Free Love of the Last Tycoon: The Authorized Text (No Series) by F. Scott Fitzgerald

blinking quickly now, but there was not a whisper in the room.
     
    Coming out of the private dining room, they passed through a corner of the commissary proper. Prince Agge drank it in—eagerly. It was gay with gypsies and with citizens and soldiers, with the sideburns and braided coats of the First Empire. From a little distance they were men who lived and walked a hundred years ago, and Agge wondered how he and the men of his time would look as extras in some future costume picture.
    Then he saw Abraham Lincoln, and his whole feeling suddenly changed. He had been brought up in the dawn of Scandinavian socialism when Nicolay’s biography was much read. He had been told Lincoln was a great man whom he should admire, and he hated him instead, because he was forced upon him. But now seeing him sitting here, his legs crossed, his kindly face fixed on a forty-cent dinner, including dessert, his shawl wrapped around him as if to protect himself from the erratic air-cooling—now Prince Agge, who was in America at last, stared as a tourist at the mummy of Lenin in the Kremlin. This, then, was Lincoln. Stahr had walked on far ahead of him, turned waiting for him—but still Agge stared.
    This, then, he thought, was what they all meant to be.
    Lincoln suddenly raised a triangle of pie and jammed it in his mouth, and, a little frightened, Prince Agge hurried to join Stahr.
    “I hope you’re getting what you want,” said Stahr, feeling he had neglected him. “We’ll have some rushes in half an hour and then you can go on to as many sets as you want.”
    “I should rather stay with you,” said Prince Agge.
    “I’ll see what there is for me,” said Stahr. “Then we’ll go on together.”
    There was the Japanese consul on the release of a spy story which might offend the national sensibilities of Japan. There were phone calls and telegrams. There was some further information from Robby.
    “Now he remembers the name of the woman. He’s sure it was Smith,” said Miss Doolan. “He asked her if she wanted to come on the lot and get some dry shoes, and she said no—so she can’t sue.”
    “That’s pretty bad for a total recall—‘Smith.’ That’s a great help.” He thought a moment: “Ask the phone company for a list of Smiths that have taken new phones here in the last month. Call them all.”
    “All right.”

Chapter IV
    “How are you, Monroe,” said Red Ridingwood. “I’m glad you came down.”
    Stahr walked past him, heading across the great stage toward the set of a brilliant room that would be used tomorrow. Director Ridingwood followed, realizing after a moment that, however fast he walked, Stahr managed to be a step or two ahead. He recognized the indication of displeasure—he had used it himself. He had had his own studio once and he had used everything. There was no stop Stahr could pull that would surprise him. His task was the delivery of situations, and Stahr by effective business could not outplay him on his own grounds. Goldwyn had once interfered with him, and Ridingwood had led Goldwyn into trying to act out a part in front of fifty people—with the result that he had anticipated: his own authority had been restored.
    Stahr reached the brilliant set and stopped.
    “It’s no good,” said Ridingwood. “No imagination. I don’t care how you light it—–”
    “Why did you call me about it?” Stahr asked, standing close to him. “Why didn’t you take it up with Art?”
    “I didn’t ask you to come down, Monroe.”
    “You wanted to be your own supervisor.”
    “I’m sorry, Monroe,” said Ridingwood patiently, “but I didn’t ask you to come down.”
    Stahr turned suddenly and walked back toward the camera set-up. The eyes and open mouths of a group of visitors moved momentarily off the heroine of the picture, took in Stahr, and then moved vacantly back to the heroine again. They were Knights of Columbus. They had seen the host carried in procession, but this was the dream made