Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Dressed, he poured himself a drink of whiskey and then went into Gloria’s room, where he found her already wide awake. She had been in bed for a week, humoring herself, Anthony fancied, though the doctor had said that she had best not be disturbed.

  “Good morning,” she murmured, without smiling. Her eyes seemed unusually large and dark.

  “How do you feel?” he asked grudgingly. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Much?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel well enough to go down to court with me this afternoon?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes. I want to. Dick said yesterday that if the weather was nice he was coming up in his car and take me for a ride in Central Park — and look, the room’s all full of sunshine.”

  Anthony glanced mechanically out the window and then sat down upon the bed.

  “God, I’m nervous!” he exclaimed.

  “Please don’t sit there,” she said quickly.

  “Why not?”

  “You smell of whiskey. I can’t stand it.”

  He got up absent-mindedly and left the room. A little later she called to him and he went out and brought her some potato salad and cold chicken from the delicatessen.

  At two o’clock Richard Caramel’s car arrived at the door and, when he phoned up, Anthony took Gloria down in the elevator and walked with her to the curb.

  She told her cousin that it was sweet of him to take her riding. “Don’t be simple,” Dick replied disparagingly. “It’s nothing.”

  But he did not mean that it was nothing and this was a curious thing. Richard Caramel had forgiven many people for many offenses. But he had never forgiven his cousin, Gloria Gilbert, for a statement she had made just prior to her wedding, seven years before. She had said that she did not intend to read his book.

  Richard Caramel remembered this — he had remembered it well for seven years.

  “What time will I expect you back?” asked Anthony.

  “We won’t come back,” she answered, “we’ll meet you down there at four.”

  “All right,” he muttered, “I’ll meet you.”

  Up-stairs he found a letter waiting for him. It was a mimeographed notice urging “the boys” in condescendingly colloquial language to pay the dues of the American Legion. He threw it impatiently into the waste-basket and sat down with his elbows on the window sill, looking down blindly into the sunny street.

  Italy — if the verdict was in their favor it meant Italy. The word had become a sort of talisman to him, a land where the intolerable anxieties of life would fall away like an old garment. They would go to the watering-places first and among the bright and colorful crowds forget the gray appendages of despair. Marvellously renewed, he would walk again in the Piazza di Spanga at twilight, moving in that drifting flotsam of dark women and ragged beggars, of austere, barefooted friars. The thought of Italian women stirred him faintly — when his purse hung heavy again even romance might fly back to perch upon it — the romance of blue canals in Venice, of the golden green hills of Fiesole after rain, and of women, women who changed, dissolved, melted into other women and receded from his life, but who were always beautiful and always young.

  But it seemed to him that there should be a difference in his attitude. All the distress that he had ever known, the sorrow and the pain, had been because of women. It was something that in different ways they did to him, unconsciously, almost casually — perhaps finding him tender-minded and afraid, they killed the things in him that menaced their absolute sway.

  Turning about from the window he faced his reflection in the mirror, contemplating dejectedly the wan, pasty face, the eyes with their crisscross of lines like shreds of dried blood, the stooped and flabby figure whose very sag was a document in lethargy. He was thirty three — he looked forty. Well, things would be different.

  The door-bell rang abruptly and he started as though he had been dealt a blow. Recovering himself, he went into the hall and opened the outer dour. It was Dot.

  THE ENCOUNTER

  He retreated before her into the living room, comprehending only a word here and there in the slow flood of sentences that poured from her steadily, one after the other, in a persistent monotone. She was decently and shabbily dressed — a somehow pitiable little hat adorned with pink and blue flowers covered and hid her dark hair. He gathered from her words that several days before she had seen an item in the paper concerning the lawsuit, and had obtained his address from the clerk of the Appellate Division. She had called up the apartment and had been told that Anthony was out by a woman to whom she had refused to give her name.

  In a living room he stood by the door regarding her with a sort of stupefied horror as she rattled on…. His predominant sensation was that all the civilization and convention around him was curiously unreal…. She was in a milliner’s shop on Sixth Avenue, she said. It was a lonesome life. She had been sick for a long while after he left for CampMills; her mother had come down and taken her home again to Carolina…. She had come to New York with the idea of finding Anthony.

  She was appallingly in earnest. Her violet eyes were red with tears; her soft intonation was ragged with little gasping sobs.

  That was all. She had never changed. She wanted him now, and if she couldn’t have him she must die….

  “You’ll have to get out,” he said at length, speaking with tortuous intensity. “Haven’t I enough to worry me now without you coming here? My God! You’ll have to get out!”

  Sobbing, she sat down in a chair.

  “I love you,” she cried; “I don’t care what you say to me! I love you.”

  “I don’t care!” he almost shrieked; “get out — oh, get out! Haven’t you done me harm enough? Haven’t — you — done — enough?”

  “Hit me!” she implored him — wildly, stupidly. “Oh, hit me, and I’ll kiss the hand you hit me with!”

  His voice rose until it was pitched almost at a scream. “I’ll kill you!” he cried. “If you don’t get out I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you!”

  There was madness in his eyes now, but, unintimidated, Dot rose and took a step toward him.

  “Anthony! Anthony! — “

  He made a little clicking sound with his teeth and drew back as though to spring at her — then, changing his purpose, he looked wildly about him on the floor and wall.

  “I’ll kill you!” he was muttering in short, broken gasps. “I’ll kill you!” He seemed to bite at the word as though to force it into materialization. Alarmed at last she made no further movement forward, but meeting his frantic eyes took a step back toward the door. Anthony began to race here and there on his side of the room, still giving out his single cursing cry. Then he found what he had been seeking — a stiff oaken chair that stood beside the table. Uttering a harsh, broken shout, he seized it, swung it above his head and let it go with all his raging strength straight at the white, frightened face across the room … then a thick, impenetrable darkness came down upon him and blotted out thought, rage, and madness together — with almost a tangible snapping sound the face of the world changed before his eyes….

  Gloria and Dick came in at five and called his name. There was no answer — they went into the living room and found a chair with its back smashed lying in the doorway, and they noticed that all about the room there was a sort of disorder — the rugs had slid, the pictures and bric-à-brac were upset upon the centre table. The air was sickly sweet with cheap perfume.

  They found Anthony sitting in a patch of sunshine on the floor of his bedroom. Before him, open, were spread his three big stamp-books, and when they entered he was running his hands through a great pile of stamps that he had dumped from the back of one of them. Looking up and seeing Dick and Gloria he put his head critically on one side and motioned them back.

  “Anthony!” cried Gloria tensely, “we’ve won! They reversed the decision!”

  “Don’t come in,” he murmured wanly, “you’ll muss them. I’m s
orting, and

  I know you’ll step in them. Everything always gets mussed.”

  “What are you doing?” demanded Dick in astonishment. “Going back to childhood? Don’t you realize you’ve won the suit? They’ve reversed the decision of the lower courts. You’re worth thirty millions!”

  Anthony only looked at him reproachfully.

  “Shut the door when you go out.” He spoke like a pert child.

  With a faint horror dawning in her eyes, Gloria gazed at him —

  “Anthony!” she cried, “what is it? What’s the matter? Why didn’t you come — why, what is it?”

  “See here,” said Anthony softly, “you two get out — now, both of you. Or else I’ll tell my grandfather.”

  He held up a handful of stamps and let them come drifting down about him like leaves, varicolored and bright, turning and fluttering gaudily upon the sunny air: stamps of England and Ecuador, Venezuela and Spain — Italy….

  TOGETHER WITH THE SPARROWS

  That exquisite heavenly irony which has tabulated the demise of so many generations of sparrows doubtless records the subtlest verbal inflections of the passengers of such ships as The Berengaria. And doubtless it was listening when the young man in the plaid cap crossed the deck quickly and spoke to the pretty girl in yellow.

  “That’s him,” he said, pointing to a bundled figure seated in a wheel chair near the rail. “That’s Anthony Patch. First time he’s been on deck.”

  “Oh — that’s him?”

  “Yes. He’s been a little crazy, they say, ever since he got his money, four or five months ago. You see, the other fellow, Shuttleworth, the religious fellow, the one that didn’t get the money, he locked himself up in a room in a hotel and shot himself —

  “Oh, he did — “

  “But I guess Anthony Patch don’t care much. He got his thirty million. And he’s got his private physician along in case he doesn’t feel just right about it. Has she been on deck?” he asked.

  The pretty girl in yellow looked around cautiously.

  “She was here a minute ago. She had on a Russian-sable coat that must have cost a small fortune.” She frowned and then added decisively: “I can’t stand her, you know. She seems sort of — sort of dyed and unclean, if you know what I mean. Some people just have that look about them whether they are or not.”

  “Sure, I know,” agreed the man with the plaid cap. “She’s not bad-looking, though.” He paused. “Wonder what he’s thinking about — his money, I guess, or maybe he’s got remorse about that fellow Shuttleworth.”

  “Probably….”

  But the man in the plaid cap was quite wrong. Anthony Patch, sitting near the rail and looking out at the sea, was not thinking of his money, for he had seldom in his life been really preoccupied with material vainglory, nor of Edward Shuttleworth, for it is best to look on the sunny side of these things. No — he was concerned with a series of reminiscences, much as a general might look back upon a successful campaign and analyze his victories. He was thinking of the hardships, the insufferable tribulations he had gone through. They had tried to penalize him for the mistakes of his youth. He had been exposed to ruthless misery, his very craving for romance had been punished, his friends had deserted him — even Gloria had turned against him. He had been alone, alone — facing it all.

  Only a few months before people had been urging him to give in, to submit to mediocrity, to go to work. But he had known that he was justified in his way of life — and he had stuck it out stanchly. Why, the very friends who had been most unkind had come to respect him, to know he had been right all along. Had not the Lacys and the Merediths and the Cartwright-Smiths called on Gloria and him at the Ritz-Carlton just a week before they sailed?

  Great tears stood in his eyes, and his voice was tremulous as he whispered to himself.

  “I showed them,” he was saying. “It was a hard fight, but I didn’t give up and I came through!”

  THE GREAT GATSBY

  Fitzgerald’s most famous work, The Great Gatsby is now considered to be one of the greatest novels of the twentieth century. First published in 1925, the novel is set on Long Island’s NorthShore and in New York City in the year 1922. The novel is famous for its portrayal of the ‘roaring’ 1920s, when the US economy soared, prior to the Great Depression.

  Fitzgerald started planning the novel in June 1922, after completing his play The Vegetable. He ended up discarding most of it as a false start, some of which resurfaced in the short story Absolution. Unlike his previous novels, Fitzgerald intended to edit and reshape The Great Gatsby thoroughly, believing in its potential literary acclaim.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  A young Fitzgerald with his father, a stern moralist

  The Great Gatsby

  Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;

  If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,

  Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,

  I must have you!”

  THOMAS PARKE D’INVILLIERS

  CHAPTER 1

  In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

  “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

  He didn’t say any more but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought--frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon--for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

  And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction--Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”--it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No--Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

  My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three genera
tions. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

  I never saw this great-uncle but I’m supposed to look like him--with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe--so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, “Why--ye-es” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

  The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

  It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.