Babylon Revisited

by F Scott Fitzgerald


Part 1

"And where's Mr. Campbell?" Charlie asked.

"Gone to Switzerland. Mr. Campbell's a pretty sick man, Mr.Wales."

"And where is the Snow Bird?"

"He was in here last week. Anyway, his friend, Mr. Schaeffer, is in Paris."

Two familiar names from the long list of a year and a half ago. Charlie scribbled an address in his notebook and tore out the page.

"If you see Mr. Schaeffer, give him this," he said. "It's my brother-in-law's address. I haven't got a hotel yet."

He was not really disappointed to find Paris was empty. But the stillness in the Ritz bar was strange. It was not an American bar any more - he felt polite in it and not as if he owned it. He felt the stillness from the moment he got out of the taxi and saw the doorman, usually busy at this hour, gossiping by the back entrance.

"No, no more," Charlie said, "I'm going slow these days."

Alix congratulated him: "You were drinking more than was good for you a couple of years ago. How did you find America?"

"I haven't been to America for months. I'm in business in Prague, representing a couple of companies. They don't know about me over there."

Alix smiled.

"Remember the night of George Hardt's dinner here?" said Charlie. "By the way, what's become of Claude Fessenden?"

Alix lowered his voice: "He's in Paris, but he doesn't come here anymore. Paul doesn't allow it. He ran up a bill of thirty thousand francs, charging all his drinks and his lunches and usually his dinner for more than a year. And when Paul finally told him he had to pay, he gave him a bad cheque."

Alix shook his head sadly.

"Here for long, Mr. Wales?"

"I'm here for four or five days to see my little girl."

Outside, the fire-red, gas-blue, ghost-green signs shone through the gentle rain. It was late afternoon and the streets were moving.

He thought, "I spoiled this city for myself. I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone and everything was gone and I was gone."

He was thirty-five and good to look at. As he rang his brother-in-law's door bell, he felt discomfort in his stomach. From behind the maid who opened the door ran a lovely little girl of nine who shouted "Daddy!" and flew, struggling like a fish, into his arms. She pulled his head around by one ear and put her cheek against his.

"Oh, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, dads, dads, dads!"

She pulled him into the living room, where the family waited, a boy and girl his daughter's age, his sister-in-law and her husband. He greeted Marion with his voice careful to avoid either pretended enthusiasm or dislike, but her response was more frankly tepid. The two men shook hands in a friendly way and Lincoln Peters rested his for a moment on Charlie's shoulder.

The room was warm and comfortably American. But Charlie did not relax; his heart sat up in his body and he only got confidence from his daughter, who from time to time came close to him, holding in her arms the doll he had brought.

"Really extremely well," he said in answer to Lincoln's question. "My income last year was bigger than it was when I had money. You see, the Czechs..."

His boasting was for a purpose; but after a moment, seeing Lincoln's discomfort, he changed the subject:

"Those are fine children of yours, well brought-up, good manners."

"We think Honoria's a great little girl too."

Marion Peters came back from the kitchen. She was a tall woman with worried eyes, who had once had a fresh American loveliness. Charlie had never noticed it and was always surprised when people spoke of how pretty she had been. From the first, there had been antipathy between them.

"Well, how do you find Honoria?" she asked.

"Wonderful. I'm astonished how much she's grown in ten months. All the children are looking well."

"We haven't had a doctor for a year. How do you like being back in Paris?"

"It seems very funny to see so few Americans around. In the bar this afternoon" - he immediately saw his mistake - "there wasn't a man I knew."

She looked at him sharply. "I should think you'd had enough of bars."

"I only stayed a minute. I take one drink every afternoon and no more."

"Don't you want a cocktail before dinner?" Lincoln asked.

"I take only one drink every afternoon and I've had that."

"I hope you keep to it," said Marion.

Her dislike was evident in the coldness with which she spoke, but Charlie only smiled; he had larger plans. Her aggressiveness gave him an advantage and he knew enough to wait. He wanted them to begin the discussion of what they knew had brought him to Paris.

At dinner he couldn't decide whether Honoria was most like him or her mother. He thought he knew what to do for her.

He left soon after dinner, but not to go home. He was curious to see Paris by night with clearer eyes than those of the old days. The rain had stopped and there were a few people getting out of taxis. He passed a lighted door with music coming from it; it was 'Bricktop's', where he had spent so many hours and so much money.

So much for the effort and creativity of Paris. All the vice and waste was childish and he suddenly realized the meaning of the word 'dissipate' - to dissipate into thin air; to make nothing out of something. He remembered thousand-franc notes given to an orchestra for playing a single song, hundred-franc notes thrown to a doorman for calling a cab. But it hadn't been given for nothing. It had been given, so that he might not remember the things most worth remembering, the things that now he would always remember - his child taken from his control, his wife escaped to a grave in the States.

In a cheap café a woman spoke to him. He bought her some eggs and coffee, and then, escaping her encouraging stare, gave her a twenty-franc note and took a taxi to his hotel.

Part 2

He woke on a fine autumn day - football weather. The depression of yesterday was gone and he liked the people on the streets. At twelve o'clock, he sat opposite Honoria at the only restaurant he could think of that did not remind him of champagne dinners and long lunches that began at two and ended at twilight.

"Now, how about vegetables? Shouldn't you have some vegetables?"

"Well, yes."

"Here's carrots and green beans."

"I'd like green beans."

"Wouldn't you like to have two vegetables?"

"I usually only have one at lunch."

The waiter disappeared. Honoria looked at her father expectantly.

"What are we going to do?"

"First, we're going to that toy store to buy you anything you like. And then we're going to the theatre."

She hesitated. "I like the idea about the theatre, but not the toy store."

"Why not?"

"Well, you brought me this doll." She had it with her. "And I've got lots. And we're not rich any more, are we?"

"We never were. But today you are to have anything you want."

When her mother was there, he had been strict; now he must be both parents to her and not shut her out.

"I want to get to know you," he said gravely. "Let me introduce myself. My name's Charles Wales of Prague."

"Oh, daddy!" her voice shook with laughter.

"And who are you, please?" he persisted and she accepted immediately: "Honoria Wales, Paris."

"Married or single?"

"No, not married. Single."

He pointed to the doll. "But I see you have a child, madame."

She held it close and thought quickly: "Yes, I've been married, but I'm not now. My husband is dead."

He went on quickly, "And the child's name?"

"Simone. That's after my best friend at school."

"I'm very pleased that you're doing so well at school."

"I'm third this month," she boasted. "Elsie" - that was her cousin - "is only eighteenth, and Richard is at the bottom."

"You like Richard and Elsie, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. I like Richard a lot and I like her all right."

Cautiously he asked: "And Aunt Marion and Uncle Lincoln - which do you like best?"

"Oh, Uncle Lincoln, I guess."

"Why don't I live with you?" she asked suddenly. "Because mamma's dead?"

"You must stay here and learn more French. It would have been hard for daddy to take care of you so well."

"I don't really need much taking care of anymore. I do everything for myself."

As they were leaving the restaurant, a man and a woman unexpectedly called him.

"Well, old Wales!"

"Hello there, Lorraine. . . . Dunc."

Sudden ghosts out of the past: Duncan Schaeffer, a friend from college. Lorraine Quarrles, a lovely, pale blonde of thirty; one of a crowd who helped them make months into days in the extravagant times of three years ago.

"My husband couldn't come this year," she said, in answer to his question. "We're poor as hell. So he gave me two hundred a month and told me I could do my worst on that. . . . Is this your little girl?"

"What about coming back and sitting down?" Duncan asked.

"Can't do it."

He was glad of an excuse. As always, he felt Lorraine's attraction, but his own rhythm was different now.

"Well, how about dinner?" she asked.

"I'm not free. Give me your address and let me call you."

"Charlie, I believe you're sober," she said. "I honestly believe he's sober, Dunc."

Charlie pointed to Honoria. They both laughed.

"What's your address?" said Duncan.

He hesitated, unwilling to give the name of his hotel.

"I'm not settled yet. I'd better call you. We're going to the theatre."

"That's what I want to do," Lorraine said. "I want to see some clowns and acrobats. That's just what we'll do."

"We've got to do an errand first," said Charlie. "Perhaps we'll see you there."

Somehow, an unwelcome meeting. They liked him because he was functioning, because he was serious; they wanted to see him because he was stronger than they were now.

Between the different parts of the show, they came across Duncan and Lorraine in the lobby.

"Have a drink?"

"All right, but not at the bar. We'll take a table."

"The perfect father."

Listening abstractedly to Lorraine, Charlie watched Honoria's eyes leave their table, and he followed them about the room, wondering what they saw. He met her glance and she smiled.

"I liked that lemonade," she said.

What had she said? What had he expected? Going home in a taxi afterwards, he pulled her over until her head rested against his chest.

"Darling, do you ever think about your mother?"

"Yes, sometimes," she answered vaguely.

"I don't want you to forget her. Have you got a picture of her?"

"Yes, I think so. Anyhow, Aunt Marion has. Why don't you want me to forget her?"

"She loved you very much."

"I loved her too."

They were silent for a moment.

"Daddy, I want to come and live with you," she said suddenly.

His heart jumped; he had wanted it to come like this.

"Aren't you happy?"

"Yes, but I love you better than anybody. And you love me better than anybody, don't you, now that mummy's dead?"

"Of course I do."

He didn't go in. He was coming back at nine o'clock and he wanted to keep himself fresh for what he must say then.

"When you're safe inside, just show yourself in that window."

"Alright. Good-bye, dads, dads, dads, dads."

He waited in the dark street until she appeared, all warm and shining, in the window above and kissed her fingers out into the night.

Part 3

They were waiting. Marion sat behind the coffee service in a black dinner dress that just suggested mourning. Lincoln was walking up and down with the excitement of someone who had already been talking. They were as anxious as he was to get to the question. He opened it almost immediately:

"I suppose you know what I want to see you about - why I really came to Paris."

Marion played with her necklace and frowned.

"I'm anxious to have a home," he continued. "And I'm anxious to have Honoria in it. I appreciate your looking after her, but things have changed now" - he continued more forcibly - "changed radically with me, and I want to ask you to reconsider. It would be silly for me to deny that about three years ago I was acting badly..."

Marion looked up at him with hard eyes.

"... but all that's over. As I told you, I haven't had more than a drink a day for over a year and I take that drink deliberately, so that the idea of alcohol won't get too big in my imagination. You see the idea?"

"No," said Marion succinctly.

"I get you," said Lincoln. "You don't want to admit it's got any attraction for you."

"Something like that. Sometimes I forget and don't take it. Anyhow, I couldn't afford to drink in my position. The people I represent are more than satisfied with what I've done and I want to have Honoria. You know that even when her mother and I weren't getting along well we never let anything touch Honoria. I know she likes me and I know I'm able to take care of her and - well, there you are. How do you feel about it?"

He knew that now they would attack him. It would last an hour or two and it would be difficult, but if he hid his inevitable anger, he might win in the end. Keep calm, he told himself. You want Honoria.

Lincoln spoke first: "We've been talking it over ever since we got your letter last month. We're happy to have Honoria here. She's a dear little thing, and we're glad to be able to help her, but that isn't the question."

Marion interrupted suddenly."How long are you going to stay sober, Charlie?" she asked.

"Permanently, I hope."

"How can anybody count on that?"

"You know I never drank heavily until I gave up business and came over here with nothing to do. Then Helen and I began to run around with..."

"Please leave Helen out of it. I can't bear hearing you talk about her like that."

He stared at her grimly; he had never been certain how fond of each other the sisters were in life.

"My drinking only lasted about a year and a half, from the time we came over until I collapsed."

"It was long enough."

"It was long enough," he agreed.

"My duty is to Helen," she said. "I try to think what she would have wanted me to do. Frankly, from the night you did that terrible thing you haven't really existed for me. I can't help that. She was my sister."

"Yes."

"When she was dying she asked me to look out for Honoria. I'll never be able to forget the morning when Helen knocked at my door, wet and shivering, and said you'd locked her out."

Charlie held the sides of the chair. This was more difficult than he expected; he wanted to give a long explanation, but he only said: "The night I locked her out..." and she interrupted, "I don't feel up to going over that again."

After a moment's silence Lincoln said: "We're getting off the subject. You want Marion to give up her legal guardianship and give you Honoria. I think the main point for her is whether she has confidence in you or not."

"I don't blame Marion," Charlie said slowly, "but I think she can have confidence in me. Of course, it's possible I might go wrong any time. But if we wait much longer I'll lose Honoria's childhood and my chance for a home." He shook his head, "I'll lose her, don't you see?"

"Yes, I see," said Lincoln.

"Why didn't you think of all this before?" Marion asked.

"I suppose I did, from time to time, but Helen and I were getting along badly. When I agreed to the guardianship, I was on my back in hospital with no money. I knew I'd acted badly and I thought if it would bring any peace to Helen, I'd agree to anything. But now it's different. I'm functioning, I'm behaving damn well, so far as..."

"Please don't swear at me," Marion said.

He looked at her, startled. With each remark the force of her dislike became more and more apparent. Charlie became increasingly alarmed at leaving Honoria in this atmosphere of hostility against him; sooner or later it would come out, in a word here, a shake of the head there, and some of that distrust would spread to Honoria. But he had won a point, for Lincoln realized the absurdity of Marion's remark and asked her lightly since when she had disliked the word "damn."

"Another thing," Charlie said: "I'm able to give her certain advantages now. I'm going to take a French teacher to Prague with me. I've got a new apartment..."

He stopped, realizing that he was making a mistake. They couldn't be happy that his income was again twice as large as their own.

"I suppose you can give her more luxuries than we can," said Marion. "When you were throwing away money we were watching every franc. . .I suppose you'll start doing it again."

"Oh, no," he said. "I've learnt. I worked hard for ten years, you know - until I got lucky on the market, like so many people. It didn't seem any use working anymore, so I stopped. It won't happen again."

There was a long silence. For the first time in a year Charlie wanted a drink. He was sure now that Lincoln Peters wanted him to have his child.

Marion shivered suddenly; part of her saw that Charlie was managing well, and her own maternal feeling recognised the naturalness of his desire; but she had lived for a long time with a prejudice - prejudice established on disbelief in her sister's happiness, and which, in the shock of one terrible night, had turned to hatred for him.

"I can't help what I think!" she cried out suddenly. "How much you were responsible for Helen's death, I don't know. It's something you'll have to ask your own conscience."

For a moment he was almost on his feet, an unspoken sound in his throat. He paused for a moment, another moment.

"Hold on," said Lincoln uncomfortably. "I never thought you were responsible for that."

"Helen died of heart trouble," Charlie said dully.

"Yes, heart trouble." Marion spoke as if the phrase had another meaning for her.

Then, she saw him plainly and she knew he had somehow arrived at control over the situation. Glancing at her husband, she found no help from him, and as if it were unimportant, she gave in.

"Do what you like!" she cried, jumping up from her chair. "She's your child. I'm not the person to stand in your way. I think if it were my child I'd rather see her..." She managed to stop herself. "You two decide it. I can't stand this. I'm sick. I'm going to bed."

She hurried from the room. After a moment Lincoln said:

"This has been a hard day for her. You know how strongly she feels." His voice was almost apologetic: "When a woman gets an idea in her head."

"Of course."

"It's going to be all right. I think she sees now that you... can provide for the child, and so we can't stand in your way or Honoria's way."

But back in his room he couldn't sleep. The image of Helen haunted him. Helen whom he had loved so much until they had stupidly begun to abuse each other's love, tear it to pieces. On that terrible February night that Marion remembered so vividly, a slow quarrel had gone on for hours. There was a scene at the Florida, when she kissed young Webb at a table. When he arrived home alone he turned the key in the lock in wild anger. How could he know she would arrive an hour later alone, that there would be snow in which she wandered about in slippers, too confused to find a taxi? Then the result: her only escaping pneumonia by a miracle. They were "reconciled," but that was the beginning of the end and Marion never forgot.

Going over it again brought Helen nearer and, in the white, soft light that steals upon half sleep near morning, he found himself talking to her again. She said that he was perfectly right about Honoria and that she wanted Honoria to be with him. She said she was glad he was doing better.

Part 4

He woke up feeling happy. The door of the world was open again. He made plans, futures for Honoria and himself, but suddenly he grew sad, remembering all the plans he and Helen had made. She had not planned to die. The present was the thing - work to do and someone to love.

It was another bright, crisp day. He called Lincoln Peters at the bank where he worked and asked if he could count on taking Honoria when he left for Prague. Lincoln agreed that there was no reason for delay. One thing - the legal guardianship. Marion wanted to keep that a while longer. She was upset by the whole matter and it would help things if she felt that the situation was still in her control for another year. Charlie agreed, wanting only the tangible, visible child.

He lunched with Lincoln Peters at Griffons, trying to keep down his happiness.

"There's nothing quite like your own child," Lincoln said. "But you understand how Marion feels too."

"She's forgotten how hard I worked for seven years there," Charlie said. "She just remembers one night."

"There's another thing." Lincoln hesitated. "While you and Helen were rushing around Europe throwing money away, we were just surviving. I think Marion felt there was some kind of injustice in it - you not even working towards the end, and getting richer and richer."

"It went just as quickly as it came," said Charlie.

"Yes, a lot of it stayed in the hands of saxophone players and waiters - well, the big party's over now. I just said that to explain Marion's feeling about those crazy years. If you drop in about six o'clock tonight before Marion's too tired, we'll settle the details on the spot."

Back at his hotel, Charlie found a note that had been sent from the Ritz bar where Charlie had left his address.

"Dear Charlie,

"You were so strange when we saw you the other day that I wondered if I had done something to upset you. If so, I'm not aware of it.

"We did have such good times that crazy spring, like the night you and I stole the butcher's bicycle, and the time we tried to call the president. Everybody seems so old lately, but I don't feel old a bit. Couldn't we get together some time today? I've got a hangover at the moment, but will look for you about five at the Ritz.

"LORRAINE."

He tried to picture how Lorraine had appeared to him then - very attractive; Helen was unhappy about it, though she said nothing. Yesterday, Lorraine had seemed trite, worn. He certainly did not want to see her and he was glad Alix had not given away his hotel address. It was a relief to think, instead, of Honoria, to think of Sundays spent with her and of saying good morning to her and of knowing she was there in his house at night, breathing in the darkness.

At five he took a taxi and bought presents for all the Peters - a doll, a box of Roman soldiers, flowers for Marion, big handkerchiefs for Lincoln.

He saw when he arrived in the apartment, that Marion had accepted the inevitable. She said hello to him now as though he were an unwelcome member of the family, rather than an unwelcome outsider. Honoria had been told she was going. She whispered her happiness and the question "When?" before she ran away with the other children.

He and Marion were alone for a minute in the room, and on an impulse he spoke out bravely:

"Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. I wish you and I could be on better terms."

"Some things are hard to forget," she answered. "It's a question of confidence." There was no answer to this and she asked, "When do you want to take her?"

"As soon as I can. I hoped the day after tomorrow."

"That's impossible. I've got to get her things ready. Not before Saturday."

He agreed. Coming back into the room, Lincoln offered him a drink.

"I'll take my daily whisky," he said.

A long ring at the door-bell. The door opened on another long ring and then voices, and the three of them looked up expectantly. Then the maid came back along the hall, closely followed by the voices, which developed into Duncan Schaeffer and Lorraine Quarrles.

Anxious, Charlie shook hands with them quickly and introduced them to Lincoln and Marion. Marion nodded. She had stepped back towards the fire; her little girl stood beside her, and Marion put an arm about her shoulder.

With growing annoyance, Charlie waited for them to explain. After some concentration Duncan said:

"We came to invite you out to dinner."

Charlie came closer to them, as if to force them backwards down the hall.

"Sorry, but I can't. Tell me where you'll be and I'll phone you in half an hour."

Lorraine sat down suddenly on the side of a chair, and focussing her eyes on Richard, cried, "Oh, what a nice little boy! Come here, little boy." Richard glanced at his mother but did not move. Lorraine turned back to Charlie:

"Come and eat. Surely your cousins won't mind. I see you so seldom."

"I can't," said Charlie sharply. "You two have dinner and I'll phone you."

Her voice became suddenly unpleasant. "All right, we'll go. But I remember once when you came to my door at four a.m. I was good enough to give you a drink. Come on, Dunc."

Still in slow motion, with angry faces, with uncertain feet, they walked back along the hall.

"Good night," Charlie said.

When he went back, Marion had not moved, only now her son was standing in the circle of her other arm.

Neither of them spoke. Charlie dropped into an armchair, picked up his drink, put it down again and said:

"People I haven't seen for two years..."

He broke off. Marion had made the sound "Oh!" in one furious breath, turned and left the room.

Lincoln put Honoria down carefully.

"You children go in and start your soup," he said, and when they obeyed, he said to Charlie:

"Marion's not well and she can't stand shocks. That kind of people make her physically sick."

"I didn't tell them to come here. They deliberately..."

"Well, it's too bad. It doesn't help. Excuse me a minute."

In a minute Lincoln came back. "Look here, Charlie. I think we'd better call off dinner for tonight. Marion's in bad shape."

"Is she angry with me?"

"Sort of," he said, almost roughly. "She's not strong and..."

"You mean she's changed her mind about Honoria?"

"She's bitter right now. I don't know. You phone me at the bank tomorrow."

"I wish you'd explain to her I never dreamed these people would come here. I'm just as angry as you are."

"I couldn't explain anything to her now."

Charlie got up. He took his coat and hat and started down the hall. Then he opened the door of the dining room and said in a strange voice, "Good night, children."

Honoria got up and ran around the table to hug him.

Part 5

Charlie went directly to the Ritz bar with the furious idea of finding Lorraine and Duncan but they were not there and he realized that in any case there was nothing he could do. He had not touched his drink at the Peters', and now he ordered a whisky.

He went to the phone and called the Peters' apartment; Lincoln answered.

"I called up because this thing is on my mind. Has Marion said anything definite?"

"Marion's sick," Lincoln answered shortly. "I know this thing isn't altogether your fault, but we'll have to delay for six months."

"I see."

"I'm sorry, Charlie."

He went back to his table. His whisky glass was empty, but he shook his head when Alix looked at it. There wasn't much he could do now except send Honoria some things; he would send her a lot of things tomorrow.

"No, no more," he said to another waiter. "What do I owe you?"

He would come back some day; they couldn't make him pay forever. But he wanted his child and nothing was much good now, beside that fact. He wasn't young any more, with a lot of nice thoughts and dreams to have by himself. He was sure Helen wouldn't want him to be so alone.