The Débutante

F. Scott Fitzgerald

• Publisher: Start Publishing LLC
• Year: 2020
• eBook ISBN: 9781952438301
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Drama
• Index: Literature

"Oh, yes, coming out is such a farce nowadays, you know. One really plays around so much before one is seventeen, that it's positively anticlimax."

Scene I

A large and dainty bedroom in the Connage house—a girl’s room; pink walls and curtains and a pink bedspread on a cream-colored bed. Pink and cream are the motifs of the room, but the only article of furniture in full view is a luxurious dressing table with a glass top and a three-sided mirror. On the walls we have an expensive print of “Cherry Ripe,” a few polite dogs by Landseer, and “The Young King of the Black Isles” by Maxfield Parrish.

Great disorder consisting of the following items: (1) seven or eight empty cardboard boxes, with tissue paper tongues handing panting from their mouths; (2) an assortment of street dresses mingled with their sisters of the evening, all upon the table, all evidently new; (3) a roll of tulle, which has lost its dignity and wound itself tortuously around everything in sight; and (4) upon the two small chairs, a collection of lingerie that beggars description. One would enjoy seeing the bill called forth by the finery displayed and one is possessed by a desire to see the princess for whose benefit—Look! There’s someone!—Disappointment! This is only a maid looking for something—she lifts a heap from a chair—Not there; another heap, the dressing table, the chiffonier drawers. She brings to light several beautiful chemises and an amazing pajama, but this does not satisfy her—she goes out.

An indistinguishable mumble from the next room.

Now, we are getting warm. This is Mrs. Connage, ample, dignified, rouged to the dowager point and quite worn out. Her lips move significantly as she looks for it. Her search is less thorough than the maid’s, but there is a touch of fury in it that quite makes up for its sketchiness. She stumbles on the tulle and her “damn” is quite audible. She retires empty-handed.

More chatter outside and a girl’s voice, a very spoiled voice, says: “Of all the stupid people”—

After a pause a third seeker enters, not she of the spoiled voice but a younger edition. This is Cecelia Connage, sixteen, pretty, shrewd and constitutionally good-humored. She is dressed for the evening in a gown the obvious simplicity of which probably bores her. She goes to the nearest pile, selects a small pink garment and holds it up appraisingly.

Cecelia: Pink?

Rosalind: Yes!

Cecelia: Very snappy?

Rosalind: Yes!

Cecelia: I’ve got it!

(She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing table and commences to tickle-toe on the carpet.)

Rosalind: (Outside.) What are you doing—trying it on?

(Cecelia ceases and goes out, carrying the garment at the right shoulder. From the other door, enters Alec Connage, about twenty-three, healthy and quite sure of the cut of his dress clothes. He comes to the center of the room and in a huge voice shouts:)

Mamma!

(There is a chorus of protest from next door and encouraged he starts toward it, but is repelled by another chorus.)

Alec: So that’s where you all are! Amory Blaine is here.

Cecelia: (Quickly.) Take him down stairs.

Alec: Oh, he is down stairs.

Mrs. Connage: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him I’m sorry that I can’t meet him now.

Alec: He’s heard a lot about you all. I wish you’d hurry. Father’s telling him all about the war and he’s restless. He’s sort of temperamental.

(This last suffices to draw Cecelia into the room.)

Cecelia: (Seating herself high upon lingerie.) How do you mean temperamental?

Alec: Oh, he writes stuff.

Cecelia: Does he play the piano?

Alec: I don’t know. He’s sort of ghostly, too—makes you scared to death sometimes—you know, all that artistic business.

Cecelia: (Speculatively.) Drink?

Alec: Yes—nothing queer about him.

Cecelia: Money?

Alec: Good Lord—ask him. No, I don’t think so. Still he was at Princeton when I was at New Haven. He must have some.

Mrs. Connage: (Enter Mrs. Connage.) Alec, of course, we’re glad to have any friend of yours, but you must admit this is an inconvenient time, and he’ll be a little neglected. This is Rosalind’s week, you see. When a girl comes out she needs all the attention.

Rosalind: (Outside.) Well, then prove it by coming here and hooking me.

(Exit Mrs. Connage.)

Alec: Rosalind hasn’t changed a bit.

Cecelia: (In a lower tone.) She’s awfully spoiled.

Alec: Well, she’ll meet her match tonight.

Cecelia: Who—Mr. Amory Blaine?

(Alec nods.)

Well Rosalind has still to meet the man she can’t out-distance. Honestly, Alec, she treats men terribly. She abuses them and cuts them and breaks dates with them and yawns in their faces—and they come back for more.

Alec: They love it.

Cecelia: They hate it. She’s a—she’s a sort of vampire, I think—and she can make girls do what she wants usually—only she hates girls.

Alec: Personality runs in our family.

Cecelia: (Resignedly.) I guess it ran out before it got to me.

Alec: Does Rosalind behave herself?

Cecelia: Not particularly well. Oh, she’s average—smokes sometimes, drinks punch, frequently kissed—Oh, yes—common knowledge—one of the effects of the war, you know.

(Emerges—Mrs. Connage.)

Mrs. Connage: Rosalind’s almost finished and I can go down and meet your friend.

(Exeunt Alec and his mother.)

Rosalind: (Outside.) Oh, Mother—

Cecelia: Mother’s gone down.

(Rosalind enters, dressed—except for her flowing hair. Rosalind is unquestionably beautiful. A radiant skin with two spots of vanishing color, and a face with one of those eternal mouths, which ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• Scene I