Very Truly Yours,
Nicholas Carraway
Assistant Undersecretary of State
FROM THE DESK OF:
ALLEN DULLES
By special courier
Feb 2, 1953
Carraway--
We don’t have any connection with Kristol or anyone else at Encounter. So you’re our man. Europe is crucial to our goals. Barnes is the key to setting that up. He’s the most authoritative voice in our European press corps. People listen to what he has to say, and I’m counting on you to make sure he says the right things. I’ve got the feeling Barnes may know things he shouldn’t, but we don’t know what or how much. Is his head on straight? Can he cause problems? Does he have beans to spill? And is he likely to spill them?
Sure, try Barnes your way. You’re the ad man--sell him. And didn’t you write a book once, too? Give him the old literary brotherhood.
Make it work, Nick. We need to start shaping opinion now.
Dulles
Nicholas Carraway
Assistant Undersecretary of State for
European Affairs
Department of State
Washington, D.C.
February 2, 1953
Dear Mr. Barnes,
The Marne can be pretty damn chilly this time of year. Let’s see if we can’t find another way.
I think I made a bad start, and I apologize for that. I’d like to excuse my clumsy approach by pleading new-boy jitters. I’ve just come on board here at State, and am trying to find out how I fit in. The first months of a new administration are more chaotic than I’d imagined, and we’re all feeling our way along. I don’t even know where the men’s room is yet.
As I mentioned in my first letter, I’m a great admirer of your writing. A Lost Generation felt like what Paris in the Twenties must have been. It’s a hell of a book, the real thing. And your dispatches from Europe, during the War and since, are better than anyone alive is doing. It’s all given me the illusion of knowing a bit about you, and of course you know nothing at all about me. So I’ll give you an autobiographical sketch by way of an introduction, if you’ll indulge me. I’m a bit of a writer myself.
When I was a young man I lived for a season on the Eastern seaboard, among people who were privileged and careless and very rich. I grew up in the Midwest, and the Northeast had an irresistible lure to a boy lying on his bed looking out over twilit cornfields and cattle pastures, and dreaming of the center of the universe.
I came East in the fall of ’16 to do my university work at New Haven, and from there only a few miles of railroad track separated me from my dreams of a fortune in the New York City bond market.
As it happened, I took the long way around. The Great War intervened, and with a minimum of reflection and an excess of romantic impulsiveness, I joined the Norton-Harjes ambulance service under the French--my carte d’identité shows a slim, tousle-haired boy with a dimpled jaw, a pendulous lower lip, and eyes as yet unacquainted with tragedy. Then, when America got into the War, I signed up for a crash course in the Serbo-Croatian language, and found myself assigned to General Pershing’s staff as a translator/ interrogator. I was close enough to the action to hear and smell it, but I never really had the chance to test myself under fire--or in the chilly waters of the Marne, though Lord knows I got to see them, eddying mud and blood. That memory will last me a good deal longer than my Serbo-Croatian. Things learned fast are forgotten fast. We never captured any Serbo-Croatians for me to interrogate, and I hardly remember a word of it. “Dobar dan, ja se zovem Lt. Carraway. ” That’s about it.
But New York was still there after the Armistice, and upon my return I could think of no tempting alternative to trolling in the marts of money. I took a small cottage that summer on Long Island, from which I commuted to a brokerage firm on Wall Street. I wanted to be rich and careless like the people in whose circles I managed to move with diminishing comfort during that summer and autumn in the Twenties; most especially my immediate neighbor and friend, a man named Gatsby. But Gatsby died--was murdered actually--and my romance with a lady golfer soured, and finally I had to face the fact that I was out of my element there.
And so I came back to the Midwest, where I have lived ever since. I tried my hand at a few different careers--my family’s hardware business was the first one, but I was no more suited to it than I’d imagined I would be. I wrote a novel drawn from my experiences in the East, which brought me a brief flare of literary success. I parlayed that into a stint as a journalist at the Chicago Tribune, but soon discovered there were men--such as yourself--who were much better at it than I. After that, I took a short fling at the restaurant business, and even, God help me, spent eight months at the selling of used automobiles.
Then a man I had known at Yale struck up a conversation on the golf course one afternoon that led to our opening an advertising shop in Chicago. Advertising was a wide-open field in those days, and through a combination of ignorance and luck we managed to make a pretty good thing of it. Taylor & Carraway today has branches in Minneapolis and Milwaukee in addition to the home office on Fair Street, with billings of over six million.
We even handled a piece of the Eisenhower campaign, and I spent some time with Allen Dulles, whom I had known in France in ’18. Dulles asked me if I’d be interested in a stint of government service when Ike took office (he was very confident about that!) Said his brother was in line for State in an Eisenhower administration. I told him I’d think about it, and next thing I knew I had a job in Washington, and a leave of absence from the firm.
So here I am, with an office in Foggy Bottom and not the foggiest idea what I’m doing here, other than trying to do a bit of good in terms of selling the American message abroad and helping the Europeans understand what we’re all about. It will be a great help to me if I can mine the brains and experiences of men like you, who have lived abroad long enough to have a European’s view of what it is America represents. But I would be dissembling if I didn’t add that in your case, the motivation is more personal. As I’ve said before, I’m a great fan of your writing. I have a copy of A Lost Generation here in my Washington office. And as much as anything else, I’m frankly hoping to take advantage of the cachet of my moment in the halls of power to strike up a correspondence with one of my literary heroes.
This has been more long-winded than I ever intended. If you’re still reading at this point, I hope we can start from scratch and keep in touch.
Very Truly Yours,
Nicholas Carraway
Mlle Christine Jorgensen
Royal Hospital
Copenhagen, Denmark
3 February
Dear Jake,
Language, language! Remember, I’m a lady now.
Thanks for your note. Yes, I’m fine. Sore as hell, but fine. More than fine. Wonderful. Terrified, but wonderful. So much to get used to! I keep bursting into tears, and I’m not even unhappy. I’m ecstatically happy. I wish I knew what the hell was going on.
It has been the most extraordinary journey, and I am just now arriving on the shores of an amazing, exotic land. I always assumed, vaguely and romantically, that once I crossed that border, I would be truly at home, and I’d feel at home right away.
And in a way, that’s true. My body fits me now, as it never did before. All the parts feel right. But what else fits? I used to love playing dress-up when I was little--drove my Dad crazy. And for the past year or so, as I started trying to prepare myself for this leap into the unknown, I dressed more and more the way I wanted to be. But in a way, it was still playing dress-up.
Now it’s real, and it’s scarier than I thought it would be. Now I have to get it right. Everyone will be looking at me, looking for any mistake.
But you, Jake. You have demons of your own, don’t you? Despite being the gruff old bear who walks by himself and doesn’t need anything from anybody. Sew it back on? What an idea! You’re more than welcome to mine. It may smell a little of formaldehyde, but ... I
wonder!
I’ll put you in touch with Dr. Hamburger.
Warmest Regards,
Christine
Ronnie Gilchrist
Snicklepoo and the Baby Sitter
WGKG Chicago
February 4, 1953
Dear Mr. Carraway,
The strangest thing. I got a letter from Senator McCarthy’s committee asking me to come and testify. I can’t imagine what they think I can help them with, though of course, I’ll help in any way I can. Do you know Senator McCarthy?
Congratulations again on your new job. Mr. Taylor has been wonderful in giving me advice about the show, but I know it never would have worked as well as it did without you. I still have these urges to tinker with the show, like singing some new songs. There are some awfully cute ones out now, like that one about the doggie in the window. And I was just looking at some darling polka dot fabric that would make a cute new bowtie for Snicklepoo, but I keep reminding myself of what you said about not changing a thing. Well, you know me. The eternal worry wart. If I were in Washington, I’d probably be tinkering with the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.
I’ll be in Washington at the end of the week. I’ll be staying at the YWCA. It would be wonderful to see you while I’m there--and Mrs. C., of course--but I know how busy you must be running the country.
Your friend,
Ronnie Gilchrist
Jacob Barnes
Paris Herald Tribune
38, rue de Berri
Paris 16, France
February 6
Carraway:
Oh, you’re that Nicholas Carraway? Yes, I read your novel about the gangster. It wasn’t as bad a novel as the critics later made it out to be, but it was a very poor novel.
Barnes
Jake Barnes
1 rue de Fleurus
Paris 6, France
Feb. 6
Dear George, or I guess it’s Mlle. Christine now?
Don’t do anything too fast. I’ve been getting the damnedest letters from a State Department flack named Nicholas Carraway. Started by asking me about subversive books in overseas libraries--what the hell is that all about? These guys think they own the press. Any pipe dreams we had about Ike coming in and sweeping the Tail-gunner aside are looking like hashish now. Especially with the Dulles Brothers running things.
But Carraway interests me, and I’ll tell you why.
The guy is a writer, or used to be. Wrote a swell novel about a thousand years ago, by the name of Trimalchio in West Egg. It was damn good, well written, and true. He gave his character an inner honesty that said more about the best and worst in America than I ever expected to see from our godforsaken generation. What’s damn ironic, considering his first letter to me, is that I ordered a bunch of copies of it when I was in charge of purchasing for the Voice of America.
Anyway, now he’s telling me the story of his life. The Reader’s Digest condensed version: He sold out.
There’s something sad about him, as there is with most sellouts. I wonder if he still has a chance to make it right. There aren’t too goddamned many second acts to American lives. Be nice to think his could be one of them.
If not, maybe the second act is another Carraway I just met recently, this one with the first name Alden. Jimmy Baldwin introduced me, so he’s probably a queer --fit right in with your velvet mafia in Washington. Just as likely a Red, too. Certainly an idealist. But I liked him. He submitted an article to me for Encounter. Fuzzy thinking, but he can write. I’m sending it on to Kristol, with a recommendation that we publish it. Wonder if the kid’s any relation to the State Department Carraway? Wouldn’t surprise me. But then nothing surprises me anymore. Fuck it, George--sorry, Chris--Carraway’s book was good. He was a damn sight too bowled over by the rich, which is probably why he sold out. Still is, apparently. Made a point of telling me his agency billed six fucking million a year.
Well, I’m not telling him I liked his book. It’d just encourage him. He wants to be friends, and old Barnyard Jake has all the friends he needs. I’ll keep on being rude to the poor slob. Maybe he’ll go the hell away. Listen lady, write to me. I want to know how you’re doing with the new plumbing. When are you going to be up and around?
Yr Man of Mystery,
Jake
MEMORANDUM
2/6/53
Memo from: Jake Barnes
To: Irving Kristol
Sending along a manuscript by a kid who’s been bombarding me with them. Name’s Alden Carraway. Raw, simple prose, and a nodding acquaintance with truth. Reminds me of me when I was younger, only I got over it. He’s got this idea that the personal is the political and vice versa. Naive, but provocative. Hope you like it, you goddamned cynic.
He’s in a lather over the situation in Iran. He’s been hanging out with some expat Persians in the Latin Quarter, and he’s fallen in love with Mossadegh and his People’s Government over there in Iran. (Which he seems to think the U.S. is planning to pull the rug out from under.) Not sure how solid his information is, but I’m also not sure he’s wrong. I’ve got some sources I’m going to shake a little and see what falls out of the tree.
The kid can write, though. He’s come up with a catchy name for the underdeveloped countries--he calls them “The Third World.” He uses the term to refer to the unaligned nations, the ones who’re neither in our net nor the Russkis’, and it’s got a sly reference to the Third Estate, the Great Unwashed of the French Revolution. Not bad, eh?
Odd coincidence--I’ve gotten a couple of letters from another Carraway, a stuffed shirt in the Eisenhower administration. Wrote a pretty good novel about a hundred years ago, name of Trimalchio in West Egg. Turns out he’s the kid’s father. Offspring doesn’t think much of the old fart. Hypocrite, sellout--you know. Wonder what kids of ours would have to do to rebel? Become right wing crypto-fascists and bundists, I guess. That reminds me--I hear you and Bea are expecting. Congratulations, I guess.
Barnes
ENCOUNTER
New York, NY
February 10, 1953
Jake,
Thanks for the congratulations, I guess. I’ll read the young lion’s manuscript. Look, don’t bother with the Iran thing. I’ve heard those rumors too, they’re bullshit. You can hear a dozen others sitting around the coffee houses and beer halls where the kids hang out.
Meanwhile, here’s something you may find interesting. This, of course, like so much correspondence and cocktail party conversation these days, relates to the junior senator from Wisconsin. He fills the lineaments of a thug, sometimes to comic effect, and this transcript from a recent hearing may amuse you--especially since it relates to your pen pal Carraway. It comes from the testimony of a young lady named Ronnie Gilchrist, who appears to have the demeanor (and intellectual capacity) of a kindergarten teacher. (The underlines and marginal notes, of course, are mine--the committee stenographer has no sense of irony.)
McCarthy:
Please state your name for the record.
Gilchrist:
Veronica Edith Gilchrist.
McCarthy:
But that’s not the name you use, is it?
Gilchrist:
People call me Ronnie.
McCarthy:
People call you ... ?
Gilchrist:
Everybody does. My parents, my friends ... it’s a nickname.
McCarthy:
Come on, Miss Gilbert. Isn’t it a fact ... isn’t it a fact that you hide behind this alias, as if you have been deliberately trying to hide your true identity?
(You’ve got to read it with that flat Midwestern twang of his--isn’t it a fact ... isn’t it a fact ... priceless!)
Gilchrist:
No, I just ... Ronnie just seems friendlier ...
McCarthy:
Friendlier? Are you telling this committee that you desire to be friendly?
Gilchrist:
Well, yes, of course.
McCarthy:
Fr
iendly as in a friendly witness for the committee, or friendly as in ... Comrade?
Gilchrist:
Huh?
Cohn:
Mr. Chairman, the witness is being unresponsive.
McCarthy:
Witness is directed to answer the question.
McCarthy:
Never mind. I think we can all figure out the answer. Miss Gilbert ... Miss so-called Ronnie Gilbert--I hand you this piece of paper and ask you to read the words on it.
Gilchrist:
(reading) I was at Franklin Roosevelt’s side / Just a while before he died / He said, “One world must come out of World War II, / Yankee, Russian, white or tan, / Lord, a man is just a man, / We’re all brothers and we’re only passing through.” ... Oh, now I understand ...
McCarthy:
You understand? You understand this dirty, Communistic, unpatriotic piece of Red garbage? Well, that’s very interesting, Ronnie, because most Americans ... most real Americans ... would not understand such a piece of verminous treason.
(My God, verminous--don’t you love it?)
Gilchrist:
No ... I meant ... I understand how you got confused. This is a song by the Weavers--”Passing Through.” The girl in the Weavers is Ronnie Gilbert. I’m Ronnie Gilchrist.
McCarthy:
Are you trying to tell the committee that you don’t know the words to this song?
Gilchrist:
Oh, yes. We used to sing it at camp. We never sang that verse, though.
McCarthy:
What are some of the verses you did sing at this indoctrination camp?
Nick and Jake Page 2
