The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader pc .TXT) 📕

indecision: there were times when he thought that he loved Cynthia, times when he was sure that he didn’t; when he had just about made up his mind that he hated her, he found himself planning to follow her to New Rochelle; he tried to persuade himself that his conduct was no more reprehensible than that of his comrades, but shame invariably overwhelmed his arguments; there were hours when he ached for Cynthia, and hours when he loathed her for smashing something that had been beautiful. Most of all, he wanted comfort, advice, but he knew no one to whom he was willing to give his confidence. Somehow, he couldn’t admit his drunkenness to anyone whose advice he valued. He called on Professor Henley twice, intending to make a clean breast of his transgressions. Henley, he knew, would not lecture him, but when he found himself facing him, he could not bring himself to confession; he was afraid of losing Henley’s respect.

Finally, in desperation, he talked to Norry, not because he thought Norry could help him but because he had to talk to somebody and Norry already knew the worst. They went walking far out into the country, idly discussing campus gossip or pausing to revel in the beauty of the night, the clear, clean sky, the pale moon, the fireflies sparkling suddenly over the meadows or even to the treetops. Weary from their long walk, they sat down on a stump, and Hugh let the dam of his emotion break.

“Norry,” he began intensely, “I’m in hell⁠—in hell. It’s a week since Prom, and I haven’t had a line from Cynthia. I haven’t dared write to her.”

“Why not?”

“She⁠—she⁠—oh, damn it!⁠—she told me before she left that everything was all off. That’s why she left early. She said that we didn’t love each other, that all we felt was sex attraction. I don’t know whether she’s right or not, but I miss her like the devil. I⁠—I feel empty, sort of hollow inside, as if everything had suddenly been poured out of me⁠—and there’s nothing to take its place. I was full of Cynthia, you see, and now there’s no Cynthia. There’s nothing left but⁠—oh, God, Norry, I’m ashamed of myself. I feel⁠—dirty.” The last word was hardly audible.

Norry touched his arm. “I know, Hugh, and I’m awfully sorry. I think, though, that Cynthia was right. I know her better than you do. She’s an awfully good kid but not your kind at all; I think I feel as badly almost as you do about it.” He paused a moment and then said simply, “I was so proud of you, Hugh.”

“Don’t!” Hugh exclaimed. “I want to kill myself when you say things like that.”

“You don’t understand. I know that you don’t understand. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since Prom, too. I’ve thought over a lot of things that you’ve said to me⁠—about me, I mean. Why, Hugh, you think I’m not human. I don’t believe you think I have passions like the rest of you. Well, I do, and sometimes it’s⁠—it’s awful. I’m telling you that so you’ll understand that I know how you feel. But love’s beautiful to me, Hugh, the most wonderful thing in the world. I was in love with a girl once⁠—and I know. She didn’t give a hang for me; she thought I was a baby. I suffered awfully; but I know that my love was beautiful, as beautiful as⁠—” He looked around for a simile⁠—“as tonight. I think it’s because of that that I hate mugging and petting and that sort of thing. I don’t want beauty debased. I want to fight when orchestras jazz famous arias. Well, petting is jazzing love; and I hate it. Do you see what I mean?”

Hugh looked at him wonderingly. He didn’t know this Norry at all. “Yes,” he said slowly; “yes, I see what you mean; I think I do, anyway. But what has it to do with me?”

“Well, I know most of the fellows pet and all that sort of thing, and they don’t think anything about it. But you’re different; you love beautiful things as much as I do. You told me yourself that Jimmie Henley said last year that you were gifted. You can write and sing and run, but I’ve just realized that you aren’t proud of those things at all; you just take them for granted. And you’re ashamed that you write poetry. Some of your poems are good, but you haven’t sent any of them to the poetry magazine. You don’t want anybody to know that you write poetry. You’re trying to make yourself like fellows that are inferior to you.” Norry was piteously in earnest. His hero had crumbled into clay before his eyes, and he was trying to patch him together again preparatory to boosting him back upon his pedestal.

“Oh, cripes, Norry,” Hugh said a little impatiently, “you exaggerate all my virtues; you always have. I’m not half the fellow you think I am. I do love beautiful things, but I don’t believe my poetry is any good.” He paused a moment and then confessed mournfully: “I’ll admit, though, that I have been going downhill. I’m going to do better from now on. You watch me.”

They talked for hours, Norry embarrassing Hugh with the frankness of his admiration. Norry’s hero-worship had always embarrassed him, but he didn’t like it when the worshiper began to criticize. He admitted the justness of the criticism, but it hurt him just the same. Perching on a pedestal had been uncomfortable but a little thrilling; sitting on the ground and gazing up at his perch was rather humiliating. The fall had bruised him; and Norry, with the best intentions in the world, was kicking the bruises.

Nevertheless, he felt better after the talk, determined to win back Norry’s esteem and his own. He swore off smoking and drinking and stuck to his oath. He told Vinton that if he brought any more liquor to