A Life in Letters

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  “Her face was hard + lovely + pitiful”

  and again

  “He had been heavy, belly-frightened with love of her for years”

  —in those and in a hundred other places I tried to evoke not you but the effect that you produce on men—the echoes and reverberations—a poor return for what you have given by your living presence, but nevertheless an artist’s (what a word!) sincere attempt to preserve a true fragment rather than a “portrait” by Mr. Sargent. And someday in spite of all the affectionate skepticism you felt toward the brash young man you met on the Riviera eleven years ago, you’ll let me have my little corner of you where I know you better than anybody—yes, even better than Gerald. And if it should perhaps be your left ear (you hate anyone to examine any single part of your person, no matter how appreciatively—that’s why you wore bright clothes) on June evenings on Thursday from 11:00 to 11:15 here’s what I’d say.

  That not one thing you’ve done is for nothing. If you lost everything you brought into the world—if your works were burnt in the public square the law of compensation would still act (I am too moved by what I am saying to write it as well as I’d like). You are part of our times, part of the history of our race. The people whose lives you’ve touched directly or indirectly have reacted to the corporate bundle of atoms that’s you in a good way. I have seen you again + again at a time of confusion take the hard course almost blindly because long after your powers of ratiocination were exhausted you clung to the idea of dauntless courage. You were the one who said:

  “All right, I’ll take the black checker men.”

  I know that you + Gerald are one + it is hard to separate one of you from the other, in such a matter for example as the love + encouragement you chose to give to people who were full of life rather than to others, equally interesting and less exigent, who were frozen into rigid names. I don’t praise you for this—it was the little more, the little immeasurable portion of a millimeter, the thing at the absolute top that makes the difference between a World’s Champion and an also-ran, the little glance when you were sitting with Archie on the sofa that you threw at me and said:

  “And—Scott!”

  taking me in too, and with a heart so milked of compassion by your dearest ones that no person in the world but you would have that little more to spare.

  Well—I got somewhat excited there. The point is: I rather like you, + I think that perhaps you have the makings of a good woman.

  Gerald had invited me to come up for a weekend in the fall, probably Sept.

  It’s odd that when I read over this letter it seems to convey no particular point, yet I’m going to send it. Like Cole’s eloquent little song.

  “I think it’ll tell you how great you are.”1

  From your everlasting friend,

  Scott

  TO: Harold Ober

  c. September 5, 1935

  ALS, 4 pp. Lilly Library

  Asheville, North Carolina

  Personal

  +

  Confidential

  Dear Harold:

  This letter is about several things.

  1st Story: I had made 3 false starts and only now am I satisfied with what I’ve got (about 4,200 words). I dont want to break it off again (broke it off once to do Red Bk + once to do radio sketch, now being typed so I think I’d better count on staying here till 12th instead of 9th as I’d planned. The story should reach you on Thurs 12th.

  So if you can count on putting Scotty on the Penn. train for Baltimore on Fri 13th I’ll meet her at the station. In Baltimore I’ll go to Hotel Stafford as my plan is to move + I dont want to open up the house for only a week.

  You have been a life-saver about Scotty—you may have guessed that things have gone less well here—just one day after the lung was pronounced completely well the heart went nutsey again + they sent me back to bed and I was only able to work about one day in three. I am up and around again but I dont like to allow less than five days to finish story, pack ect.

  About shopping with Scotty (Mrs Ober’s suggestion I mean) since I cant decide about schools, that had better wait because a child’s equipment depends on that of course + I cant decide anything until I see how I stand the trip to Baltimore. If I would only die, at least she and Zelda would have the Life Insurance + it would be a general good riddance, but it seems as if life has been playing some long joke with me for the past eight months and cant decide when to leave off.

  However for the moment I seem out of danger—they mean it too. I didn’t want any kidding about it.

  I like the radio skit—its original + quite powerful I think.2 The little corrections to be done on it wont take a day.

  It goes without saying that I’ll be begging for money about the 12th or 13th when you have the story in your hands. I think I can get along all right till then.

  About Spafford—I promised him some money if + when the play payed anything; he seemed to think that this included the option but I wrote advising him differently—I had meant from the 1st actual royalties. Some clippings told me that the contract was signed but I dont suppose they paid more than a few hundred, did they? Spafford said you were still afraid Kirkland would be slow on the delivery. Anyhow I told Spafford I couldn’t help him now—it was a gratuitous offer merely between him + me to compensate him for his lost time + effort.1

  Glad you liked the Red Bk story. Hated to do all that work for no reward but it was my fault, and it makes the Phillipe series 30,000 words long, almost half enough for a book. The next step I dont know in that line. Certainly I’ve got to shoot at the bigger money till Im out of debt.

  Ever Yours

  Scott Fitzg—

  TO: Laura Guthrie2

  ALS, 6 pp. Princeton University

  Hotel Stafford stationery. Baltimore, Maryland

  [pm Sept. 23, 1935]

  Sweet Laura:

  This can’t be more than a note to answer your nice letter.

  The news from the West is pretty terrible—I have seen plenty people disappointed in love from old maids who thought they had lost their only chance to Dorothy Parker who tried to kill herself when Charlie MacArthur threw her over—but I never saw a girl3 who had so much, take it all so hard. She knew from the beginning there would be nothing more so it could scarcely be classed even as a dissapointment—merely one of those semi-tragic facts that must be faced. Its very strange, and sad. I have nothing from her except the wire.

  For myself all goes well. I woke up on the train after a fine sleep, came to the hotel + went to work with Mrs Owens before noon. We discussed all the “ifs” and will decide nothing before a week. Scottie arrived like a sun goddess at 5.00 o’clock, all radiant + glowing. We had a happy evening walking and walking the dark streets. The next morning she was invited to visit in the country for the wk end + I continued my picking up of lose ends. First Zelda—she was fine, almost herself, has only one nurse now + has no more intention of doing away with herself. It was wonderful to sit with her head on my shoulder for hours and feel as I always have, even now, closer to her than to any other human being. This is not a denial of other emotions—oh, you understand.

  The bank matter was all straight—yours were the only checks that suffered. I’m sorry as hell for the inconvenience.

  Send me the page of notes with the stuff about the Ashville flower carnival—I’m going to write one story here—I mapped it out today. I want to see how well I can stand this climate under working conditions. Though I still think I will be back in Ashville in two weeks. Also better tell Post Office my adress is here; they probably have hospital or Inn.

  I have heard of Col. Bryan. Young Page, by the way, is not the boy I took him for. He was not head of the Princetonian but only copy editor, + no great sensation. I was thinking of another man. Have ordered the Wm. Boyce Thompson1 book for you.

  My story is about Carolina ¶I have stopped all connections with M. Barleycorn ¶The exema is almost gone but not quite ¶Baltimore is warm but pleasant�
�I love it more than I thought—it is so rich with memories—it is nice to look up the street + see the statue of my great uncle, + to know Poe is buried here and that many ancestors of mine have walked in the old town by the bay. I belong here, where everything is civilized and gay and rotted and polite. And I wouldn’t mind a bit if in a few years Zelda + I could snuggle up together under a stone in some old graveyard here. That is really a happy thought + not melancholy at all.

  Tell me your news.

  Lovingly + gratefully

  Scott

  TO: Harold Ober

  c. November 18, 1935

  ALS, 2 pp. Lilly Library

  Skylands Hotel

  Hendersonville. N.C.

  Dear Harold:

  Things rather crashed again. Since Aug 20th I have written

  (1.) Practically new Red Bk Story (pd. already)2

  (2.) 1st Version Provençe Story

  (3) Radio Broadcast (Sold)

  (4) 1st version Suicice Story3

  (5) 2nd Version Provençe Story (Sold)4

  (6) 2nd Version Suicice Story

  (7) Emergency Esquire article for $200 (finished today)1

  (8) Most of a radio broadcast. Finish tomorrow.

  Certainly a good 3 months work—but total yield has been just short of $2000. so far—of course if I’d Die for You sells, it will change the face of the situation.

  I worked one day with Spafford on the play, gave him a new 3d act which was his weakness. He has no great talent but he works hard + has common sense + he can find the talent in the book. Sorry Kirkland didn’t kick thru.

  I am here till I finish a Post story something young + joyful. I was beginning to cough again in Baltimore with the multiplicity of events, also to drink + get irrasticable with everybody around me. Scotty is there now with Mrs. Owens.

  I am living here at a $2.00 a day hotel, utterly alone, thank God! and unless something happens to upset me again should finish the story by the 27th + reach Baltimore by 28th I hope for the winter this time.

  Meanwhile you’ll get the broadcast.

  Typical of my confusion was my telling Constance Smith story should go to Post. It’s already been there in it’s first form and should have gone to American. Hope you overruled my suggestion.

  Ever Yrs.

  Scott Fitzg

  The decision to leave Baltimore came when I found, after being all moved in, that a super salesman had rented me an appartment next to a pianist, + with clapboard walls!

  Did you see Cormack?2

  TO: Harold Ober

  Received December 12, 1935

  ALS, 2 pp. Lilly Library

  Hendersonville, North Carolina

  Dear Harold:

  This story is the fruit of my desire to write about children of Scotty’s age.3 (it doesn’t cross the radio idea, which I gather is a dud. Will you write me about it? Also the history of the I’d Die for You) But to return to this story.

  I want it to be a series if the Post likes it. Now if they do please tell them that I’d like them to hold it for another one which should preceed it, like they did once in the Basil series. I am not going to wait for their answer to start a second one about Gwen but I am going to wait for a wire of encouragment or discouragment on the idea from you. I’m getting this off Wed. It should reach you Thurs. noon. I’m going to rest Thurs. anyhow so if I hear from you Thurs night or Fri morning that you like it I’ll start the other. Even if the Post didn’t like the series the names could be changed + the two sold as separate stories.

  But I do think it should be offered them individually before the series idea is broached to them

  Money again rears its ugly head. I am getting accustomed to poverty and bankrupcy (In fact for myself I rather enjoy washing my own clothes + eating 20 cent meals twice a day, after so many years in the flesh pots—don’t worry, this is only half true though I did do it for the 1st wk here to penalize myself for the expense of the journey) but I do object to the jails and I have almost $300 due on income tax the 15th (what a typically modern joke this is—me, with $11 in the bank at the moment.) Now can you let me have that and $200 to go with on the strength of this story? Read it first. If you can or can’t please include the information in yr. telegram of Thurs. or Fri. I need $150 for Zelda + Scotty + $50 for myself—for I intend to finish the 2nd Gwen story + then go north for what Xmas is to be found there. If you can will you wire it to Baltimore to be there by Sat. morning?

  If your report is favorable I shall move to Ashville Sat. + have the doctor go over me while I write. I arrived here weak as hell, got the grippe + spat blood again (1st time in 9 months) + took to bed for six days. I didn’t dare see the Ashville doctor till I got this story off + wrote a $200 article for Gingrich1 on which I’ve been living. I’m grateful I came south when I did though—I made a wretched mistake in coming north in Sept + taking that appartment + trying 1000 things at once, + am only grateful that I got out before the blizzard, + got grippe instead of pneumonia How that part (I mean living in Bait.) is going to work out I dont know. I’m going to let Scotty finish her term anyhow. For the rest things depend on health + money + its very difficult. I use up my health making money + then my money in recovering health. I got well last summer—but what was the use when I was broke in the fall. Dont answer—there isn’t any answer If there was I’d have thought of it long ago. I am really not discouraged—I enjoyed writing this story which is the second time that’s happened to me this year, + that’s a good sign

  Ever Yrs.

  Scott Fitzg.

  P. S. This is story number 7 for the year.

  TO: Harold Ober

  December 28, 1935

  Wire. Lilly Library

  Baltimore, Maryland

  HAVE TRIED LIFE ON SUBSISTANCE LEVEL AND IT DOESNT WORK STOP I THOUGHT IF I COULD HAVE THIS MONEY I COULD HOLD MY HEAD UP AND GO ON STOP WHAT YOU SUGGEST POSTPONES BY HALF A YEAR THE LIQUIDATION WE BOTH WANT STOP PLEASE CARRY ME OVER THE SECOND GWEN STORY AND GIVE ME TWENTY SEVEN HUNDRED1

  FITZGERALD.

  TO: Harold Ober

  TLS, 3 pp. Lilly Library

  Cambridge Arms Apartments,

  Charles & 34th Streets,

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  December 31, 1935.

  Dear Harold:

  I’d have gone to Hollywood a year ago last spring. I don’t think I could do it now but I might. Especially if there was no choice. Twice I have worked out there on other people’s stories—on an “original” with John Considine telling me the plot twice a week and on the Katherine Brush story—it simply fails to use what qualities I have. I don’t blame you for lecturing me since I have seriously inconvenienced you, but it would be hard to change my temperament in middle-life. No single man with a serious literary reputation has made good there. If I could form a partnership with some technical expert it might be done. (That’s very different from having a supervisor who couldn’t fit either the technical or creative role but is simply a weigher of completed values.) I’d need a man who knew the game, knew the people, but would help me tell and sell my story—not his. This man would be hard to find, because a smart technician doesn’t want or need a partner, and an uninspired one is inclined to have a dread of ever touching tops. I could work best with a woman, because they haven’t any false pride about yielding a point. I could have worked with old Bess Meredith if we hadn’t been in constant committees of five. I’m afraid unless some such break occurs I’d be no good in the industry.

  The matter will probably solve itself—I’ll either pull out of this in the next few months or else go under—in which case I might start again in some entirely new way of my own.

  I know what you would do now in my situation and what the Ideal Way would be, but it simply isn’t in me to do my duty blindly. I have to follow my fate with my eyes wide open.

  Scotty is so well and happy. She has such faith in me and doesn’t know what’s happening. Tonight she and two of her admirers decorated a tree. I hope Dick1 is bette
r and has a happy Christmas even out there away from his family.

  Yours,

  F Scott Fitzgerald

  P. S. Do you think the New Yorker could use poem attached?2

  TO: Harold Ober

  TLS, 7 pp. Lilly Library

  The Cambridge Arms,

  Charles & 34th Streets,

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  February 8, 1936.

  Dear Harold:

  The man Braun3 is a plain, simple man with a true instinct toward the arts. He is of complete financial integrity and we were awfully nice to him once during a journey through North Africa and I think he is honestly fond of both Zelda and me.

  I start with this because I don’t want to mess up this chance with any of the inadvertencies and lack of foresight that lost me the sale of “Tender is the Night” and ruined the Gracie Allen venture.4 You are now in touch with Hollywood in a way that you were not several years ago. This is obviously a job that I can do expertly—but it is also obviously a job that a whole lot of other people can do fairly well. Now it seems to me that the point can be sold that I am equipped to do this treatment which is the whole gist of this letter.

  He has gone out to Hollywood and they will put some hack on the thing and in two minutes will have a poor imitation of Lily Pons5 deserting the stage for a poor country boy or a poor country girl named Lily Pons astounding the world in ten minutes. A hack will do exactly that with it, thinking first what previous stories dealing with the ballet and theatre have been about, and he will try to write a reasonable imitation about it. As you know Zelda and I have been through hell about the whole subject and you’ll know, too, that I should be able to deliver something entirely authentic in the matter full of invention and feeling.

  It seems odd having to sell you such a suggestion when once you would have taken it at my own valuation, but after these three years of reverses it seems necessary to reassure you that I have the stuff to do this job and not let this opportunity slide away with the rumor that “Scott is drinking” or “Scott is through.”