oh, I know what you're going to say. So many people have told you how pretty and sweet she is, and how she can cook. What of it? She has a bum time. Men don't like her. What's a little cheap popularity? Mrs. Harvey sounded annoyed. It's everything when you're 18, said Marjorie emphatically. I've done my best. I've been polite, and I've made men dance with her, but they just won't stand being bored. When I think of that gorgeous coloring wasted on such a nanny, and think what Martha Carey could do with it. Oh! There's no courtesy these days. Mrs. Harvey's voice implied that modern situations were too much for her. When she was a girl, all young ladies who belonged to nice families had glorious times. Well, said Marjorie, no girl can permanently bolster up a lame duck visitor, because these days it's every girl for herself. I've even tried to drop her hints about clothes and things, and she's been furious, giving me the funniest looks. She's sensitive enough to know she's not getting away with much. But I'll bet she consoles herself by thinking that she's very virtuous, and that I'm too gay and fickle and will come to a bad end. All unpopular girls think that way. Sour grapes. Sarah Hopkins refers to Genevieve and Roberta and me as gardenia girls. I'll bet she'd give ten years of her life and her European education to be a gardenia girl, and have three or four men in love with her, and be cut in on every few feet at dances. It seems to me, interrupted Mrs. Harvey, rather wearily, that you ought to be able to do something for Bernice. I know she's not very vivacious. Marjorie groaned. Vivacious? Good grief. I've never heard her say anything to a boy, except that it's hot, or the floor's crowded, or that she's going to school in New York next year. Sometimes she asks them what kind of car they have, and tells them the kind she has. Thrilling. There was a short silence, and then Mrs. Harvey took up her refrain. All I know was that other girls not half so sweet and attractive get partners. Martha Carey, for instance, is stout and loud, and her mother is distinctly common. Roberta Dillon is so thin this year that she looks as though Arizona were the place for her. She's dancing herself to death. But mother objected Marjorie impatiently. Martha is cheerful and awfully witty and an awfully slick girl, and Roberta's a marvelous dancer. She's been popular for ages. Mrs. Harvey yawned. I think it's that crazy Indian blood in Bernice, continued Marjorie. Maybe she's a reversion to type. Indian women all just sat round and never said anything. Go to bed, you silly child, laughed Mrs. Harvey. I wouldn't have told you that if I thought you were going to remember it. And I think most of your ideas are perfectly idiotic, she finished sleepily. There was another silence while Marjorie considered whether or not convincing her mother was worth the trouble. People over forty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything. At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look. At forty-five they are caves in which we hide. Having decided this Marjorie said good night. When she came out into the hall it was quite empty. Chapter three. While Marjorie was breakfasting late next day, Bernice came into the room with a rather formal good morning. Sat down opposite, stared intently over, and slightly moistened her lips. What's on your mind? inquired Marjorie, rather puzzled. Bernice paused before she threw her hand grenade. I heard what you said about me to your mother last night. Marjorie was startled, but she showed only a faintly heightened color, and her voice was quite even when she spoke. Where were you? In the hall. I didn't mean to listen at first. After an involuntary look of contempt Marjorie dropped her eyes and became very interested in balancing a stray cornflake on her finger. I guess I'd better go back to Eau Claire if I'm such a nuisance. Bernice's lower lip was trembling violently and she continued on a wavering note. I've tried to be nice and I've been first neglected and then insulted. No one ever visited me and got such treatment. Marjorie was silent. But I'm in the way I see. I'm a drag on you. Your friends don't like me. She paused and then remembered another one of her grievances. Of course I was furious last week when you tried to hint to me that that dress was unbecoming. Don't you think I know how to dress myself? No, murmured Marjorie less than half aloud. What? I didn't hint anything, said Marjorie succinctly. I said, as I remember, that it was better to wear a becoming dress three times straight than to alternate it with two frights. Do you think that was a very nice thing to say? I wasn't trying to be nice. Then after a pause. When do you want to go? Bernice drew in her breath sharply. Oh, it was a little half cry. Marjorie looked up in surprise. Didn't you say you were going? Yes, but—oh, you were only bluffing. They stared at each other across the breakfast table for a moment. Misty waves were passing before Bernice's eyes, while Marjorie's face wore that rather hard expression that she used when slightly intoxicated undergraduates were making love to her. So you were bluffing, she repeated, as if it were what she might have expected. Bernice admitted it by bursting into tears. Marjorie's eyes showed boredom. You're my cousin, sobbed Bernice. I'm visiting you. I was to stay a month, and if I go home my mother will know and she'll wonder— Marjorie waited until the shower of broken words collapsed into little sniffles. I'll give you my month's allowance, she said coldly, and you can spend this last week anywhere you want. There's a very nice hotel. Bernice's sobs rose to a flute note, and rising of a sudden she fled from the room. An hour later, while Marjorie was in the library, absorbed in composing one of those noncommittal, marvelously elusive letters that only a young girl can write, Bernice reappeared, very red-eyed, and consciously calm. She cast no glance at Marjorie, but took a book at random from the shelf, and sat down as if to read. Marjorie seemed absorbed in her letter, and continued writing. When the clock showed noon, Bernice closed her book with a snap. I suppose I'd better get my railroad ticket. This was not the beginning of the speech she had rehearsed upstairs, but as Marjorie was not getting her cues, wasn't urging her to be reasonable, it's all a mistake. It was the best opening she could muster. Just wait till I finish this letter, said Marjorie, without looking round. I want to get it off in the next mail. After another minute, during which her pen scratched busily, she turned round and relaxed with an air of, at your service. Again Bernice had to speak. Do you want me to go home? Well, said Marjorie, considering, I suppose if you're not having a good time you'd better go. No use being miserable. Don't you think common kindness? Oh, please don't quote little women, cried Marjorie impatiently. That's out of style. You think so? Heavens, yes! What modern girl could live like those inane females? They were the models for our mothers. Marjorie laughed. Yes they were, not. Besides, our mothers were all very well in their way, but they know very little about their daughter's problems. Bernice drew herself up. Please don't talk about my mother. Marjorie laughed. I don't think I mentioned her. Bernice felt that she was being led away from her subject. Do you think you've treated me very well? I've done my best. You're rather hard material to work with. The lids of Bernice's eyes reddened. I think you're hard and selfish and you haven't a feminine quality in you. Oh, my lord, cried Marjorie in desperation. You little nut. Girls like you are responsible for all the tiresome, colorless marriages, all those ghastly inefficiencies that pass as feminine qualities. What a blow it must be when a man with imagination marries the beautiful bundle of clothes that he's been building ideals round and finds that she's just a weak, whining, cowardly mass of affectations. Bernice's mouth had slipped half open. The womanly woman continued Marjorie. Her whole early life is occupied in whining criticisms of girls like me who really do have a good time. Bernice's jaw descended farther as Marjorie's voice rose. There's some excuse for an ugly girl whining. If I'd been irretrievably ugly, I'd never have forgiven my parents for bringing me into the world. But you're starting life without any handicap. Marjorie's little fist clenched. If you expect me to weep with you, you'll be disappointed. Go or stay, just as you like. And picking up her letters, she left the room. Bernice claimed a headache and failed to appear at luncheon. They had a matinee date for the afternoon, but the headache persisting, Marjorie made explanation to a not very downcast boy. But when she returned late in the afternoon, she found Bernice with a strangely set face waiting for her in her bedroom. I've decided, began Bernice, without preliminaries, that maybe you're right about things. Possibly not. But if you'll tell me why your friends aren't interested in me, I'll see if I can do what you want me to. Marjorie was at the mirror, shaking down her hair. Do you mean it? Yes. Without reservations, will you do exactly what I say? Well, I... Well, nothing, will you do exactly as I say? If they're sensible things? They're not. You're no case for sensible things. Are you going to make... to recommend... Yes, everything. If I tell you to take boxing lessons, you'll have to do it. Write home and tell your mother you're going to stay another two weeks. If you'll tell me... All right, I'll just give you a few examples now. First, you have no ease of manner. Why? Because you're never sure about your personal appearance. When a girl feels that she's perfectly groomed and dressed, she can forget that part of her. That's charm. The more parts of yourself you can afford to forget, the more charm you have. Don't I look all right? No. For instance, you never take care of your eyebrows. They're black and lustrous, but by leaving them straggly, they're a blemish. They'd be beautiful if you'd take care of them in one-tenth the time you take doing nothing. You're going to brush them so that they'll grow straight. Bernice raised the brows in question. Do you mean to say that men notice eyebrows? Yes, subconsciously. And when you go home, you ought to have your teeth straightened a little. It's almost imperceptible. Still. But I thought, interrupted Bernice in bewilderment, that you despised little dainty feminine things like that. I hate dainty minds, answered Marjorie. But a girl has to be dainty in person. If she looks like a million dollars, she can talk about Russia, Ping-Pong, or the League of Nations, and get away with it. What else? Oh, I'm just beginning. There's your dancing. Don't I dance all right? No, you don't. You lean on a man. Yes, you do, ever so slightly. I noticed it when we were dancing together yesterday. And you dance standing up straight, instead of bending over a little. Probably some old lady on the sideline once told you that you looked so dignified that way. But except with a very small girl, it's much harder on the man, and he's the one that counts. Go on. Bernice's brain was reeling. Well, you've got to learn to be nice to men who are sad birds. You look as if you'd been insulted whenever you're thrown with any except the most popular boys. Well, Bernice, I'm cut in on every few feet, and who does most of it? Why, those very sad birds. No girl can afford to neglect them. They're the big part of any crowd. Young boys too shy to talk are the very best conversational practice. Clumsy boys are the best dancing practice. If you can follow them and yet look graceful, you can follow a baby tank across a barbed-wire skyscraper. Bernice sighed profoundly, but Marjorie was not through. If you go to a dance and really amuse, say, three sad birds that dance with you, if you talk so well to them that they forget they're stuck with you, you've done something. They'll come back next time, and gradually so many sad birds will dance with you that the attractive boys will see there's no danger of being stuck, then they'll dance with you. Yes, agreed Bernice faintly. I think I begin to see. And finally concluded Marjorie, poise and charm will just come. You'll wake up some morning knowing you've attained it, and men will know it too. Bernice rose. It's been awfully kind of you, but nobody's ever talked to me like this before, and I feel sort of startled. Marjorie made no answer, but gazed pensively at her own image in the mirror. You're a peach to help me, continued Bernice. Still Marjorie did not answer, and Bernice thought she had seemed too grateful. I know you don't like sentiment, she said timidly. Marjorie turned to her quickly. Oh, I wasn't thinking about that. I was considering whether we hadn't better bob your hair. Bernice collapsed backward upon the bed. End of Part One Bernice bobs her hair, Part Two. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Laurie Ann Walden. Bernice bobs her hair by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Chapter Four On the following Wednesday evening there was a dinner dance at the country club. When the guests strolled in, Bernice found her place card with a slight feeling of irritation. Though at her right sat G. Reese Stoddard, a most desirable and distinguished young bachelor, the all-important left held only Charlie Paulson. Charlie lacked height, beauty, and social shrewdness, and in her new enlightenment, Bernice decided that his only qualification to be her partner was that he had never been stuck with her. But this feeling of irritation left with the last of the soup plates, and Marjorie's specific instruction came to her. Swallowing her pride, she turned to Charlie Paulson and plunged. Do you think I ought to bob my hair, Mr. Charlie Paulson? Charlie looked up in surprise. Why? Because I'm considering it. It's such a sure and easy way of attracting attention. Charlie smiled pleasantly. He could not know this had been rehearsed. He replied that he didn't know much about bobbed hair. But Bernice was there to tell him. I want to be a society vampire, you see, she announced Cooley, and went on to inform him that bobbed hair was the necessary prelude. She added that she wanted to ask his advice because she had heard he was so critical about girls. Charlie, who knew as much about the psychology of women as he did of the mental states of Buddhist contemplatives, felt vaguely flattered. So I've decided, she continued, her voice rising slightly, that early next week I'm going down to the Sevier Hotel barbershop, sit in the first chair, and get my hair bobbed. She faltered, noticing that the people near her had paused in their conversation and were listening. But after a confused second, Marjorie's coaching told, and she finished her paragraph to the vicinity at large. Of course I'm charging admission, but if you'll all come down and encourage me, I'll issue passes for the inside seats. There was a ripple of appreciative laughter, and undercover of it, G. Reese Stoddard leaned over quickly and said close to her ear, I'll take a box right now. She met his eyes and smiled as if he had said something surpassingly brilliant. Do you believe in bobbed hair? asked G. Reese in the same undertone. I think it's unmarled, affirmed Bernice gravely. But of course you've either got to amuse people, or feed them, or shock them. Marjorie had called this from Oscar Wilde. It was greeted with a ripple of laughter from the men, and a series of quick, intent looks from the girls. And then, as though she had said nothing of wit or moment, Bernice turned again to Charlie, and spoke confidentially in his ear. I want to ask you your opinion of several people. I imagine you're a wonderful judge of character. Charlie, thrilled faintly, paid her a subtle compliment by overturning her water. Two hours later, while Warren McIntyre was standing passively in the stag line, abstractedly watching the dancers, and wondering whither and with whom Marjorie had disappeared, an unrelated perception began to creep slowly upon him, a perception that Bernice, cousin to Marjorie, had been cut in on several times in the past five minutes. He closed his eyes, opened them, and looked again. Several minutes back she had been dancing with a visiting boy, a matter easily accounted for. A visiting boy would know no better. But now she was dancing with someone else, and there was Charlie Paulson headed for her with enthusiastic determination in his eye. Funny, Charlie seldom danced with more than three girls in evening. Warren was distinctly surprised when, the exchange having been affected, the man relieved proved to be none other than G. Reese Stoddard himself. And G. Reese seemed not at all jubilant at being relieved. Next time Bernice danced near, Warren regarded her intently. Yes, she was pretty, distinctly pretty, and tonight her face seemed really vivacious. She had that look that no woman, however histrionically proficient, can successfully counterfeit. She looked as if she were having a good time. He liked the way she had her hair arranged, wondered if it was brilliantine that made it glistened so. And that dress was becoming a dark red that set off her shadowy eyes and high coloring. He remembered that he had thought her pretty when she first came to town before he had realized that she was dull. Too bad she was dull, dull girls unbearable. Certainly pretty though. His thoughts zigzagged back to Margery. This disappearance would be like other disappearances. When she reappeared he would demand where she had been, would be told emphatically that it was none of his business. What a pity she was so sure of him. She basked in the knowledge that no other girl in town interested him. She defied him to fall in love with Genevieve or Roberta. Warren sighed. The way to Margery's affections was a labyrinth indeed. He looked up. Bernice was again dancing with the visiting boy. Half unconsciously he took a step out from the stag line in her direction and hesitated. Then he said to himself that it was charity. He walked toward her, collided suddenly with G. Reese stoddard. Pardon me, said Warren. But G. Reese had not stopped to apologize. He had again cut in on Bernice. That night at one o'clock Margery with one hand on the electric light switch in the hall turned to take a last look at Bernice's sparkling eyes. So it worked. Oh, Margery, yes! cried Bernice. I saw you were having a gay time. I did. The only trouble was that about midnight I ran short of talk. I had to repeat myself, with different men of course. I hoped they won't compare notes. Men don't, said Margery, yawning. And it wouldn't matter if they did. They'd think you were even trickier. She snapped out the light and as they started up the stairs Bernice grasped the banister, thankfully. For the first time in her life she had been danced tired. You see, said Margery at the top of the stairs, one man sees another man cut in and he thinks there must be something there. Well, we'll fix up some new stuff tomorrow. Good night. As Bernice took down her hair she passed the evening before her in review. She had followed instructions exactly. Even when Charlie Paulson cut in for the eighth time she had simulated delight and had apparently been both interested and flattered. She had not talked about the weather or Eau Claire or automobiles or her school, but had confined her conversation to me, you and us. But a few minutes before she fell asleep a rebellious thought was churning drowsily in her brain. After all it was she who had done it. Margery, to be sure, had given her her conversation. But then Margery got much of her conversation out of things she read. Bernice had bought the red dress, though she had never valued it highly before Margery dug it out of her trunk. And her own voice had said the words. Her own lips had smiled. Her own feet had danced. Margery, nice girl, vain, though. Nice evening, nice boys, like Warren. Warren, Warren, what's his name? Warren. She fell asleep. Chapter 5 To Bernice the next week was a revelation. With the feeling that people really enjoyed looking at her and listening to her came the foundation of self-confidence. Of course there were numerous mistakes at first. She did not know, for instance, that Dracot Deo was studying for the ministry. She was unaware that he had cut in on her because he thought she was a quiet, reserved girl. Had she known these things she would not have treated him to the line which began. Hello, shell-shock, and continued with the bathtub story. It takes a frightful lot of energy to fix my hair in the summer. There's so much of it. So I always fix it first and powder my face and put on my hat. Then I get into the bathtub and dress afterward. Don't you think that's the best plan? Though Dracot Deo was in the throes of difficulties concerning baptism by immersion and might possibly have seen a connection, it must be admitted that he did not. He considered feminine bathing an immoral subject and gave her some of his ideas on the depravity of modern society. But to offset that unfortunate occurrence, Bernice had several signal successes to her credit. Little Otis Ormond pleaded off from a trip east and elected instead to follow her with a puppy-like devotion to the amusement of his crowd and to the irritation of G. Reese Stoddard, several of whose afternoon calls Otis completely ruined by the disgusting tenderness of the glances he bent on Bernice. He even told her the story of the two-by-four and the dressing room to show her how frightfully mistaken he and everyone else had been in their first judgment of her. Bernice laughed off that incident with a slight sinking sensation. Of all Bernice's conversation, perhaps the best known and most universally approved was the line about the bobbing of her hair. Oh, Bernice, when are you going to get the hair bobbed? Day after tomorrow, maybe, she would reply, laughing. Will you come and see me, because I'm counting on you, you know? Will we? You know, but you better hurry up. Bernice, whose tonsorial intentions were strictly dishonorable, would laugh again. Pretty soon now, you'd be surprised. But perhaps the most significant symbol of her success was the grey car of the hypercritical Warren McIntyre parked daily in front of the Harvey House. At first the parlor maid was distinctly startled when he asked for Bernice instead of Marjorie. After a week of it, she told the cook that Miss Bernice had got a hold of Miss Marjorie's best fella. And Miss Bernice had. Perhaps it began with Warren's desire to rouse jealousy in Marjorie. Perhaps it was the familiar, though unrecognized, strain of Marjorie in Bernice's conversation. Perhaps it was both of these, and something of sincere attraction besides. But somehow the collective mind of the younger set knew within a week that Marjorie's most reliable beau had made an amazing face about and was giving an indisputable rush to Marjorie's guest. The question of the moment was how Marjorie would take it. Warren called Bernice on the phone twice a day, sent her notes, and they were frequently seen together in his roadster, obviously engrossed in one of those tense, significant conversations as to whether or not he was sincere. Marjorie, on being tweeted, only laughed. She said she was mighty glad that Warren had at last found someone who appreciated him. So the younger set laughed, too, and guessed that Marjorie didn't care, and let it go at that. One afternoon, when there were only three days left of her visit, Bernice was waiting in the hall for Warren, with whom she was going to a bridge party. She was in rather a blissful mood, and when Marjorie, also bound for the party, appeared beside her and began casually to adjust her hat in the mirror, Bernice was utterly unprepared for anything in the nature of a clash. Marjorie did her work very coldly and succinctly in three sentences. You may as well get Warren out of your head, she said coldly. What? Bernice was utterly astounded. You may as well stop making a fool of yourself over Warren McIntyre. He doesn't care a snap of his fingers about you. For a tense moment they regarded each other, Marjorie, scornful, aloof. Bernice astounded, half angry, half afraid. Then two cars drove up in front of the house, and there was a riotous honking. Both of them gassed faintly, turned, and side by side, hurried out. All through the bridge party Bernice strove in vain to master a rising uneasiness. She had offended Marjorie, the Sphinx of Sphinxes. With the most wholesome and innocent intentions in the world, she had stolen Marjorie's property. She felt suddenly and horribly guilty. After the bridge game, when they sat in an informal circle and the conversation became general, the storm gradually broke. Little Otis Ormond inadvertently precipitated it. When you're going back to kindergarten, Otis, someone had asked. Me? They Bernice gets her hair bobbed. Then your education's over, said Marjorie quickly. That's only a bluff of hers. I should think you'd have realized. That effect demanded Otis, giving Bernice a reproachful glance. Bernice's ears burned as she tried to think up an effectual comeback. In the face of this direct attack, her imagination was paralyzed. There's a lot of bluffs in the world, continued Marjorie, quite pleasantly. I should think you'd be young enough to know that, Otis. Well, said Otis, maybe so. But gee, with a line like Bernice's. Really? Yawned Marjorie. What's her latest bon-mau? No one seemed to know. In fact, Bernice, having trifled with her muses bow, had said nothing memorable of late. Was that really all a line? Asked Roberta curiously. Bernice hesitated. She felt that wit, in some form, was demanded of her. But under her cousin's suddenly frigid eyes, she was completely incapacitated. I don't know, she stalled. Splush, said Marjorie, admit it. Bernice saw that Warren's eyes had left a ukulele he had been tinkering with, and were fixed on her questioningly. Oh, I don't know, she repeated steadily. Her cheeks were glowing. Splush, remarked Marjorie again. Come through, Bernice, urged Otis. Tell her where to get off. Bernice looked round again. She seemed unable to get away from Warren's eyes. I like bobbed hair, she said hurriedly, as if he had asked her a question, and I intend to bob mine. When demanded Marjorie? Any time. No time like the present, suggested Roberta. Otis jumped to his feet. Good stuff, he cried, will have a summer bobbing party save your hotel barbershop, I think you said. In an instant, all were on their feet. Bernice's heart throbbed violently. What? she gasped. Out of the group came Marjorie's voice, very clear and contemptuous. Don't worry, she'll back out. Come on, Bernice, cried Otis, starting toward the door. Four eyes, Warren's and Marjorie's stared at her, challenged her, defied her. For another second she wavered wildly. All right, she said swiftly, I don't care if I do. An eternity of minutes later, riding downtown through the late afternoon beside Warren, the others following in Roberta's car close behind. Bernice had all the sensations of Marie Antoinette bound for the guillotine in a tumble. Vaguely she wondered why she did not cry out that it was all a mistake. It was all she could do to keep from clutching her hair with both hands to protect it from the suddenly hostile world. Yet she did neither. Even the thought of her mother was no deterrent now. This was the test supreme of her sportsmanship, her right to walk unchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls. Warren was mootily silent, and when they came to the hotel he drew up at the curb and nodded to Bernice to proceed him out. Roberta's car emptied a laughing crowd into the shop, which presented two bold, plate-glass windows to the street. Bernice stood on the curb and looked at the sign, Sevier Barbershop. It was a guillotine indeed, and a hangman was the first barber, who, attired in a white coat and smoking a cigarette, leaned nonchalantly against the first chair. He must have heard of her. He must have been waiting all week, smoking eternal cigarettes beside that portentous, too often mentioned, first chair. Would they blindfold her? No, but they would tie a white cloth round her neck, lest any of her blood—nonsense—hair should get on her clothes. All right, Bernice, said Warren quickly. With her chin in the air she crossed the sidewalk, pushed open the swinging screen door, and giving not a glance to the uproarious, riotous row that occupied the waiting bench, went up to the first barber. I want you to bob my hair. The first barber's mouth slid somewhat open. His cigarette dropped to the floor. Huh? My hair. Bob it. Refusing further preliminaries, Bernice took her seat on high. A man in the chair next to her turned on his side and gave her a glance, half-lather, half-amazement. One barber started and spoiled little Willie Schoonman's monthly haircut. Mr. O'Reilly in the last chair grunted and swore musically an ancient Gaelic as a razor bit into his cheek. Two boot-blacks became wide-eyed and rushed for her feet. No, Bernice didn't care for a shine. Outside a passerby stopped and stared. A couple joined him. Half a dozen small boys' noses sprang into life, flattened against the glass, and snatches of conversation born on the summer breeze drifted in through the screen door. Look at a long hair on a kid. Where'd you get that stuff? That's a bearded lady he just finished shaven. But Bernice saw nothing, heard nothing. Her only living sense told her that this man in the white coat had removed one toward a shell comb and then another, that his fingers were fumbling clumsily with unfamiliar hairpins, that this hair, this wonderful hair of hers, was going. She would never again feel its long voluptuous pull as it hung in a dark brown glory down her back. For a second she was near breaking down, and then the picture before her swam mechanically into her vision, Marjorie's mouth curling in a faint, ironic smile as if to say, Give up and get down. You tried to buck me and I called your bluff. You see you haven't got a prayer. And some last energy rose up in Bernice, for she clenched her hands under the white cloth, and there was a curious narrowing of her eyes that Marjorie remarked on to someone long afterward. Twenty minutes later the barber swung her round to face the mirror, and she flinched at the full extent of the damage that had been wrought. Her hair was not curly, and now it lay in lifeless blocks on both sides of her suddenly pale face. It was ugly as sin. She had known it would be ugly as sin. Her face's chief charm had been a Madonna-like simplicity. Now that was gone, and she was, well, frightfully mediocre, not stagey, only ridiculous, like a Greenwich villager who had left her spectacles at home. As she climbed down from the chair she tried to smile, failed miserably. She saw two of the girl's exchange glances, noticed Marjorie's mouth curved in attenuated mockery, and that Warren's eyes were suddenly very cold. You see her words fell into an awkward pause. I've done it. Yes, you've done it, admitted Warren. Do you like it? There was a half-hearted, sure, from two or three voices, another awkward pause, and to then Marjorie turned swiftly and with serpent-like intensity to Warren. Would you mind running me down to the cleaners? She asked. I've simply got to get a dress there before supper. Roberta is driving right home, and she can take the others. Warren stared abstractedly at some infinite speck out the window. Then for an instant his eyes rested coldly on Bernice before they turned to Marjorie. Be glad to, he said, slowly. Chapter 6 Bernice did not fully realize the outrageous trap that had been set for her until she met her aunt's amazed glance just before dinner. Why, Bernice? I've bobbed at Aunt Josephine. Why, child? Do you like it? Why, Bernice? I suppose I've shocked you. No, but what'll Mrs. Deo think tomorrow night? Bernice, you should have waited until after the Deo's dance. You should have waited if you wanted to do that. It was sudden, Aunt Josephine. Anyway, why does it matter to Mrs. Deo, particularly? Quiet, child, cried Mrs. Harvey. In her paper on the foibles of the younger generation that she read at the last meeting of the Thursday Club, she devoted fifteen minutes to bobbed hair. It's her pet abomination, and the dance is for you and Marjorie. I'm sorry. Oh, Bernice, what will your mother say? She'll think I'll let you do it. I'm sorry. Dinner was an agony. She had made a hasty attempt with a curling iron and burned her finger and much hair. She could see that her aunt was both worried and grieved, and her uncle kept saying, Well, I'll be darned over and over in a hurt and faintly hostile tone. And Marjorie sat very quietly entrenched behind a faint smile, a faintly mocking smile. Somehow she got through the evening. Three boys called. Marjorie disappeared with one of them, and Bernice made a listless, unsuccessful attempt to entertain the two others. Side, thankfully, as she climbed the stairs to her room at half past ten. What a day! When she had undressed for the night, the door opened and Marjorie came in. Bernice, she said, I'm awfully sorry about the Deo dance. I'll give you my word of honor. I'd forgotten all about it. Saul Wright, said Bernice shortly. Standing before the mirror, she passed her comb slowly through her short hair. I'll take you downtown tomorrow, continued Marjorie, and the hairdresser will fix it so you'll look slick. I didn't imagine you'd go through with it. I'm really mighty sorry. Oh, Saul Wright. Still, it's your last night, so I suppose it won't matter much. Then Bernice winced as Marjorie tossed her own hair over her shoulders and began to twist it slowly into two long, blonde braids until, in her cream-colored negligee, she looked like the delicate painting of some Saxon princess. Fascinated, Bernice watched the braids grow. Heavy and luxurious they were, moving under the supple fingers like restless snakes. And two Bernice remained this relic and the curling iron and a tomorrow full of eyes. She could see G. Reese Stoddard, who liked her, assuming his Harvard manner and telling his dinner partner that Bernice shouldn't have been allowed to go to the movies so much. She could see Dracot Dayo exchanging glances with his mother and then being conscientiously charitable to her. But then, perhaps by tomorrow Mrs. Dayo would have heard the news, would sin round an icy little note requesting that she fail to appear, and behind her back they would all laugh and know that Marjorie had made a fool of her, that her chance at beauty had been sacrificed to the jealous whim of a selfish girl. She sat down suddenly before the mirror, biting the inside of her cheek. I like it, she said with an effort. I think it'll be becoming. Marjorie smiled. It looks all right, for head and sake don't let it worry you. I won't. Good night, Bernice. But as the door closed something snapped within Bernice. She sprang dynamically to her feet, clenching her hands, then swiftly and noiselessly crossed over to her bed and from underneath it dragged out her suitcase. Into it she tossed toilet articles and a change of clothing. Then she turned to her trunk and quickly dumped in two drawerfuls of lingerie and summer dresses. She moved quietly but with deadly efficiency, and in three quarters of an hour her trunk was locked and strapped and she was fully dressed in a becoming new travelling suit that Marjorie had helped her pick out. Sitting down at her desk she wrote a short note to Mrs. Harvey in which she briefly outlined her reasons for going. She sealed it, addressed it and laid it on her pillow. She glanced at her watch. The train left at one and she knew that if she walked down to the Marlborough Hotel two blocks away she could easily get a taxi cab. Suddenly she drew in her breath sharply and an expression flashed into her eyes that a practised character reader might have connected vaguely with the set look she had worn in the barber's chair, somehow a development of it. It was quite a new look for Bernice and it carried consequences. She went stealthily to the Bureau, picked up an article that lay there and turning out all the lights stood quietly until her eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Softly she pushed open the door to Marjorie's room. She heard the quiet, even breathing of an untroubled conscience asleep. She was by the bedside now, very deliberate and calm. She acted swiftly. Bending over she found one of the braids of Marjorie's hair, followed it up with her hand to the point nearest the head and then holding it a little slack so that the sleeper would feel no pull. She reached down with the shears and severed it. With the pigtail in her hand she held her breath. Marjorie had muttered something in her sleep. Bernice deftly amputated the other braid, paused for an instant and then flitted swiftly and silently back to her own room. Downstairs she opened the big front door, closed it carefully behind her and feeling oddly happy and exuberant stepped off the porch into the moonlight, swinging her heavy grip like a shopping bag. After a minute's brisk walk she discovered that her left hand still held the two blonde braids. She laughed unexpectedly, had to shut her mouth hard to keep from emitting an absolute peel. She was passing Warren's house now and on the impulse she sat down her baggage and swinging the braids like pieces of rope flung them at the wooden porch where they landed with a slight thud. She laughed again no longer restraining herself. Ha! she giggled wildly, scalp the selfish thing. Then picking up her suitcase she set off at a half-run down the moonlit street. End of Bernice Bob's Her Hair by F. Scott Fitzgerald Benediction Part 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden Benediction by F. Scott Fitzgerald Part 1 Chapter 1 The Baltimore station was hot and crowded, so Lois was forced to stand by the telegraph desk for interminable, sticky seconds while a clerk with big front teeth counted and recounted a large lady's day message to determine whether it contained the innocuous 49 words or the fatal 51. Lois, waiting, decided she wasn't quite sure of the address, so she took the letter out of her bag and ran over it again. Darling, it began. I understand, and I'm happier than life ever meant me to be. If I could give you the things you've always been in tune with, but I can't, Lois, we can't marry and we can't lose each other and let all this glorious love end in nothing. Until your letter came, dear, I'd been sitting here in the half-dark and thinking where I could go and ever forget you. Abroad, perhaps, to drift through Italy or Spain and dream away the pain of having lost you, where the crumbling ruins of older, mellower civilizations would mirror only the desolation of my heart. And then your letter came. Sweetest, bravest girl, if you'll wire me, I'll meet you in Wilmington. Till then I'll be here just waiting and hoping for every long dream of you to come true. Howard. She had read the letter so many times that she knew it word by word, yet it still startled her. In it she found many faint reflections of the man who wrote it, the mingled sweetness and sadness in his dark eyes, the furtive, restless excitement she felt sometimes when he talked to her, his dreamy sensuousness that lulled her mind to sleep. Lois was nineteen and very romantic and curious and courageous. The large lady in the clerk, having compromised on fifty words, Lois took a blank and wrote her telegram. And there were no overtones to the finality of her decision. It's just destiny, she thought. It's just the way things work out in this damn world. If cowardice is all that's been holding me back, there won't be any more holding back. So we'll just let things take their course and never be sorry. The clerk scanned her telegram. Arrived Baltimore today, spend day with my brother, meet me Wilmington three p.m. Wednesday. Love, Lois. Fifty-four cents, said the clerk admiringly. And never be sorry, thought Lois. And never be sorry. CHAPTER II Trees filtering light onto dappled grass. Trees like tall, languid ladies with feather-fans coquettin' airily with the ugly roof of the monastery. Trees like butlers bending courteously over placid walks and paths. Trees, trees over the hills on either side and scattering out in clumps and lines and woods all through eastern Maryland, delicate lace on the hems of many yellow fields, dark opaque backgrounds for flowered bushes or wild climbing gardens. Some of the trees were very gay and young, but the monastery trees were older than the monastery, which by true monastic standards wasn't very old at all. And as a matter of fact, they were technically called a monastery, but only a seminary. Nevertheless, it shall be a monastery here despite its Victorian architecture or its Edward VII editions or even its Woodrow Wilsonian patented last-a-century roofing. Out behind was the farm where half a dozen lay brothers were sweating lustily as they moved with deadly efficiency around the vegetable gardens. To the left, behind a row of elms, was an informal baseball diamond where three novices were being batted out by a fourth, amid great chasings and puffings and blowings. And in front, as a great mellow bell boomed the half-hour, a swarm of black human leaves were blown over the checkerboard of paths under the courteous trees. Some of these black leaves were very old, with cheeks furrowed like the first ripples of a splashed pool. Then there was a scattering of middle-aged leaves, and forms, when viewed in profile in their revealing gowns, were beginning to be faintly unsymmetrical. These carried thick volumes of Thomas Aquinas and Henry James and Cardinal Mercier and Emmanuel Cant and many bulging notebooks filled with lecture data. But most numerous were the young leaves, blond boys of nineteen with very stern, conscientious expressions, men in the late twenties with a keen self-assurance about in the world for five years, several hundreds of them, from city and town and country, in Maryland and Pennsylvania and Virginia and West Virginia and Delaware. There were many Americans and some Irish and some tough Irish and a few French and several Italians and Poles and they walked informally arm-in-arm with each other in twos and threes or in long rows, almost universally distinguished by the great mouth and the considerable chin. For this was the Society of Jesus founded in Spain five hundred years before by a tough-minded soldier who trained men to hold a breach or a salon, preach a sermon or write a treaty, and do it and not argue. Lois got out of a bus into the sunshine down by the outer gate. She was nineteen with yellow hair and eyes that people were tactful enough not to call green. When they saw her in a streetcar they often furtively produced little stub pencils and backs of envelopes and tried to sum up that profile or the thing that the eyebrows did to her eyes. Later they looked at their results and usually tore them up with wondering sighs. Though Lois was very jauntly attired in an expensively appropriate traveling affair she did not linger to pat out the dust which covered her clothes but started up the central walk and glances at either side. Her face was very eager and expectant, yet she hadn't at all that glorified expression that girls wear when they arrive for a senior prom at Princeton or New Haven. Still as there were no senior proms here perhaps it didn't matter. She was wondering what he would look like whether she'd possibly know him from his picture. In the picture which hung over her mother's bureau at home he seemed very young and rather pitiful with only a well-developed mouth and an ill-fitting probationer's gown to show that he had already made a momentous decision about his life. Of course he had been only 19 then and now he was 36. Didn't look like that at all. In recent snapshots he was much broader and his hair had grown a little thin but the impression of her brother she had always retained was that of the big picture. And so she had always been a little sorry for him. What a life for a man. Seventeen years of preparation and he wasn't even a priest yet. Wouldn't be for another year. Lois had an idea that this was all going to be rather solemn if she let it be but she was going to give her very best imitation of undiluted sunshine the imitation she could give even when her head was splitting or when her mother had a nervous breakdown or when she was particularly romantic and curious and courageous. This brother of hers undoubtedly needed cheering up and he was going to be cheered up whether he liked it or not. As she drew near the great homely front door she saw a man break suddenly away from a group and pulling up the skirts of his gown run toward her. He was smiling she noticed and he looked very big and and reliable. She stopped and waited until her heart was beating unusually fast. Lois he cried and in a second she was in his arms she was suddenly trembling. Lois he cried again why this is wonderful I can't tell you Lois how much I've looked forward to this why Lois you're beautiful Lois gasped his voice though restrained was vibrant with energy and that odd sort of enveloping personality she had thought that she only of the family possessed. I'm mighty glad too Keith She flushed but not unhappily at this first use of his name. Lois Lois Lois he repeated in wonder Child we'll go in here a minute because I want you to meet the rector and then we'll walk around I have a thousand things to talk to you about. His voice became his voice became graver How's mother She looked at him for a moment and then said something that she had not intended to say at all the very sort of thing she had resolved to avoid Oh Keith She's getting worse all the time every way He nodded slowly as if he understood Nervous Well you can tell me about that later Now She was in a small study with a large desk saying something to a little jovial white haired priest who retained her hand for some seconds So this is Lois He said it as if he had heard of her for years He entreated her to sit down Two other priests arrived enthusiastically and shook hands with her and addressed her as Keith's little sister which she found she didn't mind a bit How assured they seemed she had expected a certain shyness reserve at least There were several jokes unintelligible to her which seemed to delight everyone and the little father rector referred to the trio of them as dim old monks which she appreciated because of course they weren't monks at all She had a lightning impression that they were especially fond of Keith The father rector had called him Keith and one of the others had kept a hand on his shoulder all through the conversation Then she was shaking hands again and promising to come back a little later for some ice cream and smiling and smiling and being rather absurdly happy She told herself that it was because Keith was so delighted in showing her off Then she and Keith were strolling along a path arm in arm and he was informing her what an absolute jewel the father rector was Lois, he broke off suddenly I want to tell you before we go any farther how much it means to me to have you come up here I think it was mighty sweet of you I know what a gay time you've been having Lois gasped she was not prepared for this At first when she had conceived the plan of taking the hot journey down to Baltimore staying the night with a friend and then coming out to see her brother she had felt rather consciously virtuous hoped he wouldn't be priggish or resentful about her not having come before but walking here with him under the trees seemed such a little thing and surprisingly a happy thing Why Keith, she said quickly you know I couldn't have waited a day longer I saw you when I was five but of course I didn't remember and how could I have gone on without practically ever having seen my only brother It was mighty sweet of you Lois he repeated Lois blushed he did have personality I want you to tell me all about yourself he said after a pause Of course I have a general idea what you and mother did in Europe those 14 years and then we were all so worried Lois when you had pneumonia and couldn't come down with mother let's see that was two years ago and then well I've seen your name in the papers but it's all been so unsatisfactory I haven't known you Lois she found herself analyzing his personality as she analyzed the personality of every man she met she wondered if the effect of intimacy that he gave was bred by his constant repetition of her name he said it as if he loved the word as if it had an inherent meaning to him then you were at school he continued Yes at Farmington mother wanted me to go to a convent but I didn't want to come she cast a side glance at him to see if he would resent this but he only nodded slowly had enough convents abroad eh Yes and Keith convents are different there anyway here even in the nicest ones there are so many common girls he nodded again Yes he agreed I suppose there are and I know how you feel about it I traded on me here at first Lois I wouldn't say that to anyone but you we're rather sensitive you and I to things like this you mean the men here Yes some of them of course were fine the sort of men I'd always been thrown with but there were others a man named Regan for instance I hated the fellow and now he's about the best friend I have a wonderful character Lois you'll meet him later sort of man you'd like to have with you in a fight Lois was thinking that Keith was the sort of man she'd like to have with her in a fight how did you first happen to do it she asked rather shyly to come here I mean of course mother told me the story about the Pullman car oh that he looked rather annoyed tell me that I'd like to hear you tell it oh it's nothing except what you probably know it was evening and I'd been writing all day and thinking about about a hundred things Lois and then suddenly I had a sense that someone was sitting across from me felt that he'd been there for some time and had a vague idea that he was another traveler all at once he leaned over toward me and I heard a voice say I want you to be a priest that's what I want well I jumped up and cried out oh my god not that made an idiot of myself before about twenty people you see there wasn't anyone sitting there at all a week after that I went to the Jesuit College in Philadelphia and crawled up the last flight of stairs to the rector's office on my hands and knees there was another silence and Lois saw that her brother's eyes were a far away look and that he was staring unseeingly out over the sunny fields she was stirred by the modulations of his voice and the sudden silence that seemed to flow when he finished speaking she noticed now that his eyes were of the same fiber as hers with the green left out and that his mouth was much gentler really than in the picture or was it that the face had grown up to it lately he was getting a little bald just on top of his head she wondered if that was from wearing a hat so much it seemed awful for a man to grow bald and no one to care about it were you pious when you were young Keith she asked you know what I mean were you religious if you don't mind these personal questions yes he said with his eyes still far away and she felt that his intense abstraction was as much a part of his personality as his attention yes I suppose I was when I was sober Lois thrilled slightly did you drink he nodded I was on the way to making a bad hash of things he smiled and turning his gray eyes on her changed the subject child tell me about mother I know it's been awfully hard for you there lately I know you've had to sacrifice a lot and put up with a great deal and I want you to know how fine of you I think it is I feel Lois that you're sort of taking the place of both of us there Lois thought quickly how little she had sacrificed how lately she had constantly avoided her nervous half invalid mother youth shouldn't be sacrificed to age Keith she said steadily I know he sighed and you oughtn't have the weight on your shoulders child I wish I were there to help you she saw how quickly he had turned her remark and instantly she knew what this quality was that he gave off he was sweet her thoughts went off on a sidetrack and then she broke the silence with an odd remark sweetness is hard she said suddenly what? nothing she denied in confusion I didn't mean to speak aloud I was thinking of something of a conversation with a man named Freddy Kebel Mari Kebel's brother yes she said rather surprised to think of him having known Mari Kebel still there was nothing strange about it well he and I were talking about sweetness a few weeks ago oh I don't know I said that a man named Howard that a man I knew was sweet and he didn't agree with me and we began talking about what sweetness in a man was he kept telling me I meant a sort of soppy softness but I knew I didn't yet I didn't know exactly how to put it I see now I meant just the opposite I suppose real sweetness is a sort of hardness and strength Keith nodded I see what you mean I've known old priests who had it I'm talking about young men she said rather defiantly they had reached the now deserted baseball diamond and pointing her to a wooden bench he sprawled full length on the grass are these young men happy here Keith don't they look happy Lois I suppose so but those young ones those two we just passed have they are they are they signed up he laughed no but they will be next month permanently yes unless they break down mentally or physically of course in a discipline like ours a lot drop out but those boys are they giving up fine chances outside like you did he nodded some of them but Keith they don't know what they're doing they haven't had any experience of what they're missing no I suppose not it doesn't seem fair life is just sort of scared them at first do they all come in so young no some of them have knocked around led pretty wild lives Regan for instance I should think that sort would be better she said meditatively men that had seen life no said Keith earnestly I'm not sure that knocking about gives a man the sort of experience he can communicate to others some of the broadest men I've known have been absolutely rigid about themselves and reformed libertines are a notoriously intolerant class don't you think so Lois she nodded still meditative and he continued it seems to me that when one weak person goes to another it isn't help they want it's a sort of companionship in guilt Lois after you were born when mother began to get nervous she used to go and weep with a certain Mrs. Comstock Lordy used to make me shiver she said it comforted her poor old mother no I don't think that to help others you've got to show yourself at all help comes from a stronger person whom you respect and their sympathy is all the bigger because it's impersonal but people want human sympathy objected Lois they want to feel the other person's been tempted Lois in their hearts they want to feel that the other person's been weak that's what they mean by human here in this old monkry Lois he continued with a smile they try to get all that self pity and pride in our own wills out of us right at the first they put us to scrubbing floors and other things it's like that idea of saving your life by losing it you see we sort of feel that the less human a man is in your sense of human the better servant he can be to humanity we carry it out to the end too when one of us dies his family can't even have him then he's buried here under a plain wooden cross with a thousand others his tone changed suddenly and he looked at her with a great brightness in his gray eyes but way back in a man's heart there are some things he can't get rid of and one of them is that I'm awfully in love with my little sister with a sudden impulse she knelt beside him in the grass and leaning over kissed his forehead you're hard Keith she said and I love you for it and you're sweet end of part one benediction part two this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recorded by Laurie Ann Walden benediction by F. Scott Fitzgerald part two chapter three back in the reception room Lois met a half dozen more of Keith's particular friends there was a young man named Jarvis rather pale and delicate looking who she knew must be a grandson of old Mrs. Jarvis at home and she mentally compared this aesthetic with a brace of his riotous uncles and there was Regan with a scarred face and piercing intent eyes that followed her about the room and often rested on Keith with something very like worship and what Keith had meant about a good man to have with you in a fight he's the missionary type she thought vaguely China or something I want Keith's sister to show us what the shimmy is demanded one young man with a broad grin Lois laughed I'm afraid the father rector would send me shimmying out the gate besides I'm not an expert I'm sure it wouldn't be best to be a soul anyway said Keith solemnly he's inclined to brood about things like shimmies they were just starting to do the maxiques wasn't it Jimmy when he became a monk and it haunted him his whole first year you'd see him when he was peeling potatoes putting his arm around the bucket and making irreligious motions with his feet there was a general laugh in which Lois joined an old lady who comes here to mass sent Keith this ice cream whispered Jarvis under cover of the laugh because she'd heard you were coming it's pretty good isn't it there were tears trembling in Lois's eyes Chapter 4 then half an hour later over in the chapel things suddenly went all wrong it was several years since Lois had been at benediction and at first she was thrilled by the gleaming monstrance with its central spot of white rich and heavy with incense and the sun shining through the stained glass window of St. Francis Xavier overhead and falling in warm red tracery on the cassock of the man in front of her but at the first notes of the oh saliateris hostia a heavy weight seemed to descend upon her soul Keith was on her right and young Jarvis on her left and she stole uneasy glances at both of them what's the matter with me she thought impatiently she looked again was there a certain coldness in both their profiles that she had not noticed before a pallor about the mouth and a curious said expression in their eyes she shivered slightly they were like dead men she felt her soul recede suddenly from Keith's this was her brother this unnatural person she caught herself in the act of a little laugh what is the matter with me she passed her hand over her eyes and the weight increased the incense sickened her and a stray ragged note from one of the dinners in the choir grated on her ear like the shriek of a slate pencil she fidgeted and raising her hand to her hair touched her forehead found moisture on it it's hot in here hot as the deuce again she repressed a faint laugh and then in an instant the weight upon her heart suddenly diffused into cold fear it was that candle on the altar it was all wrong wrong why didn't somebody see it there was something in it there was something coming out of it taking form and shape above it she tried to fight down her rising panic told herself it was the wick if the wick wasn't straight candles did something but they didn't do this with incalculable rapidity a force was gathering within her a tremendous assimilative force drawing from every sense every corner of her brain and as it surged up inside her she felt an enormous terrified repulsion she drew her arms in close to her side away from Keith and Jarvis something in that candle she was leaning forward in another moment she felt she would go forward toward it didn't anyone see it anyone ug she felt a space beside her and something told her that Jarvis had gassed and sat down very suddenly then she was kneeling and as the flaming monstrance slowly left the altar in the hands of the priest she heard a great rushing noise in her ears the crash of the bells was like hammer blows and then in a moment that seemed eternal a great torrent rolled over her heart there was a shouting there and a lashing as of waves she was calling felt herself calling for Keith her lips melding the words that would not come Keith oh my god Keith suddenly she became aware of a new presence something external in front of her consummated and expressed in warm red tracery then she knew it was the window of St. Francis savior her mind gripped at it clung to it finally and she felt herself calling again endlessly, impotently Keith Keith then out of a great stillness came a voice blessed be God with a gradual rumble sounded the response rolling heavily through the chapel blessed be God the words sang instantly in her heart the incense lay mystically and sweetly peaceful upon the air and the candle on the altar went out blessed be his holy name blessed be his holy name everything blurred into a swinging mist with a sound half gasp half cry she rocked on her feet and reeled backward into Keith's suddenly outstretched arms chapter 5 lie still child she closed her eyes again she was on the grass outside pillowed on Keith's arm and Regan was dabbing her head with a cold towel I'm alright she said quietly I know but just lie still a minute longer it was too hot in there Jarvis felt it too she laughed as Regan again touched her gingerly with the towel I'm alright she repeated but though a warm peace was filling her mind and heart she felt oddly broken and chastened as if someone had held her stripped soul up and laughed chapter 6 half an hour later she walked leaning on Keith's arm down the long central path toward the gate it's been such a short afternoon he sighed I'm sick Lois Keith I'm feeling fine now really I wish you wouldn't worry poor old child I didn't realize that benediction would be a long service for you after your hot trip out here and all she laughed cheerfully I guess the truth is I'm not much used to benediction mass is the limit of my religious exertions she paused and then continued quickly I don't want to shock you Keith but I can't tell you how inconvenient being a Catholic is it really doesn't seem to apply anymore as far as morals go some of the wildest boys I know are Catholics and the brightest boys I mean the ones who think and read a lot don't seem to believe in much of anything anymore tell me about it the bus won't be here for another half hour they sat down on a bench by the path for instance Gerald Carter he's published a novel he absolutely roars when people mention immortality and then how well another man I've known well lately who was Phi Beta Kappa at Harvard says that no intelligent person can believe in supernatural Christianity he says Christ was a great socialist though am I shocking you she broke off suddenly Keith smiled you can't shock a monk he's a professional shock absorber well she continued that's about all it seems so narrow church schools for instance there's more freedom about things that Catholic people can't see like birth control Keith winced almost imperceptibly but Lois saw it oh she said quickly everybody talks about everything now it's probably better that way oh yes much better well that's all Keith I just wanted to tell you why I'm a little lukewarm at present I'm not shocked Lois I understand better than you think we all go through those times but I know it'll come out all right child there's that gift of faith that we have you and I that'll carry us past the bad spots he rose as he spoke and they started again down the path I want you to pray for me sometimes Lois I think your prayers would be about what I need because we've come very close in these few hours I think her eyes were suddenly shining oh we have we have she cried I feel closer to you now than to anyone in the world he stopped suddenly and made it the side of the path we might just a minute it was a pietà a life-sized statue of the blessed virgin set within a semi-circle of rocks feeling a little self-conscious she dropped on her knees beside him and made an unsuccessful attempt at prayer she was only half through when he rose he took her arm again I wanted to thank her for letting us have this day together hopefully Lois felt a sudden lump in her throat and she wanted to say something that would tell him how much it had meant to her too but she found no words I'll always remember this he continued his voice trembling a little this summer day with you it's been just what I expected you're just what I expected Lois I'm awfully glad Keith you see when you were little they kept sending me snapshots of you first as a baby and then as a child in socks playing on the beach with a pail and shovel and then suddenly as a wistful little girl with wondering pure eyes and I used to build dreams about you a man has to have something living to cling to I think Lois it was your little white soul I tried to keep near me even when life was at its loudest and every intellectual idea of God seemed the sheerst mockery and desire and love and a million things came up to me and said look here at me see I'm life you're turning your back on it all the way through that shadow Lois I could always see your baby soul flitting on ahead of me very frail and clear and wonderful Lois was crying softly they had reached the gate and she rested her elbow on it and dabbed furiously at her eyes and then later child when you were sick I knelt all one night and asked God to spare you for me for I knew then that I wanted more he had taught me to want more I wanted to know you moved and breath in the same world with me I saw you growing up that white innocence of yours changing to a flame and burning to give light to other weaker souls and then I wanted some day your children on my knee and hear them call the crab-dold monk Uncle Keith he seemed to be laughing now as he talked oh Lois, Lois I was asking God for more then I wanted the letters you'd write me and the place I'd have at your table I wanted an awful lot Lois dear you've got me Keith she sobbed you know it say you know it oh I'm acting like a baby this way and I Keith, Keith he took her hand and patted it softly here's the bus you'll come again won't you she put her hands on his cheeks and drawing his head down pressed her tear wet face against his oh Keith brother someday I'll tell you something he helped her in saw her take down her handkerchief as the driver flicked his whip and the bus rolled off then a thick cloud of dust rose around it and she was gone for a few minutes he stood there on the road his hand on the gatepost his lips half parted in a smile Lois, he said aloud in a sort of wonder Lois, Lois later some probationers passing noticed him kneeling before the pietà and coming back after a time found him still there and he was there until twilight came down and the courteous trees grew garrulous overhead and the crickets took up their burden of song in the dusky grass Chapter 7 the first clerk in the telegraph booth in the Baltimore station whistled through his buck teeth at the second clerk smatter see that girl no the pretty one with the big black dots on her veil too late she's gone you missed some what about her nothing except she's damn good looking came in here yesterday and sent a wire to some guy to meet her somewhere then a minute ago she came in with the telegram all written out and was standing there going to give it to me when she changed her mind or something and all of a sudden tore it up hmm the first clerk came around the counter and picking up the two pieces of paper from the floor put them together idly the second clerk read them over his shoulder and subconsciously counted the words as he read there were just 13 this is in the way of a permanent goodbye I should suggest Italy Lois tore it up eh said the second clerk end of benediction by F. Scott Fitzgerald