Read Online Tender Is the Night by Francis Scott Fitzgerald - Free Book Online

Tommy but the latter wouldn’t accept anything short of an apology and McKisco rather spunkily wouldn’t
give it.
    When Abe
had finished Rosemary asked thoughtfully:
    “Do the
Divers know it was about them?”
    “No—and
they’re not ever going to know they had anything to do with it. That damn
Campion had no business talking to you about it, but since he did—I told the
chauffeur I’d get out the old musical saw if he opened his mouth about it. This
fight’s between two men—what Tommy needs is a good war.”
    “I hope
the Divers don’t find out,” Rosemary said.
    Abe
peered at his watch.
    “I’ve
got to go up and see McKisco —do you want to come?—he
feels sort of friendless—I bet he hasn’t slept.”
    Rosemary
had a vision of the desperate vigil that high-strung, badly organized man had
probably kept. After a moment balanced between pity and repugnance she agreed,
and full of morning energy, bounced upstairs beside Abe.
    McKisco was sitting on his bed with his alcoholic combativeness vanished, in spite of
the glass of champagne in his hand. He seemed very puny and cross and white. Evidently he had been writing and drinking all night. He stared
confusedly at Abe and Rosemary and asked:
    “Is it
time?”
    “No, not for half an hour.”
    The
table was covered with papers which he assembled with some difficulty into a
long letter; the writing on the last pages was very large and illegible. In the
delicate light of electric lamps fading, he scrawled his name at the bottom,
crammed it into an envelope and handed it to Abe. “For my
wife.”
    “You
better souse your head in cold water,” Abe suggested.
    “You
think I’d better?” inquired McKisco doubtfully. “I
don’t want to get too sober.”
    “Well,
you look terrible now.”
    Obediently McKisco went into the bathroom.
    “I’m
leaving everything in an awful mess,” he called. “I don’t know how Violet will
get back to
America
.
I don’t carry any insurance. I never got around to it.”
    “Don’t
talk nonsense, you’ll be right here eating breakfast
in an hour.”
    “Sure, I
know.” He came back with his hair wet and looked at Rosemary as if he saw her
for the first time. Suddenly tears stood in his eyes. “I never have finished my
novel. That’s what makes me so sore. You don’t like me,” he said to Rosemary,
“but that can’t be helped. I’m primarily a literary man.” He made a vague
discouraged sound and shook his head helplessly. “I’ve made lots of mistakes in
my life—many of them. But I’ve been one of the most prominent—in some ways—”
    He gave
this up and puffed at a dead cigarette.
    “I do
like you,” said Rosemary, “but I don’t think you ought to fight a duel.”
    “Yeah, I
should have tried to beat him up, but it’s done now. I’ve let myself be drawn
into something that I had no right to be. I have a very violent temper—” He
looked closely at Abe as if he expected the statement to be challenged. Then
with an aghast laugh he raised the cold cigarette butt
toward his mouth. His breathing quickened.
    “The
trouble was I suggested the duel—if Violet had only kept her mouth shut I could have fixed it. Of course even now I can just leave,
or sit back and laugh at the whole thing—but I don’t think Violet would ever
respect me again.”
    “Yes,
she would,” said Rosemary. “She’d respect you more.”
    “No—you
don’t know Violet. She’s very hard when she gets an advantage over you. We’ve
been married twelve years, we had a little girl seven years old and she died
and after that you know how it is. We both played around on the side a little,
nothing serious but drifting apart—she called me a coward out there tonight.”
    Troubled,
Rosemary didn’t answer.
    “Well,
we’ll see there’s as little damage done as possible,” said Abe. He opened the
leather case. “These are Barban’s duelling pistols—I borrowed them so