Free This Side of Paradise (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by F. Scott Fitzgerald

superloneliness, finding a lethargic content in smoking “Bull” at the garage with one of the chauffeurs.
    The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and new summer houses and many fountains and white benches that came suddenly into sight from foliage-hung hiding-places; there was a great and constantly increasing family of white cats that prowled the many flower-beds and were silhouetted suddenly at night against the darkening trees. It was on one of the shadowy paths that Beatrice at last captured Amory, after Mr. Blaine had, as usual, retired for the evening to his private library. After reproving him for avoiding her, she took him for a long tête-à-tête in the moonlight. He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, that was mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of a fortunate woman of thirty.
    “Amory, dear,” she crooned softly, “I had such a strange, weird time after I left you.”
    “Did you, Beatrice?”
    “When I had my last breakdown”—she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant feat.
    “The doctors told me”—her voice sang on a confidential note—“that if any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would have been physically shattered, my dear, and in his grave —long in his grave.”
    Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker.
    “Yes,” continued Beatrice tragically, “I had dreams—wonderful visions.” She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. “I saw bronze rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air, parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and the flare of barbaric trumpets—what?”
    Amory had snickered.
    “What, Amory?”
    “I said go on, Beatrice.”
    “That was all—it merely recurred and recurred—gardens that flaunted coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons—”
    “Are you quite well now, Beatrice?”
    “Quite well—as well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory. I know that can’t express it to you, Amory, but—I am not understood.”
    Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his head gently against her shoulder.
    “Poor Beatrice—poor Beatrice.”
    “Tell me about you, Amory. Did you have two horrible years?”
    Amory considered lying, and then decided against it.
    “No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself to the bourgeoisie. I became conventional.” He surprised himself by saying that, and he pictured how Froggy would have gaped.
    “Beatrice,” he said suddenly, “I want to go away to school. Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away to school.”
    Beatrice showed some alarm.
    “But you’re only fifteen.”
    “Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I want to, Beatrice.”
    On Beatrice’s suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying:
    “Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, you can go to school.”
    “Yes?”
    “To St. Regis’s in Connecticut.”
    Amory felt a quick excitement.
    “It’s being arranged,” continued Beatrice. “It’s better that you should go away. I’d have preferred you to have gone to Eton, and then to Christ Church, Oxford, but it seems impracticable now—and for the present we’ll let the university question take care of itself.”
    “What are you going to do, Beatrice?”
    “Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away my years in this country. Not for a second do I regret being American—indeed, I think that a regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel sure we are the great coming nation—yet”—and she sighed—“I feel my life should have drowsed away close to an older, mellower civilization, a land of greens and autumnal browns—”
    Amory did not answer, so his mother continued:
    “My regret is that you haven’t been