Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)
Page 409
While the boys are waiting to go over, everyone of them happy as jack rabbits, I’m going to let you hear this military band swinging the lads into battle. Take it, Tony. BOOM! I’m sorry, folks. That band doesn’t exist any more. You see, the enemy are putting down a barrage, too. Incidentally, just before the boys go over, I’m going to turn the mike over to our commercial man who’s got some Big News for you. I’ll be back in a flash with a crash…
Hello, America. This program, the first battle ever broadcast, comes to you through the courtesy of the Jitka Arms Works, who are supplying the ammunition for both sides. You can’t fight battles with duds — you need a Cool Clean Burst. I want to remind you of our little prize contest: you simply buy a package of our cartridges at your sporting store, tear off the top and write your guess at the number of casualties for the day. Whoever is nearest —
Sorry to interrupt, folks, we’ll hear more from Jitka later — about that Clean Cool Burst. But just now the boys are going over — and are they hitting that front line! This is War! They’re piling in, and watching them through this periscope is a sight to see. They’re down — they’re up, they’re up — they’re down for good. But that’s only one wave, folks, and they’replenty more. Incidentally, the noise isn’t static, it’s machine-gun fire coming to you courtesy of —
Let me tell you, the men in this dugout are wild! They’d give anything to be in there, but they’re too old and they’re needed back here to run things. Or else, how could we be bringing you this fine broadcast, courtesy of A. B. C. and the Jitka Arms Company…
…Folks, the show seems to be over for the day and now we’re going to take you out on the battlefield where all the Red Cross people are doing a fine job picking up some of the boys. Take it, Ned…
Hello, America. I’m going to let one boy speak for twenty thousand of them. Here he is, a fine boy — or he was this morn-ing — and glad and proud he had the chance to do it. Speak up, son, you’re talking to half a billion people.
“Hello. Mother — goodbye, Mother.”
Thanks, son. Oh-oh! That was too much for him. Take it away, Poke.
Folks, we’re having a little champagne dinner back here outside the dugout — and do we need it! But it seems to be getting suddenly misty in this neighborhood, very misty. And it’s beginning to smell funny. I don’t like it — it’s GAS, folks — GAS! And I can’t find my mask! Hey, my job is giving it out, not taking it…
…The time is eight o’clock. All you truckers on your toes! Prince Paul Obaloney of Dance Hall Society will give us a lesson in the Slinky-winky Blues.
Editorial: This sketch was written in 193S. To our knowledge it has never before been published or broadcast.
The Poetry
LIST OF POETRY
CLAY FEET
FIRST LOVE
FOR A LONG ILLNESS
MARCHING STREETS (1919 version)
MARCHING STREETS (1945 version)
LAMP IN THE WINDOW
OH MISSELDINE’S
PRINCETON — THE LAST DAY
THE STAYING UP ALL NIGHT
THOUSAND-AND-FIRST SHIP
OUR APRIL LETTER
ONE SOUTHERN GIRL .
TO BOATH
THE POPE AT CONFESSION
RAIN BEFORE DAWN
CLAY FEET
Clear in the morning I can see them sometimes:
Men, gods and ghosts, slim girls and graces —
Then the light grows, noon burns, and soon there come times
When I see but the pale and ravaged places
Their glory long ago adorned. — And seeing
My whole soul falters as an invalid
Too often cheered. Did something in their being
Of worth go from them when my ideal did?
Men, gods and ghosts, cast down by that young damning,
You have no answer; I but heard you say,
“Why, we are weak. We failed a bit in shamming.”
— So I am free! Will freedom always weigh
So much around my heart? For your defection,
Break! You who had me in your keeping, break! Fall
From that great height to this great imperfection!
Yet I must weep. — Yet can I hate you all?
FIRST LOVE
All my ways she wove of light,
Wove them all alive,
Made them warm and beauty bright…
So the trembling ambient air
Clothes the golden waters where
The pearl fishers dive.
When she wept and begged a kiss
Very close I’d hold her,
And I know so well in this
Fine fierce joy of memory
She was very young like me
Though half an aeon older.
Once she kissed me very long,
Tiptoed out the door,
Left me, took her light along,
Faded as a music fades…
Then I saw the changing shades,
Color-blind no more.
FOOTBALL
Now they’re ready, now they’re waiting,
Now he’s going to place the ball.
There, you hear the referee’s whistle,
As of old the baton’s fall.
See him crouching. Yes, he’s got it;
Now he’s off around the end.
Will the interference save him?
Will the charging line now bend?
Good he’free; no, see that halfback
Gaining up behind him slow.
Crash! they’re down; he threw him nicely, —
Classy tackle, hard and low.
Watch that line, now crouching waiting,
In their jerseys white and black;
Now they’re off and charging, making
Passage for the plunging back.
Buck your fiercest, run your fastest,
Let the straight arm do the rest.
Oh, they got him; never mind, though,
He could only do his best.
What is this? A new formation.
Look! their end acts like an ass.
See, he’s beckoning for assistance,
Maybe it’s a forward pass.
Yes, the ball is shot to fullback,
He, as calmly as you please,
Gets it, throws it to the end; he
Pulls the pigskin down with ease.
Now they’ve got him. No, they haven’t.
See him straight-arm all those fools.
Look, he’s clear. Oh, gee! don’t stumble.
Faster, faster, for the school.
There’s the goal, now right before you,
Ten yards, five yards, bless your name!
Oh! you Newman, 1911,
You know how to play the game.
FOR A LONG ILLNESS
Where did we store the summer of our love?
Come here and help me find it.
Search as I may there is no trove,
Only a dusty last year’s calendar.
Without your breath in my ear,
Your light in my eye to blind it,
I cannot see in the dark.
Oh, tender
Was your touch in spring, your barefoot voice —
In August we should find graver music and rejoice.
A long Provence of time we saw
For the end — to march together
Through the white dust.
The wines are raw —
Still that we will drink
In the groves by the old walls in the old weather.
Two who were hurt in the first dawn
Of battle; first to be whole again (let’s think)
If the wars grow faint, sweep over…
Come, we will rest in the shade of the Invalides, the lawn
Where there is luck only in three-leaf clover.
FRAGMENT
Every time I blow my nose I think of you
And the mellow noise it makes
Sa
ys I’ll be true —
With beers and wines
With Gertrude Steins,
With all of that
I’m through —
‘Cause every time I blow my no-o-ose
I — think — of — you.
MARCHING STREETS (1919 version)
Death slays the moon and the long dark deepens,
Hastens to the city, to the drear stone-heaps,
Films all eyes and whispers on the corners,
Whispers to the corners that the last soul sleeps.
Gay grow the streets now torched by yellow lamplight,
March all directions with a long sure tread.
East, west they wander through the blinded city,
Rattle on the windows like the wan-faced dead.
Ears full of throbbing, a babe awakens startled,
Sends a tiny whimper to the still gaunt room.
Arms of the mother tighten round it gently,
Deaf to the patter in the far-flung gloom.
Old streets hoary with dear, dead foot-steps
Loud with the tumbrils of a gold old age
Young streets sand-white still unheeled and soulless,
Virgin with the pallor of the fresh-cut page.
Black streets and alleys, evil girl and tearless,
Creeping leaden footed each in thin, torn coat,
Wine-stained and miry, mire choked and winding,
Wind like choking fingers on a white, full throat.
White lanes and pink lanes, strung with purpled roses,
Dance along the distance weaving o’er the hills,
Beckoning the dull streets with stray smiles wanton,
Strung with purpled roses that the stray dawn chills.
Here now they meet tiptoe on the corner,
Kiss behind the silence of the curtained dark;
Then half unwilling run between the houses,
Tracing through the pattern that the dim lamps mark.
Steps break steps and murmur into running,
Death upon the corner spills the edge of dawn
Dull the torches waver and the streets stand breathless;
Silent fades the marching and the night-noon’s gone.
MARCHING STREETS (1945 version)
Death shrouds the moon and the long dark deepens,
Hastens to the city, to the great stone heaps,
Blinds all eyes and lingers on the corners,
Whispers on the corners that the last soul sleeps.
Gay grow the streets now, torched by yellow lamp-light,
March all directions with a staid, slow tread;
East West they wander through the sodden city,
Rattle on the windows like the wan-faced dead.
Ears full of throbbing, a babe awakens startled,
Lends a tiny whimper to the still, dark doom;
Arms of the mother tighten round it gently,
Deaf to the marching in the far-flung gloom.
Old streets hoary with dead men’s footsteps,
Scarred with the coach-wheels of a gold old age;
Young streets, sand-white, fresh-cemented, soulless,
Virgin with the pallor of the fresh-cut page.
Black mews and alleys, stealthy-eyed and tearless,
Shoes patched and coats torn, torn and dirty old;
Mire-stained and winding, poor streets and weary,
Trudge along with curses, harsh as icy cold.
White lanes and pink lanes, strung with purple roses,
Dancing from a meadow, weaving from a hill,
Beckoning the boy streets with stray smiles wanton,
Strung with purple roses that the dawn must chill.
Soon will they meet, tiptoe on the corners,
Kiss behind the foliage of the leaf-filled dark.
Avenues and highroads, bridlepaths and parkways,
All must trace the pattern that the street-lamps mark.
Steps stop sharp! A clamor and a running!
Light upon the corner spills the milk of dawn.
Now the lamps are fading and a blue-winged silence
Settles like a swallow on a dew-drenched lawn.
OH, SISTER, CAN YOU SPARE YOUR HEART
I may be a What-ho, a No-can-do
Even a banker, but I can love you
As well as a better man
a letter-man of fame
As well as any Mr. Whosis you can name
The little break in my voice
— or Rolls-Royce
take your choice
I may lose
You must choose
So choose
A hundred thousand in gold
and you’re sold
to the old
and I’m broke
when our days a
are gold
I’m begging
begging
Oh, Sister, can you spare your heart?
Those wealthy goats
In racoon coats
can wolf you away from me
But draw your latch
For an honest patch
the skin of necessity
(we’ll make it a tent, dear)
The funny patch in my pants
take a chance
ask your aunts
What’s a loss
You must toss
So toss!
A gap inside that’s for good.
You’ll be good
As you should
Touch wood!
I’m begging
begging
Oh, Sister, can you spare your heart?
LAMP IN THE WINDOW
Do you remember, before keys turned in the locks,
When life was a close-up, and not an occasional letter,
That I hated to swim naked from the rocks
While you liked absolutely nothing better?
Do you remember many hotel bureaus that had
Only three drawers? But the only bother
Was that each of us got holy, then got mad
Trying to give the third one to the other.
East, west, the little car turned, often wrong
Up an erroneous Alp, an unmapped Savoy river.
We blamed each other, wild were our words and strong,
And, in an hour, laughed and called it liver.
And, though the end was desolate and unkind:
To turn the calendar at June and find December
On the next leaf; still, stupid-got with grief, I find
These are the only quarrels that I can remember.
OH MISSELDINE’S
Oh Misseldine’s, dear Misseldine’s,
A dive we’ll ne’er forget,
The taste of its banana splits
Is on our tonsils yet.
Its chocolate fudge makes livers budge,
It’s really too divine,
And as we reel, we’ll give one squeal
For dear old Misseldine’s.
PRINCETON — THE LAST DAY
The last light wanes and drifts across the land,
The low, long land, the sunny land of spires.
The ghosts of evening tune again their lyres
And wander singing, in a plaintive band
Down the long corridors of trees. Pale fires
Echo the night from tower top to tower.
Oh sleep that dreams and dream that never tires,
Press from the petals of the lotus-flower
Something of this to keep, the essence of an hour!
No more to wait the twilight of the moon
In this sequestrated vale of star and spire;
For one, eternal morning of desire
Passes to time and earthy afternoon.
Here, Heracletus, did you build of fire
And changing stuffs your prophecy far hurled
Down the dead years; this midnight I aspire
To see, mirrored among the embers, curled
In flame, the splendor and
the sadness of the world.
THE STAYING UP ALL NIGHT
The warm fire.
The comfortable chairs.
The merry companions.
The stroke of twelve.
The wild suggestion.
The good sports.
The man who hasn’t slept for weeks.
The people who have done it before.
The long anecdotes.
The best looking girl yawns.
The forced raillery.
The stroke of one.
The best looking girl goes to bed.
The stroke of two.
The empty pantry.
The lack of firewood.
The second best looking girl goes to bed.
The weather-beaten ones who don’t.
The stroke of four.
The dozing off.
The amateur “life of the party.”
The burglar scare.
The scornful cat.
The trying to impress the milkman.
The scorn of the milkman.
The lunatic feeling.
The chilly sun.
The stroke of six.
The walk in the garden.
The sneezing.
The early risers.
The volley of wit at you.
The feeble come back.
The tasteless breakfast.
The miserable day.
8 P.M. — Between the sheets.
THOUSAND-AND-FIRST SHIP
In the fall of sixteen
In the cool of the afternoon
I saw Helena