Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald

by Therese Anne Fowler

  Later, Scott told me he’d awakened and wondered where I’d gone. When I didn’t come back, he went looking and discovered me on the bathroom floor, slumped against the wall. He ran for help. Gerald and Sara sent one of their groundskeepers for a doctor, then the three of them got me up and walked me around for hours, they said. Meanwhile the sun was rising and the birds were racing from branch to branch throughout the garden.

  The doctor wouldn’t show up until almost noon, having been dispatched to deliver a baby in nearby Le Ponteil, so around the gardens we went. Only when I could respond coherently to their questions did they allow me to lie down and sleep off the remaining effects. I remember nothing about any of that; only the all-encompassing blankness, an ethereal kind of joy that, Thank you, God, the pain had diminished, dissolved, and nothing would ever harm me again.

  35

  Feb. 5th, 1926

  My dearest Second Sara,

  That you’re in Paris to study at the Sorbonne cheers me immensely, though I am so sorry that John couldn’t be a better husband to you. Divorce is awful hard, I’m sure.

  Your letter found me in the Pyrenees, where we’ve come to the town of Salies-de-Béarn so that I can take the cure for what my doctor says is colitis. Daily baths in the hot salt springs will remedy everything, I gather, except the fact that my being here means I can’t see you until we return to Paris in March!

  We’re at the Hotel Bellevue, with only five other guests in the entire place. Colitis must be woefully out of style—why didn’t anyone tell me? The village is a lovely, quiet, restful place, which of course means Scott hates it. What he really hates is that he can’t be right in the thick of things with that fella Hemingway I told you about. He’s made bringing Hemingway to Max Perkins at Scribner his holy mission. I’ve washed my hands of it; Hemingway wrote a nasty little “satire” of our good friend Sherwood Anderson’s book (his own first mentor, I should add!) and insists that whichever publisher wins him for the “highly serious novel” he’s writing about bullshit—I mean bullfighting—must also agree to publish this other book, Torrents of Spring.

  Even his wife thinks he’s doing wrong. He’s a perfect bully but Scott won’t see it. Not only won’t see it, but thinks I’m jealous of the attention he’s giving his best good friend. Incidentally, Scott was against the book at first, but Hemingway pushed and Scott toppled. You’d never know Scott was the older of the two of them.

  Do you think the salts will cure me of both colonic and pessimistic irritation?

  Some good news: The Great Gatsby is now playing on Broadway. Reviews are solid and there’s a movie deal in the works, so Scott is on top of the world again.

  We’ve left Scottie with her nanny—do go see her, she’s a four-year-old butterball and after almost a year here speaks French admirablement; we can take lessons from her.

  What a gift it is to have you so nearby. —See? The salts are working already!

  With all my heart—

  Z~

  While I rested and bathed and painted and read and corresponded there at the Bellevue, Scott was busy trading letters with all manner of people. He tracked Hemingway’s trip to New York to visit publishers and cheered when he read Max’s letter and then Hemingway’s, announcing the new addition to Scott’s Scribner’s Writers’ Club. None of them called it that, you understand, but I had come to think of it that way. Scott considered himself a hero for making the match—even knowing that both he and Hemingway had lost Sherwood’s friendship and were on the outs with Gertrude Stein, who thought Torrents deplorable.

  On our return to Paris, Scott told anyone who would listen, “His novel’s the real deal. I’ve had a look at some of the early pages and it’s great stuff. My publisher—Scribner’s—gave him fifteen hundred dollars up front.” And as if this weren’t enough, he’d add, “I’m predicting The Sun Also Rises will go fifty thousand copies”—the same number of copies that each of Scott’s first two novels had eventually sold. I watched Scott extol Hemingway and understood something that explained everything and terrified me: Hemingway had become Scott’s alter ego.

  * * *

  At noon one day in March, Sara Mayfield and I met at Rotonde. “I understand what you mean about that character Hemingway,” she said, her wide blue eyes full of intensity and purpose.

  “Tell me.”

  “I was having lunch with a fellow student here a week ago, and there was a group behind us, a bunch of women all got up in belted dresses—like yours, but even fancier, in silk and such, you know? They all had the latest hats, the latest shoes, the careful, artful makeup. Anyway, I wasn’t minding their business at all until I heard one of them say ‘Zelda,’ and then I listened close; how many Zeldas can there be around here, after all?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Right. So the woman says, ‘Drum thinks he’s decent—though he thought that one critic, Gilbert Seldes, was far too kind about his novel. But she’s odd, I’ve seen it myself—Drum says she’s crazy, maybe even dangerous, and he knows them well.’ Then she says, and I quote, ‘Drum believes she’s a huge liability—he told Scott as much.’ Of course the friends wanted to know what Scott said; she tells them, ‘Oh, he agrees, but he’s working to get her under control.’”

  Drum. That could only be Hemingway. I asked Sara, “What did this supposed authority on my mental state and my marriage look like?” From her description of the group, I was sure I knew, but hoped I was wrong.

  “You don’t sound real surprised.”

  “Did you get a look at her?”

  “No—I mean, I saw them all when they came in, but which one slandered you, I don’t know.”

  “I think I do.”

  Later I repeated the story to Scott, who said, “I don’t believe a word of it. Pauline might have said some version of that, but it didn’t come from Ernest.”

  “So he never told you I’m a liability?”

  Scott’s gaze slid from mine. “He knows how much I love you, and how that distracts me sometimes.”

  “Because of how I’m always throwing myself at some fella or other, is that it?”

  “No, of course not; but you are awfully sociable sometimes. You can’t blame me for worrying, not after—”

  “If you bring up Jozan again, I swear I’ll pop you one.”

  Laughing, Scott wrapped me up in his arms, pinning my arms to my side.

  “Let me go.”

  “I can’t, sorry. I’m working to get you under control.”

  * * *

  Two days later, despite my insistence that I had no appetite and wanted to spend my day reading Theodore Dreiser’s new An American Tragedy, Scott dragged me out to Deux Magots for lunch. I’d recently read Dreiser’s first novel, Sister Carrie, having met him at some Hôtel du Cap soiree the summer before, and was interested in seeing what scandalous tale he’d written in the new book. There’s nothing like losing yourself in someone else’s troubles to make you forget your own.

  Scott took the book from me, saying, “You read Gatsby, so you’ve already gotten the gist. Come on, I need to get out for a while.”

  Before we were seated, I saw Hemingway rising from his seat at a table on the far end of the room. On the other side of the table was Pauline Pfeiffer, wearing a red silk chiffon dress that, in my opinion, made her look like she was trying too hard to be what everyone had decided she was: chic and smart and independent.

  Scott said, “Hey, there’s Pauline and Ernest—he must be just back from New York.” His surprise struck a false note, and I suddenly knew that our being here at the same time was no coincidence.

  Hemingway began to turn from the table, and Pauline reached out and grabbed his hand. Reluctance was evident in every part of her body, if not in her attire. Hemingway chucked her under the chin and then left her there alone. I wanted to go slap her, wake her out of her selfishness and stupidity—and might have, if not for what Sara Mayfield had overheard.

  “Scott, my friend, my champion,” Hemin
gway boomed, crossing the room toward us. He was grinning. “I see you’ve got the little missus in tow. How are you, Zelda? Nerves under control now?”

  “It was a stomach ailment.”

  “Anxiety will cause that. My father has nervous bouts, and good God you didn’t want to use the bathroom—or be in the house!—when he was having one of his spells. Let’s get a table, shall we?”

  While I disassembled and then rearranged a veiny corned-beef sandwich, Scott encouraged Hemingway to recount his New York trip. Scott wanted every detail about which editors Hemingway had seen and how the staff had treated him and what Max had said and whether the Scribner’s people had mentioned him, Scott, and how Hadley felt about the whole thing—he had to know it all. He said, “Hadley must be excited. It’s a tremendous step forward for your career.”

  “She’s pleased.” Hemingway’s voice was level. Then he smiled and said, “Pfife, though”—he inclined his head toward Pauline, who had remained at her table for a few minutes and was now making her way to the door—“she got Torrents, she saw the deal coming, she supported the whole thing. She’s been just amazing.” His eyes and voice lingered on her before he turned back to face us, saying, “And she’s a great friend to Hadley, too.”

  “I’ll guess you’re thinking of Ford?” Scott asked. “Trying that out?”

  He was referring to writer Ford Madox Ford, who we’d all heard was living like a polygamist with both his second wife, Stella, and a smart, thoughtful writer named Jean Rhys. Variations on a theme, that’s all it was, that’s what everyone was saying.

  Monogamy was old-fashioned and unnecessary, and wasn’t it better if these alternate relationships were conducted out in the open? Honesty and acceptance, that made all the difference; then there was no need for secrets, and everyone could get along happily. So the theory went—and it seemed that some people were succeeding at it, Ezra Pound included. The gossips said Pound’s mistress, Olga, wanted no distractions during her time with him, and so after following him and his wife to Italy, she’d given over her newborn daughter to a woman in the village and Pound was paying the woman to raise the child. This wasn’t “modern” to me, it was despicable; I’d liked Pound, and Olga, too, but now I wasn’t sure which of them I hated more.

  Maybe I was alone in finding all these things distasteful. Maybe Hadley would be as acquiescent as Stella was, and Dorothy Pound. Maybe she’d be fine with sharing her extra-manly man. I sure couldn’t predict the outcome; any woman who was willing to take Hemingway in the first place was a mystery to me.

  Hemingway said with a shrug, “All I know is it’s going to be interesting in Antibes this year.”

  Scott leaned forward. “Did I tell you? We’ve got a place there, too, we’re leaving next week. Great little villa in Juan-les-Pins, half a mile from Villa America.”

  I stared at Scott. As far as I knew, we were staying put in Paris just as we’d done the previous year and would visit the Murphys for a few weeks late in the summer. Hadn’t Scott told me that he’d assured both Harold and Max that he was going to buckle down and finish his novel, now that we were back from Salies-de-Béarn? He’d even rented a garret for the summer, “Like Ernest’s got,” he’d said, and planned to go on the wagon until the book was done. Surely he wouldn’t alter his plans—our plans—without consulting me, without informing me, even. He wasn’t that kind of husband.

  And yet.

  “That’s grand,” Hemingway said, smiling at me. I, however, couldn’t bring myself to speak.

  Scott went on cheerfully, “So whenever you need another set of eyes on the manuscript, I’m your man. And of course you can count on our support with Pauline and all that.”

  “I hoped I could,” Hemingway replied to Scott, but he was still watching me.

  After Hemingway had gone, I said, “It was real thoughtful of you to check with your wife before you went and made plans.”

  “I intended it as a surprise. You’ve had such a difficult year; I thought a few months of sunshine and sea air would thrill you.”

  “Well, you sure surprised me all right. Funny the approach you used, though—seemed more like you were surprising your great good friend. And when did you get on the two-wives bandwagon, or is there somethin’ else you’ve been meaning to tell me?”

  My sarcasm was wearing on him. “Maybe you ought to make some friends of your own, then, if you’re so jealous of mine.”

  I slapped the bread back onto my sandwich. “Cancel the villa; I want to stay here. I’m working on a painting, I’ve got Scottie signed up for ballet—you’ll break her heart if you make her wait ’til fall.”

  “She can dance around Villa America with Honoria,” he said. “What difference can it make to a five-year-old?”

  “It makes a difference to me.”

  “It’s always about you, isn’t it? You don’t like Ernest, you don’t like Gertrude, you don’t like Pound, you don’t feel well—and I understand, I accommodate your feelings, I do everything I can to help. Now I need something, some time away from Paris. I’ve already paid for the place up front. We’re going.”

  36

  Shortly after our arrival on the Riviera, Scott and I got invited to a farewell party being given for Alexander Woollcott. To Scott, this was proof that the season was off to a good start. There was little joy for me, fixated as I was on Scott’s ability to deceive me so smoothly and easily, and without the least bit of remorse. He looked relaxed, though, his skin now lightly tanned from spending a few afternoons at the beach. I had to admit that the time here was already doing him good.

  The party took place in one of the Antibes casinos. Mr. Woollcott was a slight acquaintance of ours from when we’d lived in Manhattan and Great Neck. Like George Nathan, he was a theater critic. Unlike George, he was doughy and sexless, but pleasant and kind, with a rich sense of humor.

  At such parties, the thing was to sit around at great big tables eating and drinking and taking turns making either sentimental or ribald speeches about the man of the hour. Since Mr. Woollcott was not George, the speeches at this party tended to be the sentimental sort. Only playwright Noël Coward had anything witty to say, and it was too brief and too early in the evening for his words to have much effect.

  Scott had helped himself generously to the wine. I wasn’t drinking at all and was growing restless and bored. On it went: Alexander was charming, Alexander was wonderful, Alexander was witty and wise, Alexander would be missed—nice speeches, really nice, but not captivating, and I needed to be captivated because my mind kept trying to drag me back to my outrage over having been made to come here when the life I was trying to lead was in Paris.

  Working against that outrage, though, was my recollection of Mama’s latest letter. She’d written,

  Baby, I’m not sure what gives you the notion that your husband—or any woman’s husband—is bound to consider his wife’s wishes when making decisions such as this. It’s so hard to understand the life you’re leading so far away from home.… Have you become one of those awful feminists? By my measure, your life has become foreign in every way if you are somehow led to believe that women are due equal say. We are meant to keep a respectable home and care for our husbands and children, and in return for this effort, our husbands support us entirely. Is this not the case for women in France? Certainly women deserve time to pursue hobbies and such, and can find fulfillment in interests of their own, but we are not entitled to assert them over our husbands’ priorities and wishes. Perhaps if you will accept this, your health will improve and subsequently so will your happiness.

  Part of me chafed against Mama’s old-fashioned attitudes. These were modern times, and women were more than chattel. Part of me worried that she was right; maybe I would be happier if I accepted the traditional thinking, rejected this particular aspect of the modern woman’s approach to marriage. It was so much easier to be led, to be pampered and powdered and petted for being an agreeable wife.

  Easier, I thought, but borin
g. And not only boring, but plain wrong. Who really believed that men could be trusted to always get things right?

  I stirred the ice in my water glass and watched the other women. They were bored, too, but doing their damnedest to hide it. All these men in their dapper suits, their slicked hair and waxed mustaches and tight collars—we women were all here trying to please these men, and for what? So that they could drag us to another boring, self-congratulatory event tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? We were with them for the support they provided.

  Single women could work all they wanted; married women locked themselves into a gilded cage. All of that had seemed natural before. Now, it made me angry. Now, I saw how a woman might sometimes want to steer her own course rather than trail her husband like a favored dog.

  With all the laudatory speeches done, all the Woollcott well-wishers began turning back to their companions and food and drink.

  “Hold on,” I said, seized by the need to take some kind of action, even if it was wrong. I stood up on my chair. “Hold on, everybody. Here you all are talking about Mr. Woollcott with praise that I’m sure he appreciates, but it seems kinda like you’re shortchanging him, don’t you think? Where I come from, which is a very highly traditional place in America called the state of Alabama, we never send our friends off without also giving them gifts. I’ll start,” I said. Then I reached up under my dress and shimmied out of my black silk-and-lace panties, which I tossed onto the table, knowing they’d land near Scott. “Bon voyage, Mr. Woollcott—this was the best I could do on short notice.”

  * * *

  That sure raised eyebrows—but what didn’t, that spring?

  Take also poor Hadley, arriving at Villa America with only Bumby while everyone knew that Hemingway, in Madrid for the moment, was carrying on with Pauline—though we weren’t certain yet whether Hadley knew.