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Tender Is the Night - Book One
by F. Scott Fitzgerald
BOOK I
Chapter 1
ON the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential1 palms cool its flushed façade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted2 after its English clientele went north in April. Now, many bungalows3 cluster near it, but when this story begins only the cupolas of a dozen old villas4 rotted like water lilies among the massed pines between Gausse’s Hôtel des Étrangers and Cannes, five miles away.
The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old fortifications, the purple Alp that bounded Italy, were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples5 and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows. Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly6 water, and much grunting7 and loud breathing, floundered a minute in the sea. When he had gone, beach and bay were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward8 on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines. In another hour the horns of motors began to blow down from the winding9 road along the low range of the Maures, which separates the littoral10 from true Provençal France.
A mile from the sea, where pines give way to dusty poplars, is an isolated11 railroad stop, whence one June morning in 1925 a victoria brought a woman and her daughter down to Gausse’s Hôtel. The mother’s face was of a fading prettiness that would soon be patted with broken veins12; her expression was both tranquil13 and aware in a pleasant way. However, one’s eyes moved on quickly to her daughter, who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame, like the thrilling flush of children after their cold baths in the evening. Her fine high forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet, and shining, the color of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered14 delicately on the last edge of childhood—she was almost eighteen, nearly complete, but the dew was still on her.
As sea and sky appeared below them in a thin, hot line the mother said:
“Something tells me we’re not going to like this place.”
“I want to go home anyhow,” the girl answered.
They both spoke15 cheerfully but were obviously without direction and bored by the fact—moreover, just any direction would not do. They wanted high excitement, not from the necessity of stimulating16 jaded17 nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren who deserved their vacations.
“We’ll stay three days and then go home. I’ll wire right away for steamer tickets.”
At the hotel the girl made the reservation in idiomatic18 but rather flat French, like something remembered. When they were installed on the ground floor she walked into the glare of the French windows and out a few steps onto the stone veranda19 that ran the length of the hotel. When she walked she carried herself like a ballet-dancer, not slumped20 down on her hips21 but held up in the small of her back. Out there the hot light clipped close her shadow and she retreated—it was too bright to see. Fifty yards away the Mediterranean22 yielded up its pigments23, moment by moment, to the brutal24 sunshine; below the balustrade a faded Buick cooked on the hotel drive.
Indeed, of all the region only the beach stirred with activity. Three British nannies sat knitting the slow pattern of Victorian England, the pattern of the forties, the sixties, and the eighties, into sweaters and socks, to the tune25 of gossip as formalized as incantation; closer to the sea a dozen persons kept house under striped umbrellas, while their dozen children pursued unintimidated fish through the shallows or lay naked and glistening26 with cocoanut oil out in the sun.
As Rosemary came onto the beach a boy of twelve ran past her and dashed into the sea with exultant27 cries. Feeling the impactive scrutiny28 of strange faces, she took off her bathrobe and followed. She floated face down for a few yards and finding it shallow staggered to her feet and plodded29 forward, dragging slim legs like weights against the resistance of the water. When it was about breast high, she glanced back toward shore: a bald man in a monocle and a pair of tights, his tufted chest thrown out, his brash navel sucked in, was regarding her attentively30. As Rosemary returned the gaze the man dislodged the monocle, which went into hiding amid the facetious31 whiskers of his chest, and poured himself a glass of something from a bottle in his hand.
Rosemary laid her face on the water and swam a choppy little four-beat crawl out to the raft. The water reached up for her, pulled her down tenderly out of the heat, seeped32 in her hair and ran into the corners of her body. She turned round and round in it, embracing it, wallowing in it. Reaching the raft she was out of breath, but a tanned woman with very white teeth looked down at her, and Rosemary, suddenly conscious of the raw whiteness of her own body, turned on her back and drifted toward shore. The hairy man holding the bottle spoke to her as she came out.
“I say—they have sharks out behind the raft.” He was of indeterminate nationality, but spoke English with a slow Oxford33 drawl. “Yesterday they devoured34 two British sailors from the flotte at Golfe-Juan.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Rosemary.
“They come in for the refuse from the flotte.”
Glazing35 his eyes to indicate that he had only spoken in order to warn her, he minced36 off two steps and poured himself another drink.
Not unpleasantly self-conscious, since there had been a slight sway of attention toward her during this conversation, Rosemary looked for a place to sit. Obviously each family possessed37 the strip of sand immediately in front of its umbrella; besides there was much visiting and talking back and forth—the atmosphere of a community upon which it would be presumptuous38 to intrude39. Farther up, where the beach was strewn with pebbles40 and dead sea-weed, sat a group with flesh as white as her own. They lay under small hand-parasols instead of beach umbrellas and were obviously less indigenous41 to the place. Between the dark people and the light, Rosemary found room and spread out her peignoir on the sand.
Lying so, she first heard their voices and felt their feet skirt her body and their shapes pass between the sun and herself. The breath of an inquisitive42 dog blew warm and nervous on her neck; she could feel her skin broiling43 a little in the heat and hear the small exhausted44 wa-waa of the expiring waves. Presently her ear distinguished45 individual voices and she became aware that some one referred to scornfully as “that North guy” had kidnapped a waiter from a café in Cannes last night in order to saw him in two. The sponsor of the story was a white-haired woman in full evening dress, obviously a relic46 of the previous evening, for a tiara still clung to her head and a discouraged orchid47 expired from her shoulder. Rosemary, forming a vague antipathy48 to her and her companions, turned away.
Nearest her, on the other side, a young woman lay under a roof of umbrellas making out a list of things from a book open on the sand. Her bathing suit was pulled off her shoulders and her back, a ruddy, orange brown, set off by a string of creamy pearls, shone in the sun. Her face was hard and lovely and pitiful. Her eyes met Rosemary’s but did not see her. Beyond her was a fine man in a jockey cap and red-striped tights; then the woman Rosemary had seen on the raft, and who looked back at her, seeing her; then a man with a long face and a golden, leonine head, with blue tights and no hat, talking very seriously to an unmistakably Latin young man in black tights, both of them picking at little pieces of sea-weed in the sand. She thought they were mostly Americans, but something made them unlike the Americans she had known of late.
After a while she realized that the man in the jockey cap was giving a quiet little performance for this group; he moved gravely about with a rake, ostensibly removing gravel49 and meanwhile developing some esoteric burlesque50 held in suspension by his grave face. Its faintest ramification51 had become hilarious52, until whatever he said released a burst of laughter. Even those who, like herself, were too far away to hear, sent out antennae53 of attention until the only person on the beach not caught up in it was the young woman with the string of pearls. Perhaps from modesty54 of possession she responded to each salvo of amusement by bending closer over her list.
The man of the monocle and bottle spoke suddenly out of the sky above Rosemary.
“You are a ripping swimmer.”
“Jolly good. My name is Campion. Here is a lady who says she saw you in Sorrento last week and knows who you are and would so like to meet you.”
Glancing around with concealed56 annoyance57 Rosemary saw the untanned people were waiting. Reluctantly she got up and went over to them.
“Mrs. Abrams—Mrs. McKisco—Mr. McKisco—Mr. Dumphry——”
“We know who you are,” spoke up the woman in evening dress. “You’re Rosemary Hoyt and I recognized you in Sorrento and asked the hotel clerk and we all think you’re perfectly58 marvellous and we want to know why you’re not back in America making another marvellous moving picture.”
They made a superfluous59 gesture of moving over for her. The woman who had recognized her was not a Jewess, despite her name. She was one of those elderly “good sports” preserved by an imperviousness60 to experience and a good digestion61 into another generation.
“We wanted to warn you about getting burned the first day,” she continued cheerily, “because your skin is important, but there seems to be so darn much formality on this beach that we didn’t know whether you’d mind.”
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1
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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bungalows
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| n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 )；单层小屋，多于一层的小屋 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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littoral
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| adj.海岸的；湖岸的；n.沿（海）岸地区 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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idiomatic
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| adj.成语的，符合语言习惯的 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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pigments
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| n.（粉状）颜料( pigment的名词复数 )；天然色素 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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seeped
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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minced
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| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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40
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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42
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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ramification
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| n.分枝，分派，衍生物 | |
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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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antennae
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| n.天线；触角 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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imperviousness
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| 不透性；不通透性；不透水 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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