Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  “I suppose because all those years I met nobody,” she said finally. “Sure, I once saw Doctor Kelly at a distance. But here I am — because I got good at my job.”

  “And here I am, because — “

  “You’ll always be wonderful to me. What did you say this man’s name was?”

  “Kern. And I didn’t say it was. I said it is.”

  “That’s the way you used to talk to me. And now both of us are fat and — sort of middle-aged. We never had much. Did we?”

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was just meant to be like that. Let’s dance. That’s a good tune. What did you say was this man’s name?”

  “Kern.”

  They

  asked me how I

  knew-ew-ew —

  “We’ve had all that anyhow, haven’t we?” she asked him. “All those people — that Youmans, that Berlin, that Kern. They must have been through hell to be able to write like that. And we sort of listened to them, didn’t we?”

  “But my God, that’s so little — “ he began but her mood changed and she said:

  “Let’s not say anything about it. It was all we had — everything we’ll ever know about life. What were their names — you knew their names.”

  “Their names were — “

  “Didn’t you ever know any of them in that fifteen years around Europe?”

  “I never saw one of them.”

  “Well, I never will.” She hesitated before the wide horizon of how she might have lived. How she might have married this man, borne him children, died for him — of how she had lived out of sordid poverty and education — into power — and spinsterhood. And she cared not a damn for her man any more because he had never gone off with her. But she wondered how these composers had lived. Youmans and Irving Berlin and Jerome Kern and she thought that if any of their wives turned up in this hospital she would try to make them happy.

  THE ANTS AT PRINCETON

  Sufficient time having elapsed it is now possible to tell the facts about a case concerning which little is known, but about which the wildest speculations have been made. As a Princeton man and a friend of certain University officials the present author is in a position to know the true story, from its beginning at a faculty meeting to its nigh tragic ending at an intercollegiate football game.

  One detail will forever elude me — which member of the faculty first conceived the idea of admitting ants as students to the University. The reasons given, I remember, were that the insects by their highly complicated organising power, their discipline and above all, their industry, would set an example to the other students.

  In any event the experiment was inaugurated one autumn under what seemed the best auspices. It was possible through the efforts of Professor of the bacteriological department, and through the generosity of Mr. of the Board of Trustees to find a number of ants suitable to the experiment. And so tactfully was it managed that many of the students were totally unaware of the presence of their new classmates, and, but for a certain incident which forms the basis of this story, might have remained so all through college.

  Some of the ants, because of their diminutive stature, found difficulty in “keeping up” with their fellow students and these were reluctantly dropped at midyear examinations. The majority of them did well, however, and all progressed favorably through the year in spite of a growing inferiority complex among them. This complex was strongest in an especially large well developed ant, in whom the conviction gradually grew that it was his destiny to justify his people and their abilities before the rest of the student body.

  As I say, his stature approached that of a man, and it was natural that his ambition should take the form of making for himself a berth on the varsity football team.

  This was not so difficult, for during the previous year the team had been disorganized. It was between regimes, so to speak, and Fritz Crisler had been called East from the University of Minnesota to take the reins.

  One of Mr. Crisler’s first acts in assuming control was to ask for full independence in moulding a newer and better team — and the first matter that came up in this connection naturally centered about the ant.

  For the ant by this time was playing running guard on the second varsity and to older alumni it seemed almost a disgrace that a team which had in other days contained such legendary heroes as Hillebrand, Biffy Lee, Big Bill Edwards and the Poes should have an ant on it, no matter what his personal character or ability.

  But Crisler was firm.

  “At Minnesota,” he would say, “we have no racial discriminations on our teams — except of course against Scandinavians.”

  So as spring practice turned to fall practice the older alumni became resigned to the situation. And meanwhile the ant was moved up to the first varsity in which he became an important cog because of his versatility, playing secondary defense on the offense and secondary offense on the defense.

  By the beginning of the season the coaches were beginning to think of him as a potential All-American. He was big and rugged and the dazzling way in which he twisted through the line on all fours, as well as his confusing ability to carry the ball under any of his eight arms, seemed to inaugurate a new era in American football. The whole offense was gradually built about him.

  Every old Princetonian will remember that season — how in turn Cornell, Pennsylvania, Dartmouth, Columbia and Yale, and the two “breathers” (as the easy games were called), the Lawrenceville Seconds and the New Jersey School for Drug Addicts fell before the onslaught of the Tiger — or rather of the ant, for it was to him that the sports writers gave full credit. When his head was torn off in the Yale game there was dismay on the campus and a sigh of relief went over the undergraduate body when it was once more fixed in place.

  Only one obstacle lay in the way of a victorious season and a sure trip to the Rose Bowl. The last game that year was with Harvard and the captain of the Crimson, Cabot Saltonville, who also played running guard, declared that he would rather cancel the game than play against an ant.

  “I do not think it necessary to give any reasons,” he declared to an eager press, “but I assure you on my word as an old Groton man it is not a question of fear.”

  The battle raged in the newspapers and on the two campuses. The Princetonians naturally saw in it a disingenuous desire to get rid of their star player. The claim was made that a Maeterlinck had written about ants while only an Adams had written about Bostonians. The Cambridgians stood almost unanimously behind their captain and broke up a radical meeting which considered the matter an aspect of the class war.

  In the end Princeton yielded. The ant would sit on the sidelines. Saltonville had won.

  As the game progressed the result was as prophesied. Without their quintuple threat the Princeton team was as paralyzed. Steadily the score mounted 7-0, 14-0, 50-0, 65-0 — while the cheering from the Tiger stands gradually, took on the semblance of a groan.

  Finally someone — legend ascribes it to a freshman — started a singsong slogan:

  “We want ‘Aunty’.

  We want ‘Aunty’.”

  Those near-by took it up and finally the whole orange and black section were chanting it.

  “We want Aunty!”

  It was here that Captain Saltonville of Harvard made his great mistake. There were only ten minutes to play and in the overweening confidence engendered by the score he was moved to one of those gestures of chivalry inherited from a long line of New England ancestors.

  He called time out and shouted to the Princeton sidelines.

  “Send in that insect.”

  They sent him in. He was in his civilian clothes for he had not expected to play, but before ten seconds had passed that seemed to make no difference, for once he was on the field a new spirit possessed the Princeton players. They swung into their old formations and with the ant leading the tandems rushed down the field. Crisler, as has been said, had built an offense aro
und him that had carried them through an undefeated season. As “Aunty” bucked, tackled, spun, reversed, kicked and passed, hundreds of other smaller ants making their way cautiously through the grass swarmed over the Harvard players, and at each starting signal nipped them with such vehemence as to completely destroy their charge and spoil any vestige of an offense. (Some of them, by penetrating the players’ nether garments, gave rise to a famous phrase which would be indelicate to set down here.)

  Captain Saltonville, his face black with ants so that he could scarcely see, cursed his generosity. But still he saw the score roll up 6-65, 25-65, 55-65, 64-65 — until Princeton was ahead at last. Then he decided on a desperate measure.

  He would “get” Aunty. He would violate all the traditions of his family and play dirty.

  The signal was given and in he rushed.

  “Bim!” went his fist, under the scrimmage, “Bim! Bam! Bim!”

  Something warned him even at the moment that he was being rash.

  And presently the huge throng was treated to a strange sight. Out of the pile burst Captain Saltonville, running at full speed, and after him, with a ferocious light in his beady eyes came the ant. Past his own goal posts ran the Cambridgian, and then with a glance behind and a terrified cry, up he went over the barrier into the stands, up the aisle he climbed with the ant always behind him.

  Terrified, the crowd watched knowing that eventually Captain Saltonville would reach the top of the stadium with no alternative to a fifty foot leap to the ground.

  The stricken Massachuten reached the press box and paused, white with anguish. Nearer and nearer came the ant, impeded only a little by the efforts of Harvard men to head him off.

  And then another anonymous figure walks into this story. It was a young resourceful sports writer.

  “If you will give the proper statement to the press,” he said, “I think I can calm him down.”

  “Anything!” cried Saltonville.

  Carefully the reporter dictated and Saltonville repeated after him into the mike, his blood quivering with shame at the words.

  “This anim — I mean my honorable opponent, is superior to me… in industry, character and courage…” He hurried on for his adversary was within hearing, “He is a gentleman and sportsman and I am proud to have encountered him even in defeat.”

  The ant heard and stopped. Flattery is sweet and his fighting nature was mollified.

  The pressman spoke for him.

  “Do you mean that, Captain Saltonville?” he asked.

  “Of course I do,” faltered the son of John Harvard, “That’s why I hurried up to the press box. I couldn’t keep back the truth any longer.”

  *****

  And that is the true story of the ants at Princeton. That they became a nuisance and had to be exterminated the following spring does not detract from the credit of their achievement.

  The extermination order did not of course apply to “Aunty.” You can see him any day now, if you are curious, for he has specialized in the future of his own people and holds down with credit the Harkness Chair of Insectology at Yale and in his spare time coaches the team. And Captain Saltonville is still remembered as one of the fastest running guards the Crimson ever knew.

  IN THE HOLIDAYS

  The hospital was thinly populated, for many convalescents had taken risks to get home for the holidays and prospective patients were gritting their teeth until vacation was over. In the private ward one interne took on the duties of three, and six nurses the duties of a dozen. After New Year’s it would be different — just now the corridors were long and lonely.

  Young Dr. Kamp came into the room of Mr. McKenna, who was not very ill, and snatched rest in the easy chair.

  “How’s back feel?” he asked.

  “Better, Doc. I thought I’d get up and dress tomorrow.”

  “All right — if you haven’t any fever. The X-ray plates didn’t show a thing.”

  “I’ve got to be out of here day after tomorrow.”

  “When you get home you better see your own doctor, though I never have felt you were seriously ill — in spite of the pain. We’ve got a patient downstairs with a dizzy head that we can’t find a thing the matter with — there’s probably faulty elimination of some kind, but he came through every test sound as a dollar.”

  “What’s his name?” McKenna asked.

  “Griffin. So you see sometimes there just isn’t any diagnosis to be made. Say, were you in the war?”

  “Me? No, I was too young.”

  “Did you ever get shot?”

  “No.”

  “That’s funny — the X-ray showed a couple of things that looked like slugs in your buttocks.”

  “Oh, that was a hunting accident,” said McKenna.

  When the doctor left the nurse came in — she was the wrong one, not the beautiful little student nurse, dark and rosy, with eyes as soft as blue oil. Miss Hunter was plain and talked about the man she was marrying next month.

  “That’s why I’m here on New Year’s Eve. We need the money and a girl gave me five dollars to take her place over the holidays. I can’t see him but I write him a whole book every night.”

  “It certainly is some life in here,” said McKenna. “The food makes me sick.”

  “Aren’t you ashamed — it’s better than we get. You ought to see that little student nurse go for the dessert you left today.”

  He brightened momentarily.

  “The pretty one?” Maybe this was an angle.

  “Miss Collins.” She proffered him a vile liquid. “You can drink her health with this cocktail.”

  “Oh, skip it. This doctor thinks I’m just bluffing — me and some other fellow that’s dizzy in the head. Name’s Griffin — do you take care of him?”

  “He’s down on the first floor.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Well, he wears glasses, about your age.”

  “Is he handsome like me?”

  “He’s very pale and he’s got a big bald place in his mustache. What’s the use of having a mustache if you have a bald place in it?”

  He shifted in bed restlessly.

  “I think I’d sleep better if I got up for awhile — just around the corridors. I could get a paper in the office and all that.”

  “I’ll ask the doctor.”

  Without waiting for permission McKenna got up and dressed. He was tying his tie when the nurse returned.

  “All right,” Miss Hunter said, “but come back soon and wear your overcoat. The corridors are cold. And would you please drop this letter in the box for me?”

  McKenna went out and downstairs and through many halls to the main office. He stopped at the registry desk and asked a question, afterwards writing down something on the back of an envelope.

  Out in the damp, snowless night he inquired the way to a drugstore; he went directly to the phone booth and closeted himself for some minutes. Then he bought a movie magazine and a hip flask of port, and asked for a glass at the fountain.

  All around the hospital the streets were quiet and the houses, largely occupied by medical people, were dark and deserted. Across the street the dark fortress of the hospital was blocked out against a pink blur in the downtown sky. There was a mailbox on the corner and after a moment he took out the nurse’s letter, tore it slowly into four pieces, and dropped it in the slot. Then he began thinking of the little student nurse, Miss Collins. He had a vague idea about Miss Collins. She had told him yesterday that she was sure to be flunked from her class in February. Why? Because she had stayed out too late with boy friends. Now, if that wasn’t a sort of come-on — especially when she added that she wasn’t going back to the old homestead and had no plans at all. Tomorrow McKenna was leaving town but in a couple of weeks he could ride down again and keep her out late in a big way, and if he liked her get her some clothes and set her up in Jersey City where he owned an apartment house. She was the double for a girl he once went with at Ohio State.

>   He looked at his watch — an hour and a half till midnight. Save for several occasions when he had been deterred for reasons contingent on his profession, all his New Year’s were opaque memories of whoopee. He never made resolves or thought of the past with nostalgia or regret — he was joyless and fearless, one of the stillborn who manage to use death as a mainspring. When he caused suffering it made his neck swell and glow and yet he had a feeling for it that was akin to sympathy. “Does it hurt, fella?” he had asked once. “Where does it hurt most? Cheer up — you’re almost out.”

  McKenna had intended to leave the hospital before the thing came off, but the interne and nurse had only just spilled what he wanted to know into his lap and it was too late at night to leave without attracting attention. He crossed the street in order to re-enter the hospital by the door of the dispensary.

  On the sidewalk a man and a woman, young and poorly dressed, stood hesitating.

  “Say, mister,” the man said, “can you tell us something — if doctors look to see what’s wrong with you is it free? Somebody told me they sting you.”

  McKenna paused in the doorway and regarded them — the woman watched him breathlessly.

  “Sure they sting you,” McKenna said. “They charge you twenty bucks or they take it out on your hide.”

  He went on in, past the screen door of the dispensary, past the entrance to the surgical unit where men made repairs that would not wait for the year to turn, past the children’s clinic where a single sharp cry of distress came through an open door, past the psychiatric wards, exuding a haunted darkness. A group of probationers in street clothes chattered by him, an orderly with a wheel chair, an old Negress leaning on a grizzled man, a young woman weeping between a doctor and a nurse. Through all that life, protesting but clinging, through all that hope of a better year, moved McKenna, the murderer, looking straight ahead lest they see death in his eyes.

  In his room he rang for the nurse, had a quick drink and rang again. This time it was Miss Collins.

  “It took you long enough,” he said. “Say, I don’t think I’ll go to bed yet. It’s so near twelve I think I’ll stay up and see the New Year in and all that stuff; maybe go out on the porch and hear the noise.”