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    The Hotel Child
    The Hotel Child
    The Hotel Child
    Ebook31 pages27 minutes

    The Hotel Child

    By Francis Scott Fitzgerald

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    About this ebook

    The Hotel Child was written in the year 1931 by Francis Scott Fitzgerald. This book is one of the most popular novels of Francis Scott Fitzgerald, and has been translated into several other languages around the world.

    This book is published by Booklassic which brings young readers closer to classic literature globally.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBooklassic
    Release dateJul 7, 2015
    ISBN9789635220557
    The Hotel Child
    Author

    Francis Scott Fitzgerald

    Francis Scott Fitzgerald (Saint Paul, 1896-Hollywood, 1940) es considerado uno de los más importantes escritores estadounidenses del siglo XX y el portavoz de la generación perdida. El gran Gatsby se publicó por primera vez en 1925 y fue inmediatamente celebrada como una obra maestra por autores como T. S. Eliot, Gertrude Stein o Edith Wharton.

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      Book preview

      The Hotel Child - Francis Scott Fitzgerald

      978-963-522-055-7

      Chapter 1

      It is a place where one's instinct is to give a reason for being there—Oh, you see, I'm here because— Failing that, you are faintly suspect, because this corner of Europe does not draw people; rather, it accepts them without too many inconvenient questions—live and let live. Routes cross here—people bound for private cliniques or tuberculosis resorts in the mountains, people who are no longer persona grata in Italy or France. And if that were all—

      Yet on a gala night at the Hotel des Trois Mondes a new arrival would scarcely detect the current beneath the surface. Watching the dancing there would be a gallery of Englishwomen of a certain age, with neckbands, dyed hair and faces powdered pinkish gray; a gallery of American women of a certain age, with snowy-white transformations, black dresses and lips of cherry red. And most of them with their eyes swinging right or left from time to time to rest upon the ubiquitous Fifi. The entire hotel had been made aware that Fifi had reached the age of eighteen that night.

      Fifi Schwartz. An exquisitely, radiantly beautiful Jewess whose fine, high forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of soft dark red. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet and shining; the color of her cheeks and lips was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body was so assertively adequate that one cynic had been heard to remark that she always looked as if she had nothing on underneath her dresses; but he was probably wrong, for Fifi had been as thoroughly equipped for beauty by man as by God. Such dresses—cerise for Chanel, mauve for Molyneux, pink for Patou; dozens of them, tight at the hips, swaying, furling, folding just an eighth of an inch off the dancing floor. Tonight she was a woman of thirty in dazzling black, with long white gloves dripping from her forearms. Such ghastly taste, the whispers said. The stage, the shop window, the manikins' parade. What can her mother be thinking? But, then, look at her mother.

      Her mother sat apart with a friend and thought about Fifi and

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