(a) The nature of any such poison would, of course, be too subtle for us. I believe she needs
(1) Naturally all you include under the term reeducation.
(b) Renewal of full physical relations with husband, a thing to be enormously aided by an actual timing of the visits to the periods just before and just after menstruation, and avoiding visits in the middle of such times or in the exact centre of the interval.
(c) To disintoxicate artificially in exact accord with the intensity of the reeducation. I can not believe that with her bad eyes that give her headaches and her many highly developed artistic appreciations, that embroidery, carpentry or book-binding are, in her case, any substitute for real sweating. She has a desire to sweat—for many summers she cooked all the pigments out of her skin tanning herself. I know this is difficult now but couldn’t she take intensive tennis lessons in the spring or couldn’t we think of something? Golf perhaps?
(d) Failing this I believe artificial eliminations should be absolutely concurrent with every effort at mental cure. I believe that constipation or delayed menstruations or lack of real exercise at such a time should be foreseen and forestalled as, in my opinion, eczema will always be the result.
I suppose the only new thing in all this is that I connect the eczema with one only sort of agitation the good sort and not with all agitation. Will you write me whether you agree at all while this is still fresh in your mind. I left my American addresses at the desk. Is her physical health good in general? Have her eyes been examined—she complains that her lorgnettes no longer work. The doctoress told me she had no warm underwear and I recommended some very light angora wool and silk stuff but Telda wouldn’t listen to me.
She was enormously moved by my father’s death or by my grief at it and literally clung to me for an hour. Then she went into the other personality and was awful to me at lunch. After lunch she returned to the affectionate tender mood, utterly normal, so that with pressure I could have manoeuvred her into intercourse but the eczema was almost visibly increasing so I left early. Toward the very end she was back in the schizophrania.
I was encouraged by our talk to-day. I am having this typed and translated and sent you from Paris. I shall be back in three or four weeks. Would you kindly cable me five or six words at about the middle of every week to the address LITOBER NEW YORK (my name not required).
Always gratefully yours,
TO: Maxwell Perkins
c. January 15, 1932
ALS, 2 pp. Princeton University
Don Ce-Sar Hotel stationery.
St. Petersburg, Florida
For three days only
Dear Max:
At last for the first time in two years + 1/2 I am going to spend five consecutive months on my novel. I am actually six thousand dollars ahead Am replanning it to include what’s good in what I have, adding 41,000 new words + publishing. Don’t tell Ernest or anyone—let them think what they want—you’re the only one whose ever consistently felt faith in me anyhow.
Your letters still sound sad. For God’s sake take your vacation this winter. Nobody could quite ruin the house in your absence, or would dare to take any important steps. Give them a chance to see how much they depend on you + when you come back cut off an empty head or two. Thalberg1 did that with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
Which reminds me that I’m doing that “Hollywood Revisited” in the evenings + it will be along in, I think, six days—maybe ten.
Have Nunnally Johnston’s humorous stories from the Post been collected? Everybody reads them. Please at least look into this. Ask Myers—he ought to search back at least a year which is as long as I’ve been meaning to write you about it.
Where in hell are my Scandanavian copies of The Great Gatsby?
You couldn’t have sent me anything I enjoyed more than the Churchill book.2
Always Yours Devotedly
Scott Fitz
TO: Dr. Mildred Squires3
CC of retyped letter, 2 pp.
Alan Mason Chesney Medical Archives,
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Montgomery, Alabama
Zelda Fitzgerald
#6408
3.14.32
Letter from husband.
Dear Dr. Squires:
Zelda’s novel,1 or rather her intention of publishing it without any discussion, has upset me considerably. First, because it is such a mixture of good and bad in its present form that it has no chance of artistic success, and, second, because of some of the material within the novel.
As you may know I have been working intermittently for four years on a novel which covers the life we led in Europe. Since the spring of 1930 I have been unable to proceed because of the necessity of keeping Zelda in sanitariums. However, about fifty thousand words exist and this Zelda has heard, and literally one whole section of her novel is an imitation of it, of its rythym, materials, even statements and speeches. Now you may say that the experience which two people have undergone is common is common property—one transmutes the same scene through different temperments and it “comes out different” As you will see from my letter to her there are only two episodes, both of which she has reduced to anecdotes but upon which whole sections of my book turn, that I have asked her to cut. Her own material—her youth, her love for Josaune, her dancing, her observation of Americans in Paris, the fine passages about the death of her father—my critisisms of that will be simply impersonal and professional. But do you realize that “Amory Blaine” was the name of the character in my first novel to which I attached my adventures and opinions, in effect my autobiography? Do you think that his turning up in a novel signed by my wife as a somewhat aenemic portrait painter with a few ideas lifted from Clive Bell, Leger,2 ect. could pass unnoticed? In short it puts me in an absurd and Zelda in a rediculous position. If she should choose to examine our life together from an inimacable attitude & print her conclusions I could do nothing but answer in kind or be silent, as I chose—but this mixture of fact and fiction is simply calculated to ruin us both, or what is left of us, and I can’t let it stand. Using the name of a character I invented to put intimate facts in the hands of the friends and enemies we have accumulated enroute—My God, my books made her a legend and her single intention in this somewhat thin portrait is to make me a non-entity. That’s why she sent the book directly to New York.
Of course were she not sick I would have to regard the matter as an act of disloyalty or else as something to turn over to a lawyer. Now I don’t know how to regard it. I know however that this is pretty near the end. Her mother thinks she is an abused angel incarcerated there by my bad judgement or ill intention. In the whole family there is just a bare competence save what I dredge up out of my talent and work to pay for such luxuries as insanity. But Scotty and I must live and it is getting more and more difficult in this atmosphere of suspicion to turn out the convinced and well-decorated sopiusous for which Mr. Lorimer pays me my bribe.
My suggestion is this—that you try to find why Zelda sent to the novel north without getting my advice, which, as I have given her her entire literary education, all her encouragement and all her opportunity, was the natural thing to do.
Secondly that you tell Mrs. Sayre that I am any kind of a villain you want, and that you have private information on the fact, but htat her daughter is sick, sick, sick, and that there is no possibility of being mistaken on that.
Third—keep the novel out of circulation until Zelda reads my detailed criticism & appeal to reason which will take two days more to prepare.
Meanwhile I will live here in a state of mild masturbation and a couple of whiskys to go to sleep on, until my lease expires April 15th when I will come north. I appreciate your letters and understand the difficulties of prognosis in this case. My sister-in-law will be north this week. She is a trivial, charming woman and we dislike each other deeply. Her observation or analysis of any given series of facts is open to the same skeptesism as that of any member of the Sayre family—they left the habit of thinki
ng to the judge for so long that it practically has become a parlor game with them.
I enclose Zelda a check for fifty dollars.
Yours Sincerely & Gratefully
F. Scott Fitzgerald
TO: Maxwell Perkins
Wire. Princeton University
MONTGOMERY ALA 1932 MAR 16 PM 10 21
PLEASE DO NOT JUDGE OR IF NOT ALREADY DONE EVEN CONSIDER ZELDAS BOOK UNTIL YOU GET REVISED VERSION LETTER FOLLOWS
SCOTT FITZGERALD.
TO: Dr. Mildred Squires
CC of retyped letter, 1 p.
Alan Mason Chesney Medical Archives,
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Montgomery, Alabama
Zelda Fitzgerald
#6408
no date (I think 3.20.32)
Letter from husband.
Dear Dr. Squires:
On the advice of a doctor here I sent Zelda a very much shortened version of the letter here inclosed which incorporate my ideas on the subject of her self expression. I am simply unable to depart from my professional attitude—if you think that in any way I have departed from it please tell me—but I think that what further speculation we indulge in are in the realms of the most highly experimental ethics. I feel helpless and alone in the face of the situation; nevertheless I feel myself a personality, and if the situation continues to shape itself as one in which only one of us two can survive, perhaps you would doing a kindness to us both by recommending a separation. My whole stomach hurts when I contemplate such an eventuality—it would be throwing her broken upon a world which she despises; I would be a ruined man for years—but, alternatively, I have reached the point of submersion if I must continue to rationalize the irrational, stand always between Zelda and the world and see her build this dubitable career of hers with morsels of living matter chipped out of my mind, my belly, my nervous system and my loins. Perhaps fifty percent of our friends and relatives would tell you in all honest conviction that my drinking drove Zelda insane—the other half would assure you that her insanity drove me to drink. Niether judgement would mean anything: The former class would be composed of those who had seen me unpleasantly drunk and the latter of those who had seen Zelda unpleasantly psychotic. These two classes would be equally unanimous in saying that each of us would be well rid of the other—in full face of the irony that we have never been so desperately in love with each other in our lives. Liquor on my mouth is sweet to her; I cherish her most extravagant hallucination.
So you see I beg you not to pass the buck to me. Please, when I come north, remember that I have exhausted my intelligence on the subject—I have become a patient in the face of it. Her affair with Edward Josaune in 1925 (and mine with Lois Moran in 1927, which was a sort of regenge) shook something out of us, but we can’t both go on paying and paying forever. And yet I feel that that’s the whole trouble back of all this.
I will see you Thursday or Friday—I wish you’d tell me then what I ought to do—I mean I wish that you and Doctor Myers would re-examine the affair,
Sincerely
F. Scott Fitzgerald
TO: Maxwell Perkins
Wire. Princeton University
MONTGOMERY ALA 1932 MAR 25 PM 11 52
THINK NOVEL CAN SAFELY BE PLACED ON YOUR LIST FOR SPRING IT IS ONLY A QUESTION OF CERTAIN SMALL BUT NONE THE LESS NECESSARY REVISIONS MY DISCOURAGEMENT WAS CAUSED BY THE FACT THAT MYSELF AND DAUGHTER WERE SICK WHEN ZELDA SAW FIT TO SEND MANUSCRIPT TO YOU YOU CAN HELP ME BY RETURNING MANUSCRIPT TO HER UPON HER REQUEST GIVING SOME PRETEXT FOR NOT HAVING AS YET TIME READ IT AM NOW BETTER AND WILL WRITE LETTER TOMORROW IN MY OPINION IT IS A FINE NOVEL STOP WILL TAKE UP ARTICLE AS SOON AS I HAVE FINISHED CURRENT POST STORY WHICH WILL BE ON ARRIVAL BALTIMORE WEDNESDAY BEST REGARDS FAITHFULLY
SCOTT FITZGERALD.
TO: Maxwell Perkins
Wire. Princeton University
MONTGOMERY ALA 1150 A 1932 MAR 28 PM 141
READ MANUSCRIPT BUT IF YOU HAVE ALREADY RETURNED IT WIRE AND ILL SEND MY COPY STOP IF YOU LIKE IT AND WANT TO USE IMMEDIATELY REMEMBER ALL MIDDLE SECTION MUST BE RADICALLY REWRITTEN STOP TITLE AND NAME OF AMORY BLAINE CHANGED1 STOP ARRIVING BALTIMORE THURSDAY TO CONFER WITH ZELDA WILL IMMEDIATELY DECIDE ON NEW TITLE AND NAME CHANGES REVISING SHOULD TAKE FORTNIGHT
SCOTT FITZGERALD.
TO: Dr. Mildred Squires
Spring 1932
CC of retyped letter, 2 pp.
Alan Mason Chesney Medical Archives,
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Baltimore, Maryland
FITZGERALD, Zelda
Letter from husband.
# 6408
Saturday Evening
Dear Dr. Squires:
The whole current lay-out is somewhat discouraging. I seem to be bringing nothing to its solution except money and good will—and Zelda brings nothing at all, except a power of arousing sumpathy. She has perhaps achieved something fairly good, at everybodys cost all around, including especially mine. She thinks she has done a munificent thing in changing the novel at all—she has become as hard and coldly egotistic as she was when she was in the ballet and I would no more think of living with her as she now than I would repeat those days. The one ray of hope is this—that once the novel is sent off (it has almost torn down all the relations patiently built up for a year) she must not write any more personal stuff while she is under treatment. What has happened is the worst possible thing that could have happened—it has put her through a detailed recapituation of all the worldly events that first led up to the trouble, embittering her in retrospect, and then been passed back through me, so that I’ve been in an intolerable position. Through no fault of yours her stay at the clinic has resolved itself into a very expensive chance to satisfy her desire for self-expression. We are farther apart than we have been since she first got sick two years ago and this time I have no sense of guilt what soever.
Now some particular points (alas, unrelated!)
First: In regard to our phone conversation. Our sexual relations have been good or less good from time to time but they have always been normal. She had her first orgasm about ten days after we were married, and from that time to this there haven’t been a dozen times in twelve years , when she hasn’t had an orgasm. And since the renewal of our relations last spring that accident has never occurred and our relations, in that regard up to the day she entered Johns Hopkins were more satisfactory than ever before (Also O. K. here in Bait, as explained)
The difficulty in 1928–1930 was tempermental—it led to long periods of complete lack of desire. During 1929 we were probably together only two dozen times and always it was purely physical, but in so far as the purely physical goes it was mutually satisfactory. I have had experience & read all available literature, including that book by the Dutchman I saw on your shelves and I know whereof I speak.1
On the other hand I think it is unfortunate she has had no more children; also she’s probably a rather polygamus type; and possibly she has, when not herself, a touch of mental lesbianism. The first and third things I can’t do anything about—the second thing I simply I couldn’t stand for and stillfeel any nessessity to preserve the family.
Second She weighed 110 on a slot machine today, dressed, and told me she’d been losing weight. She eats, when she’s with me, two packs of mints, tho sugar has always caused her acne. I asked her if she’d like to go down the valley (Shenendoah) & spend a night next Saturday. Else, I said, I’d like to go to New York for a day or so, wanting a change. She had no interest in the valley trip, but asked why didn’t I go to New York? There is a vague form in her mind of “go on—do what you want—All I want is a chance to work.” The only essential that she leaves out is that I also want a chance to work, to cease this ceaseless hack work that her sickness compells me to. You will see that some blind unfairness in the novel. The girl’s love affair is an idyll—the man’s is sordid—the girl’s drinking is glossed over (when I think of the two dozen doctors called in to give her 1/5 grain of morphine or a rag
ing morning!), while the man’s is accentuated. However there’s no use going over that again. It’s all been somewhat modified. The point is that there’s no working basis between us and less all the time—unless this novel finishes a phase in her life & it all grows dim with having been written. That’s the best hope at present. But she musn’t start another personal piece of work—she spoke today of a novel “on our personal quarrel & her insanity.” Should she begin such a work at present I would withdraw my backing from her immediately because the sands are running out again on my powers of indurance—I can’t pay for the smithy where she forges a weapon to bring down on mine and Scottys &, eventually, her own head, for all the pleasant exercise it may give her mental muscles.
Also she spoke of a play again. That would do no harm because its more cold & impersonal—it might overlay the memory of the novel & all that the novel evoked. Ironicly enough I gave her the plan for the novel, recommended autobiography ect, with no idea that this would happen.
Third I have vague ideas of (a) tennis lessons for her (I still think of the ski-ing & her nessessity of being superior at something.) (b) A few spring clothes—to encourage minor vanities in place of this repellant & devastating pride (c) trying her without nurses to see how she will do her stuff there. Or, for a week: Apparently without nurses.
We have been nessessarily marking time till the novel was finished but something must now be done about taking a definate decision, I feel. It is not healthy for me to brood in such facts as these: that I have one terrible ace-in-the-hole which is to take her out, give her her head and simply wait the fortnight until she gave the evidence nessessary to commit her. She has not the faintest Idea how much she depends on me, and if the only salvation for us all will be for her to thus see the withdrawal of my support (as she saw it in miniature in the shortage of money) then it shall be done.
I have still another plan, but one which depends on some additional sacrifice on my part & I’m not sure I can make it. Of that more later. In any case I’d like very much to see you & Doctor Myers early this week; but, please I want to be told what you’ve considered & decided. I have exhausted my own original impetus & laid all my cards on the table. I need advice for myself as the essentially responsible party. I feel that, practically, you would be helping me swaying either toward the idea that Zelda is essentially sick and therefore giving me the right to ask you to insulate me from the attendant evils. Or by swaying toward the idea that she is well, that our marriage is at fault, letting the problem become a worldly one where I can consult my own interest as to dealing with it. At present our collaboration is too vague. I don’t know my rôle and count on you to point it out to me.
A Life in Letters Page 24
